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Synopsis
The fourth novel in a brilliant Napoleonic series from acclaimed historian Adrian Goldsworthy. The year is 1809, and the recruiting sergeants are hard at work, as the British army gathers strength for the next phase of the campaign against Bonaparte on the Spanish Peninsula. Captain Billy Pringle of the 106th Foot, however, has a somewhat more urgent reason to leave the country: having become embroiled in an ill-advised duel with a lieutenant in the 14th Light Dragoons, a posting to Spain would avoid any awkwardness for the regiment. Along with his friend Lieutenant Williams - whose sister Kitty was the cause of the duel - and the doughty veteran Sergeant Dobson, Pringle takes on the task of training Spanish troops to stand alongside their British allies. But what seems at first like easy duty soon turns into a desperate fight for survival as they find themselves besieged in the strategic fortress of Cuidad Rodrigo. For Bonaparte, taking the fortress will be the first step towards pushing the British back to the sea, and the task is entrusted to one of his most daring and successful generals, Marshal Ney. And Ney in his turn has found the perfect officer to lead the assault, a man not only desperate for advancement but also thirsting for revenge - a man whom Williams knows only too well.
Release date: August 8, 2013
Publisher: Weidenfeld & Nicolson
Print pages: 367
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All in Scarlet Uniform
Adrian Goldsworthy
A bold fusilier came marching back through Rochester
Off for the wars in a far country,
And he sang as he marched
Through the crowded streets of Rochester,
‘Who’ll be a soldier with Wellington and me?’
Who’ll be a soldier? Who’ll be a soldier?
Who’ll be a soldier with Wellington and me?
And he sang as he marched
Through the crowded streets of Rochester,
‘Who’ll be a soldier with Wellington and me?’
The King he has ordered new troops onto the continent,
To strike a last blow at the enemy.
And if you would be a soldier,
All in scarlet uniform,
Take the King’s shilling with Wellington and me.
Take the King’s shilling! Take the King’s shilling!
Take the King’s shilling with Wellington and me.
And he sang as he marched
Through the crowded streets of Rochester,
‘Take the King’s shilling with Wellington and me.’
‘Not I,’ said the butcher, ‘Nor I,’ said the baker
Most of the rest with them did agree
To be paid with the powder and
The rattle of the cannonball
Wages for soldiers for Wellington and me.
Wages for soldiers! Wages for soldiers!
Wages for soldiers for Wellington and me
To be paid with the powder and
The rattle of the cannonball
Wages for soldiers for Wellington and me.
‘Now I,’ said the young man, ‘have oft endured the parish queue
There is no wages or employment for me
Salvation or danger
That’ll be my destiny
To be a soldier for Wellington and me!’
To be a soldier! To be a soldier!
To be a soldier for Wellington and me!
Salvation or danger
That’ll be my destiny
To be a soldier for Wellington and me!
Now twenty recruits came marching back through Rochester
Off to the wars in a far country
And they sang as they marched
Through the crowded streets of Rochester,
‘Who’ll be a soldier with Wellington and me?’
Who’ll be a soldier? Who’ll be a soldier?
Who’ll be a soldier with Wellington and me?
And he sang as he marched
Through the crowded streets of Rochester,
‘Who’ll be a soldier with Wellington and me?’
…
This is one version of a song dating back at least to the beginning of the eighteenth century, when the words were ‘Malboro and me’. It was sung to a traditional Scottish tune called ‘Oh Bonnie Wood O’ Craigielee’ and is now better known as ‘Waltzing Matilda’.
Pringle clasped his hands tightly behind his back and tried hard not to shiver. He did not want to die on this bleak October morning, but he was a captain in His Britannic Majesty King George’s 106th Regiment of Foot, and as an officer he must never show agitation or the faintest hint of fear. Often the show of courage was more important than any order he could give, for confidence was almost as rapidly contagious as fear, and it did not matter if it was an act.
Over a year ago Billy Pringle had helped throw the French out of Portugal, then been chased through the mountains on that grim march to Corunna. This summer he had come through the carnage at Talavera when they had fought the French to a standstill. There always seemed to be more French, and they never gave in easily. He took a musket ball at Talavera, which slashed a cut across his belly, but in spite of a bout of fever he had pulled through and all that was left was a pale scar. So many had fallen or been forever maimed on those two days in July that he counted himself lucky to have got away with little more than a scratch. The slightest shift in the Frenchman’s aim and he would not be standing in this field beside the river and wondering whether he would live to see the sun set. The thought was chilling, and it felt as if his very flesh was shrinking in a desperate effort to make him small and safe.
It was damned cold, while the persistent drizzle speckled the lenses of his glasses and made his shirt cling tightly to his body. With an effort, Billy Pringle stood up straight and kept from shivering, maintaining the act. He knew it mattered. Now that he had seen war in all its confusion, horror and brutal simplicity he understood that the pretence was important. Men watched each other, and most of all the men watched their officers. The veterans knew that it was all a sham. Officers and men alike pretended unconcern and somehow became brave, so that otherwise sane men did what seemed insane and battles were won. It also meant that ‘sane’ men would choose to face death, acting a part to impress others or themselves. It was almost a shame that the death and mutilation were so dreadfully real.
‘Major Tilney is concerned about the weather,’ said Captain Truscott, who had returned from consulting with a Light Dragoon officer, and now jerked Pringle from the thoughts that kept his mind away from the grim reality of this place. ‘His principal does not wish an unfair advantage, and is willing to postpone the affair.’
Truscott was nervous, although only a close friend like Pringle would have spotted the signs. His fellow captain was a precise man, as punctilious in his duties as in his private affairs. His left sleeve, empty since he had lost an arm at Vimeiro, offered the readiest of reminders that this was no act. Every few minutes Truscott unconsciously reached up and rubbed the buttons on its cuff. The rest of the time his right hand kept clenching and uncurling. Captain Truscott did not care for this business, but was determined to perform his role as second properly. Thinfaced and always inclined to frown, the injury had left him drawn. Yet now Billy recognised a deeper concern in his friend’s features.
‘Tell him …’ Pringle’s voice cracked so he paused for a moment, took a long breath, coughed, and then continued steadily. ‘That is to say, thank him for his concern, but please assure him that there is no inconvenience. I can see well enough without my spectacles, should the rain become worse.’ Pringle was tempted to add that he had marched and fought through rain, sleet and snow last winter, while Tilney and his fellow light dragoon were snug in England, before deciding that there had been enough insults. More importantly, Truscott would not approve of such levity, and so once again Pringle acted a part and made himself speak with appropriate gravity.
‘You are sure?’ Again the simple fact that the question was asked betrayed Truscott’s doubts about the whole business.
‘Certain,’ said Pringle, his voice steady.
Truscott looked at him for a moment and then gave the slightest of nods. Without any more words, he turned and marched over to speak to Major Tilney.
‘You’re a bloody fool, Billy,’ said Hanley, who remained beside him.
‘Thank you, I am obliged for such a kind sentiment.’
This time Pringle could not help grinning, in spite of the solemnity of the occasion. Truscott would not approve, but Hanley cared little for convention. A man who had seen his dreams of becoming a great artist shattered, Lieutenant Hanley was forced to join the army because he had had no other choice. He cared little for convention and seemed baffled by most ideas of honour, but he had fought beside Pringle and gradually adapted to life in the regiment. More recently he had shown a talent for intrigue and gathering information about the enemy, and Billy suspected that his friend was more naturally spy than soldier.
‘Delay matters,’ urged Lieutenant Hanley, tugging his heavy boat-cloak more tightly around his neck. ‘That way Williams can sort out this mess himself.’ Like all the others in the little field the lieutenant was dressed in civilian clothes, but he was the only one who nevertheless did not obviously look like a soldier. Hanley was a handsome man, his skin tanned by the years spent in Spain before the war. He was a shade taller than Pringle, and more than a year of campaigning left him looking fit and strong, but he was still generally dishevelled and inclined to slouch.
Pringle shook his head. ‘Too late for that. A blow was struck.’
‘Yes, by you, in fact!’ Hanley’s smile faded when he saw his friend’s hard look.
The last days were a confused blur of searching for an errant girl and then a light dragoon officer. It was little more than a month since his detachment had returned to England from Portugal, and Pringle’s initial euphoria at coming home had rapidly faded. He was alive, but found peaceful England duller than his dreams. Billy Pringle began drinking once again, as heavily as ever he had done before the regiment went off to war. The responsibilities and shortages of campaigning had made it easier to be sober. Pringle chafed at idleness, far more than the others, and so the sudden flight of their friend Williams’ sister gave him a purpose and he had embraced it like a lover. Williams, Truscott, Hanley and Pringle had all gone hunting for the girl.
The trail proved easy to follow, and led them separately towards Cheltenham, but it was Pringle who arrived first, spoke to her, and decided to act. He should probably have waited, and might have done so if he had not felt so alive for the first time in weeks. Billy took Miss Williams with him and realised that he was drinking far less, although with hindsight it was probably still more than was wise in the circumstances. Lieutenant Garland of the 14th Light Dragoons was hardly in a better state when Pringle confronted him. Billy thought that he spoke calmly and with courtesy, but suddenly Garland was yelling and then damned Pringle as a liar. The light dragoon was flailing his arms in agitation, and when Billy thought that the man was aiming a blow his instincts took over, only the blocked swing turned into a punch which rocked the smaller dragoon back on his heels. Major Tilney and several other cavalrymen were all there to witness it. A gentleman could not simply strike another without consequences, but nor could he call another man a liar, and so it was Pringle who challenged in defence of his honour. Truscott arrived later that evening, and he had negotiated the business by meeting Tilney several times during the next day. No apology was forthcoming and the whole thing rapidly assumed an inevitability.
‘It is my affair now.’ Pringle managed a thin smile. ‘Or would you have me meekly submit to a caning at the hands of that schoolboy?’
Garland was not yet nineteen, his cheeks shaded with wispy hair as he desperately sought to emulate the luxuriant side-whiskers of older light dragoons like the major. The lad clearly idolised Tilney, and Pringle suspected the latter had played a prominent role both in insisting on the duel and in the original affair. The two cavalrymen had met Kitty Williams and her older sister Anne at Bath, where the girls were acting as companions to the elderly Mrs Waters. Pringle only knew a little of what had followed from Anne’s modest account. Flirtation led to an understanding, and repeated excuses for clandestine meetings where Kitty was unaccompanied, and after the sisters’ departure there was secret correspondence, aided by Mrs Waters – that ‘silly, wicked woman’, the girls’ mother had said sharply. Then just a week ago Kitty Williams had sneaked away from her home and vanished, leaving a note to say that she was going to seek true happiness and would soon have splendid news. By the time Pringle found her that dream had died, for she was red-eyed from long weeping and almost at the end of her meagre funds. As he coaxed the story from the girl, Billy guessed that Anne’s suspicion was right, and that there was a deeper reason why Kitty Williams feared to remain a spinster.
‘It would not do,’ said Pringle after a long pause. ‘Besides which, Bills would kill the little cuss.’
Hanley frowned. ‘No great loss to anyone, I suspect. And yet do you not plan to do just that in a moment?’
‘I might.’ Pringle spoke slowly as if mulling the matter over, but in his heart he was sure. ‘But I will more likely merely nick him or miss altogether. With Williams it would be a certainty. Bills is a bad man when it comes to fighting.’
Hamish Williams was taller than both Hanley and Pringle, who were themselves big men. His mother was a widow, the family lacking funds and influence, and so, when her son determined to be a soldier, he had joined the 106th as a volunteer, carrying a musket in the ranks. A gentleman volunteer lived with the officers and served with the soldiers, waiting to perform some act of valour sufficient to win him a commission. Williams managed this feat in Portugal in ’08, survived unscathed and then later won promotion to lieutenant.
Pringle had seen Williams fight, and heard tell of other deeds he had not witnessed. Shy, awkward in society and pious, Hamish Williams was an unlikely friend, but had become a very close one to the other three. Billy had two older brothers, and was fond of them both, but since they had followed their father and grandfather and gone to sea at a young age he could not claim to know them as well as he knew his friends in the 106th. His own poor eyesight had kept him out of the Navy, and after Oxford even his already disappointed father had to admit that Billy was unsuited to the Church. Pringle decided to become a soldier, and now he found it hard to imagine another life.
He felt that he was a more than decent officer, and after four battles and twice as many skirmishes he was experienced and considered himself to be capable. Even so, he had to admit that Williams had taken to battle more naturally than any of them, and indeed seemed almost at home in the chaos. Williams was a very good officer, but he also killed readily and with considerable fluency, and Pringle was beginning to understand how rare a thing this was. Billy doubted that he had ever taken any man’s life, although it was hard to be sure. More than a few times he had fired his pistol into the chaos and smoke and perhaps one of the balls had struck a mortal blow, but more probably it had not and he preferred to believe this. Williams fought with a skilful savagery that was almost chilling.
‘Then let him slaughter Garland,’ suggested Hanley.
‘And how would that help Miss Williams?’
‘Avenge the slur on her good name by righteous punishment.’ Hanley’s disdain for honour was obvious. ‘I can remember you helping me to lie like an Irish horse-trader when we needed to stop Bills from meeting Redman.’
Pringle chuckled at the memory. ‘Dear God, that seems like an age ago.’
‘It would not offend me to be called a liar.’
‘Well, my dear friend, with all due respect, you are a liar,’ said Pringle.
‘Yes, and a damned good one. So what has prompted such a change on your part?’ asked Hanley, who expected the world to be open to reason.
‘Ask me after it is over.’
‘You may not be here to ask!’ Hanley was studying his friend closely and his face changed, suggesting sudden enlightenment. ‘Oh,’ he said after a moment, ‘there is something else. Do I take it that Miss Williams is in pressing need of a husband?’ Hanley’s natural cynicism matched Pringle’s view of human nature, but in this case he had a particular sympathy for he was the child of an illicit liaison. Neither of his parents had wanted anything to do with their bastard, although to be fair his late father had provided an allowance, and so he had been raised as best she could by his grandmother. For all his disdain for convention, Hanley felt the stigma deeply, and had no great wish to have it inflicted on another child. ‘In that case, try not to kill him too much!’
‘Gentlemen, you may take post!’ Truscott’s voice carried across the clearing.
‘Good luck, Billy,’ whispered Hanley as his friend strode towards the tent peg marking his position. Earlier on Truscott had paced out the distance and the elegant Tilney had driven the pegs into the damp earth, and then looked at the traces of mud on his gloves in evident distaste.
Two subalterns of the light dragoons stood at the edge of the field, chatting away in voices that were nervously loud, until the major glared at them. With them was a civilian doctor, a hunched, ill-favoured fellow with the red face and prominent veins of a hard drinker. Otherwise secrecy was preserved and no one else had come to watch the encounter.
Pringle stood behind the peg. The seconds had agreed on an exchange of at least two shots at a distance of twenty paces before apologies could be offered, since if the argument was easier to resolve then it should already have occurred. The range was at the upper end of convention, and suggested that neither Tilney nor Truscott wanted to make a fatal wound too likely. Principals were not allowed any say on such matters. Nor was Pringle permitted to reject the right to take the first shot. It had been agreed, and that was an end to it. Garland had given first offence and so should be the first to stand fire. Major Tilney was the first to insist on this point. Billy Pringle was not sure whether this marked him as a slight or extremely close friend to the young lieutenant.
Tilney was also willing to permit Truscott to seek assistance when unable to perform his duties. Hanley moved to his side as the captain selected a pistol from each of the two identical cases of matched pairs. Then the lieutenant took these and loaded them in turn, while Major Tilney charged the other pistols for his principal. Neither man did the other the gross discourtesy of watching him as he went about this task.
Pringle and Garland waited at their marks. The rain slackened, although both men were already thoroughly wet, their hair flattened on to their heads. Garland stared boldly at his opponent, and, not to be outdone, Billy met his gaze. Neither man showed any sign of animosity, and Pringle wondered whether the light dragoon was genuinely without malice or simply dull-witted. Billy envied the cavalryman his silk shirt, and wondered whether it was warmer than his. Fragments of silk were easier for a surgeon to pick out of a wound than the threads of cotton. He knew that his father and brothers, like a lot of RN officers, always tried to wear a silk shirt and stockings with their uniform on a day of battle. Soldiers less often had the time for such careful preparations, or the capacity to carry so full a wardrobe on campaign – excepting the Guards, of course, for the ‘Gentlemen’s sons’ always had plenty of servants and pack animals to shield them from the worst rigours of campaigning.
Pringle let his mind wander rather than think about the coming ordeal. Then he noticed Garland start slightly when Tilney brought him the loaded pistols, and it was pleasing to see a trace of anxiety in his opponent. For a moment Pringle almost felt sorry for the boy. He could not blame him too much for wanting to tumble Kitty Williams. The three Williams sisters were pretty, with fine golden hair just like their older brother, and Kitty was a bold flirt of seventeen summers with the shape of the very ripest young Venus. Pringle doubted the seduction had been entirely one-sided, and part of him thought that bedding the little minx would be a damned sight more pleasant a use of his own time than this challenge, but that would not stop him from putting a ball in the randy little dragoon. Williams was a friend, and on brief acquaintance he had developed a great esteem for Anne, a taller, somewhat serious girl closer to her brother in character, and more Juno than Venus in shape. It was not just a question of desire. Billy was inclined to desire any half-decent woman he saw. There were feelings for the eldest Miss Williams that he had not yet had proper chance to understand. That prompted the absurd thought that it would make it all the more unfortunate if he got himself killed this morning, but it was too late to change anything.
‘A matter of honour,’ he said softly, and permitted himself a wry smile.
‘I beg your pardon?’ asked Hanley, who had brought the pistols.
‘Nothing of importance,’ said Pringle.
‘I believe you will need these.’ Hanley spoke almost casually, and Billy wondered whether he too was becoming tense. He took the first of the pistols in his left hand, holding it by the middle of the barrel with the muzzle pointing behind him and away from Garland. He glanced down to see that it was already drawn back to full cock, shifted his grip to grasp it properly and then held it down against his leg.
‘Stop!’ A feminine voice broke the tense silence. Pringle turned to see a dishevelled and pale-faced Miss Williams emerge from the grove of trees behind them. There was mud spattered liberally on her dress and several tears in its hem, while her bonnet was so wet that it had partly collapsed on one side. The promise that Kitty would stay in her room at the Cock Horse had evidently lasted less than a hour, and she must have lost her way, for the path to this quiet spot was hard to follow.
‘Madam, you have no place here!’ The only time Billy had ever heard Truscott shout so loud was when he had ordered the battalion forward at Talavera – a captain in command because all the senior officers had fallen. ‘Hanley, see to the lady and keep her out of the way.’
Major Tilney looked angry. Pringle thought that Garland was confused, and the boy’s cheeks flushed in spite of the cold. Hanley gave him the other pistol with even less ceremony and lurched off towards the girl. After more than a year in the army he still seemed incapable of standing straight.
‘Come, sir, we must proceed,’ ordered Tilney.
‘In a moment, sir; I shall not be rushed,’ Truscott replied, smarting at his tone. ‘Mr Hanley, kindly keep Miss Williams back.’
The girl was breathless, unable to do more than stammer incoherently. Hanley took her gently by the shoulders and urged her back to the top of a grassy bank.
‘It is too late to change anything,’ he said firmly, and the sadness in his voice moved her more than its force.
‘But he might die,’ the girl said feebly. It was unclear who ‘he’ was.
‘Gentlemen, make ready,’ called Truscott. Pringle turned so that his right shoulder pointed towards Garland, who matched the movement. It offered the smallest target to an adversary, although Billy Pringle could not help thinking that his greater height and broad stomach made him a far better mark than the slim light dragoon.
‘Now that you are ready, Major Tilney will give the orders to fire,’ said Truscott.
Miss Williams stood close beside Hanley, his arm round her shoulder. She was breathing heavily and he knew that this was no longer mere fatigue.
‘I cannot watch,’ she gasped, but when he glanced down her eyes were open and as excited as they were fearful.
‘Gentlemen.’ Hanley would not have thought that someone could shout and drawl at the same time, and yet somehow Tilney managed it. ‘I shall call your name in turn, and give you leave to fire. You will then present and as promptly fire. Do you understand?’
Pringle nodded. Garland said nothing and made no gesture.
‘Do you understand, Mr Garland?’ asked Tilney.
‘I understand,’ said the lieutenant, his voice higher than normal.
‘Good, then we shall begin.’ He paused, standing at attention and in silence. Miss Williams reached up with both hands and pressed Hanley’s fingers tightly as they rested on her shoulder.
‘Mr Pringle,’ Tilney ordered, ‘you may give fire.’
Billy raised his arm, the pistol feeling suddenly heavy, and levelled it at Garland, whose eyes were closed. A gentleman did not pause to aim and so without hesitation Pringle squeezed the trigger so that the hammer slammed down and the flint sparked.
Nothing happened. Either the powder had shaken out or the earlier drizzle had left it too damp to flare.
‘Bugger,’ hissed Billy Pringle to himself, and he could not help wishing that the meticulous Truscott had been capable of loading instead of the well-meaning but militarily casual Hanley. Still, the cause did not truly matter any more, as a misfire counted as a shot.
‘Dear Lord, he is safe,’ whispered Miss Williams, making her sympathies clear. Hanley wondered whether the girl realised that duelling was illegal, and that if either man died all present could be charged with murder. Yet his friends, who in other circumstances he held to be prudent and sensible, most certainly knew this and were still doing this damned silly thing – as was he, although at least he did not have to be happy about it.
‘Mr Garland,’ called Tilney without hesitation, ‘you may give fire.’
The light dragoon seemed surprised to have survived the shot and perhaps did not fully understand what had happened. It was known for men to forgo a shot when their opponent misfired, but there was no sign that the thought had entered Garland’s head. He raised his pistol and fired. The report was muffled by the wind, which instantly whipped away the dirty smoke.
Billy Pringle felt something flick through his thick brown hair. He dropped his discharged pistol on to the grass and reached up with his hand. His hair was damp, but only from the rain.
‘Is there blood, sir?’ demanded the major. The surgeon seemed finally to wake up, his creased red face alert as he went forward, his legs swishing through the long grass.
Pringle held up his hand, fingers stretched wide. ‘No blood,’ he said.
‘There is no wound,’ said the doctor after a close inspection. Pringle could smell the gin on the man’s breath and wished that he had some. It seemed unfair that the offence could be given after a good few drinks, while the encounter must be fought by the sober.
‘Mr Pringle, prepare yourself,’ called Tilney as the surgeon retreated. Pringle switched the loaded pistol to his right hand and again held it down against his leg.
He noticed that the watching dragoon subalterns had turned to look behind them. A tall horseman was riding hard through the meadow beside the stream. The wind had dropped, and Pringle caught the dull pounding of heavy hoofbeats. It was a big piebald horse with heavy features and thick legs, and its rider was an officer, his cocked hat covered in oilskin and his cloak blowing behind him to reveal a scarlet jacket.
‘It’s Ham,’ said Miss Williams in a loud tone of genuine surprise. Pringle had not become used to the nickname the sisters used for their brother, but had already recognised that it was Lieutenant Williams in the flesh.
‘Damn it, sir, I will brook no more impediments or interruptions.’ Tilney sounded outraged. ‘Go about your business, sir, and leave us in peace.’
‘Forgive the intrusion,’ said Williams. ‘I am here merely as a friend, and as a witness.’
‘Well, sir, be damned to you if that proves your funeral as well as ours,’ snapped Tilney. ‘Now dismount and call no more attention to yourself. You must not distract the principals. I do not know how the infantry conduct affairs of honour, but in the cavalry we insist on proper decorum.’ Pringle saw Williams bridle, and Truscott also stiffened noticeably, but both men evidently decided that one duel was enough for the day and made no issue of the remark.
The elegant light dragoon major waited impatiently as Williams dismounted, hitched his reins around a fence and then walked over to join his sister and Hanley.
‘Mr Pringle, I say again, prepare yourself.’ Tilney waited, fingers drumming impatiently against the tail of his coat.
‘Mr Pringle, you may fire.’
Pringle levelled his piece and again pulled the trigger. Again the flint sparked, but the main charge failed to ignite. His muttered oath was longer this time, and he turned to glare at Hanley.
‘Mr Garland, you may fire.’
The discharge seemed louder this time, carried to them by a sudden hard gust of wind, and Hanley felt the girl flinch at the noise and flame. The ball went nowhere near Pringle, although whether this was intention, the wind or mere poor aim it was impossible to say.
‘Gentlemen, you have withstood two fires,’ called Truscott. ‘It would be fitting to end this affair with apologies.’ He looked at Garland, who had given first offence and so must be first to relent.
‘No apology.’
Pringle was surprised, although after two misfires it would be reasonable enough for the man to see himself as safe. For his part, he was ready to make public apology for the blow, but it seemed that he would not have the opportunity.
Williams, his sister and Hanley watched Truscott and Tilney consult each other.
‘How did you get here?’ asked Hanley quietly.
‘Long story,’ Williams said, and then Truscott called Hanley to join him. The principals were to exchange one more shot, and so he was required to load. Pringle would have preferred the more capable and martial Williams to do the job, but it was a concession for Hanley to be involved and Major Tilney was by now in no mood to extend a further courtesy.
‘Take care to load this well,’ was as close as Truscott came to direct criticism, but Billy Pringle raised one eyebrow quizzically when Hanley passed him the pistol.
‘Gentlemen, prepare yourselves.’ The two men were already in place and in the proper stance, and so Tilney paused only briefly before he continued.
‘Mr Pringle, you may fire.’
Billy Pringle raised his arm until it was straight and pulled the trigger. There was the familiar snap and spark, and then he almost jumped when the main charge went off and the pistol jerked back with the discharge.
Lieutenant Garland dropped like a shot rabbit.
Kitty cried out and buried her head against her brother’s chest.
‘Well, I’m damned,’ said Billy Pringle.
It was not a bad wound. The surgeon quickly proclaimed as mu
Off for the wars in a far country,
And he sang as he marched
Through the crowded streets of Rochester,
‘Who’ll be a soldier with Wellington and me?’
Who’ll be a soldier? Who’ll be a soldier?
Who’ll be a soldier with Wellington and me?
And he sang as he marched
Through the crowded streets of Rochester,
‘Who’ll be a soldier with Wellington and me?’
The King he has ordered new troops onto the continent,
To strike a last blow at the enemy.
And if you would be a soldier,
All in scarlet uniform,
Take the King’s shilling with Wellington and me.
Take the King’s shilling! Take the King’s shilling!
Take the King’s shilling with Wellington and me.
And he sang as he marched
Through the crowded streets of Rochester,
‘Take the King’s shilling with Wellington and me.’
‘Not I,’ said the butcher, ‘Nor I,’ said the baker
Most of the rest with them did agree
To be paid with the powder and
The rattle of the cannonball
Wages for soldiers for Wellington and me.
Wages for soldiers! Wages for soldiers!
Wages for soldiers for Wellington and me
To be paid with the powder and
The rattle of the cannonball
Wages for soldiers for Wellington and me.
‘Now I,’ said the young man, ‘have oft endured the parish queue
There is no wages or employment for me
Salvation or danger
That’ll be my destiny
To be a soldier for Wellington and me!’
To be a soldier! To be a soldier!
To be a soldier for Wellington and me!
Salvation or danger
That’ll be my destiny
To be a soldier for Wellington and me!
Now twenty recruits came marching back through Rochester
Off to the wars in a far country
And they sang as they marched
Through the crowded streets of Rochester,
‘Who’ll be a soldier with Wellington and me?’
Who’ll be a soldier? Who’ll be a soldier?
Who’ll be a soldier with Wellington and me?
And he sang as he marched
Through the crowded streets of Rochester,
‘Who’ll be a soldier with Wellington and me?’
…
This is one version of a song dating back at least to the beginning of the eighteenth century, when the words were ‘Malboro and me’. It was sung to a traditional Scottish tune called ‘Oh Bonnie Wood O’ Craigielee’ and is now better known as ‘Waltzing Matilda’.
Pringle clasped his hands tightly behind his back and tried hard not to shiver. He did not want to die on this bleak October morning, but he was a captain in His Britannic Majesty King George’s 106th Regiment of Foot, and as an officer he must never show agitation or the faintest hint of fear. Often the show of courage was more important than any order he could give, for confidence was almost as rapidly contagious as fear, and it did not matter if it was an act.
Over a year ago Billy Pringle had helped throw the French out of Portugal, then been chased through the mountains on that grim march to Corunna. This summer he had come through the carnage at Talavera when they had fought the French to a standstill. There always seemed to be more French, and they never gave in easily. He took a musket ball at Talavera, which slashed a cut across his belly, but in spite of a bout of fever he had pulled through and all that was left was a pale scar. So many had fallen or been forever maimed on those two days in July that he counted himself lucky to have got away with little more than a scratch. The slightest shift in the Frenchman’s aim and he would not be standing in this field beside the river and wondering whether he would live to see the sun set. The thought was chilling, and it felt as if his very flesh was shrinking in a desperate effort to make him small and safe.
It was damned cold, while the persistent drizzle speckled the lenses of his glasses and made his shirt cling tightly to his body. With an effort, Billy Pringle stood up straight and kept from shivering, maintaining the act. He knew it mattered. Now that he had seen war in all its confusion, horror and brutal simplicity he understood that the pretence was important. Men watched each other, and most of all the men watched their officers. The veterans knew that it was all a sham. Officers and men alike pretended unconcern and somehow became brave, so that otherwise sane men did what seemed insane and battles were won. It also meant that ‘sane’ men would choose to face death, acting a part to impress others or themselves. It was almost a shame that the death and mutilation were so dreadfully real.
‘Major Tilney is concerned about the weather,’ said Captain Truscott, who had returned from consulting with a Light Dragoon officer, and now jerked Pringle from the thoughts that kept his mind away from the grim reality of this place. ‘His principal does not wish an unfair advantage, and is willing to postpone the affair.’
Truscott was nervous, although only a close friend like Pringle would have spotted the signs. His fellow captain was a precise man, as punctilious in his duties as in his private affairs. His left sleeve, empty since he had lost an arm at Vimeiro, offered the readiest of reminders that this was no act. Every few minutes Truscott unconsciously reached up and rubbed the buttons on its cuff. The rest of the time his right hand kept clenching and uncurling. Captain Truscott did not care for this business, but was determined to perform his role as second properly. Thinfaced and always inclined to frown, the injury had left him drawn. Yet now Billy recognised a deeper concern in his friend’s features.
‘Tell him …’ Pringle’s voice cracked so he paused for a moment, took a long breath, coughed, and then continued steadily. ‘That is to say, thank him for his concern, but please assure him that there is no inconvenience. I can see well enough without my spectacles, should the rain become worse.’ Pringle was tempted to add that he had marched and fought through rain, sleet and snow last winter, while Tilney and his fellow light dragoon were snug in England, before deciding that there had been enough insults. More importantly, Truscott would not approve of such levity, and so once again Pringle acted a part and made himself speak with appropriate gravity.
‘You are sure?’ Again the simple fact that the question was asked betrayed Truscott’s doubts about the whole business.
‘Certain,’ said Pringle, his voice steady.
Truscott looked at him for a moment and then gave the slightest of nods. Without any more words, he turned and marched over to speak to Major Tilney.
‘You’re a bloody fool, Billy,’ said Hanley, who remained beside him.
‘Thank you, I am obliged for such a kind sentiment.’
This time Pringle could not help grinning, in spite of the solemnity of the occasion. Truscott would not approve, but Hanley cared little for convention. A man who had seen his dreams of becoming a great artist shattered, Lieutenant Hanley was forced to join the army because he had had no other choice. He cared little for convention and seemed baffled by most ideas of honour, but he had fought beside Pringle and gradually adapted to life in the regiment. More recently he had shown a talent for intrigue and gathering information about the enemy, and Billy suspected that his friend was more naturally spy than soldier.
‘Delay matters,’ urged Lieutenant Hanley, tugging his heavy boat-cloak more tightly around his neck. ‘That way Williams can sort out this mess himself.’ Like all the others in the little field the lieutenant was dressed in civilian clothes, but he was the only one who nevertheless did not obviously look like a soldier. Hanley was a handsome man, his skin tanned by the years spent in Spain before the war. He was a shade taller than Pringle, and more than a year of campaigning left him looking fit and strong, but he was still generally dishevelled and inclined to slouch.
Pringle shook his head. ‘Too late for that. A blow was struck.’
‘Yes, by you, in fact!’ Hanley’s smile faded when he saw his friend’s hard look.
The last days were a confused blur of searching for an errant girl and then a light dragoon officer. It was little more than a month since his detachment had returned to England from Portugal, and Pringle’s initial euphoria at coming home had rapidly faded. He was alive, but found peaceful England duller than his dreams. Billy Pringle began drinking once again, as heavily as ever he had done before the regiment went off to war. The responsibilities and shortages of campaigning had made it easier to be sober. Pringle chafed at idleness, far more than the others, and so the sudden flight of their friend Williams’ sister gave him a purpose and he had embraced it like a lover. Williams, Truscott, Hanley and Pringle had all gone hunting for the girl.
The trail proved easy to follow, and led them separately towards Cheltenham, but it was Pringle who arrived first, spoke to her, and decided to act. He should probably have waited, and might have done so if he had not felt so alive for the first time in weeks. Billy took Miss Williams with him and realised that he was drinking far less, although with hindsight it was probably still more than was wise in the circumstances. Lieutenant Garland of the 14th Light Dragoons was hardly in a better state when Pringle confronted him. Billy thought that he spoke calmly and with courtesy, but suddenly Garland was yelling and then damned Pringle as a liar. The light dragoon was flailing his arms in agitation, and when Billy thought that the man was aiming a blow his instincts took over, only the blocked swing turned into a punch which rocked the smaller dragoon back on his heels. Major Tilney and several other cavalrymen were all there to witness it. A gentleman could not simply strike another without consequences, but nor could he call another man a liar, and so it was Pringle who challenged in defence of his honour. Truscott arrived later that evening, and he had negotiated the business by meeting Tilney several times during the next day. No apology was forthcoming and the whole thing rapidly assumed an inevitability.
‘It is my affair now.’ Pringle managed a thin smile. ‘Or would you have me meekly submit to a caning at the hands of that schoolboy?’
Garland was not yet nineteen, his cheeks shaded with wispy hair as he desperately sought to emulate the luxuriant side-whiskers of older light dragoons like the major. The lad clearly idolised Tilney, and Pringle suspected the latter had played a prominent role both in insisting on the duel and in the original affair. The two cavalrymen had met Kitty Williams and her older sister Anne at Bath, where the girls were acting as companions to the elderly Mrs Waters. Pringle only knew a little of what had followed from Anne’s modest account. Flirtation led to an understanding, and repeated excuses for clandestine meetings where Kitty was unaccompanied, and after the sisters’ departure there was secret correspondence, aided by Mrs Waters – that ‘silly, wicked woman’, the girls’ mother had said sharply. Then just a week ago Kitty Williams had sneaked away from her home and vanished, leaving a note to say that she was going to seek true happiness and would soon have splendid news. By the time Pringle found her that dream had died, for she was red-eyed from long weeping and almost at the end of her meagre funds. As he coaxed the story from the girl, Billy guessed that Anne’s suspicion was right, and that there was a deeper reason why Kitty Williams feared to remain a spinster.
‘It would not do,’ said Pringle after a long pause. ‘Besides which, Bills would kill the little cuss.’
Hanley frowned. ‘No great loss to anyone, I suspect. And yet do you not plan to do just that in a moment?’
‘I might.’ Pringle spoke slowly as if mulling the matter over, but in his heart he was sure. ‘But I will more likely merely nick him or miss altogether. With Williams it would be a certainty. Bills is a bad man when it comes to fighting.’
Hamish Williams was taller than both Hanley and Pringle, who were themselves big men. His mother was a widow, the family lacking funds and influence, and so, when her son determined to be a soldier, he had joined the 106th as a volunteer, carrying a musket in the ranks. A gentleman volunteer lived with the officers and served with the soldiers, waiting to perform some act of valour sufficient to win him a commission. Williams managed this feat in Portugal in ’08, survived unscathed and then later won promotion to lieutenant.
Pringle had seen Williams fight, and heard tell of other deeds he had not witnessed. Shy, awkward in society and pious, Hamish Williams was an unlikely friend, but had become a very close one to the other three. Billy had two older brothers, and was fond of them both, but since they had followed their father and grandfather and gone to sea at a young age he could not claim to know them as well as he knew his friends in the 106th. His own poor eyesight had kept him out of the Navy, and after Oxford even his already disappointed father had to admit that Billy was unsuited to the Church. Pringle decided to become a soldier, and now he found it hard to imagine another life.
He felt that he was a more than decent officer, and after four battles and twice as many skirmishes he was experienced and considered himself to be capable. Even so, he had to admit that Williams had taken to battle more naturally than any of them, and indeed seemed almost at home in the chaos. Williams was a very good officer, but he also killed readily and with considerable fluency, and Pringle was beginning to understand how rare a thing this was. Billy doubted that he had ever taken any man’s life, although it was hard to be sure. More than a few times he had fired his pistol into the chaos and smoke and perhaps one of the balls had struck a mortal blow, but more probably it had not and he preferred to believe this. Williams fought with a skilful savagery that was almost chilling.
‘Then let him slaughter Garland,’ suggested Hanley.
‘And how would that help Miss Williams?’
‘Avenge the slur on her good name by righteous punishment.’ Hanley’s disdain for honour was obvious. ‘I can remember you helping me to lie like an Irish horse-trader when we needed to stop Bills from meeting Redman.’
Pringle chuckled at the memory. ‘Dear God, that seems like an age ago.’
‘It would not offend me to be called a liar.’
‘Well, my dear friend, with all due respect, you are a liar,’ said Pringle.
‘Yes, and a damned good one. So what has prompted such a change on your part?’ asked Hanley, who expected the world to be open to reason.
‘Ask me after it is over.’
‘You may not be here to ask!’ Hanley was studying his friend closely and his face changed, suggesting sudden enlightenment. ‘Oh,’ he said after a moment, ‘there is something else. Do I take it that Miss Williams is in pressing need of a husband?’ Hanley’s natural cynicism matched Pringle’s view of human nature, but in this case he had a particular sympathy for he was the child of an illicit liaison. Neither of his parents had wanted anything to do with their bastard, although to be fair his late father had provided an allowance, and so he had been raised as best she could by his grandmother. For all his disdain for convention, Hanley felt the stigma deeply, and had no great wish to have it inflicted on another child. ‘In that case, try not to kill him too much!’
‘Gentlemen, you may take post!’ Truscott’s voice carried across the clearing.
‘Good luck, Billy,’ whispered Hanley as his friend strode towards the tent peg marking his position. Earlier on Truscott had paced out the distance and the elegant Tilney had driven the pegs into the damp earth, and then looked at the traces of mud on his gloves in evident distaste.
Two subalterns of the light dragoons stood at the edge of the field, chatting away in voices that were nervously loud, until the major glared at them. With them was a civilian doctor, a hunched, ill-favoured fellow with the red face and prominent veins of a hard drinker. Otherwise secrecy was preserved and no one else had come to watch the encounter.
Pringle stood behind the peg. The seconds had agreed on an exchange of at least two shots at a distance of twenty paces before apologies could be offered, since if the argument was easier to resolve then it should already have occurred. The range was at the upper end of convention, and suggested that neither Tilney nor Truscott wanted to make a fatal wound too likely. Principals were not allowed any say on such matters. Nor was Pringle permitted to reject the right to take the first shot. It had been agreed, and that was an end to it. Garland had given first offence and so should be the first to stand fire. Major Tilney was the first to insist on this point. Billy Pringle was not sure whether this marked him as a slight or extremely close friend to the young lieutenant.
Tilney was also willing to permit Truscott to seek assistance when unable to perform his duties. Hanley moved to his side as the captain selected a pistol from each of the two identical cases of matched pairs. Then the lieutenant took these and loaded them in turn, while Major Tilney charged the other pistols for his principal. Neither man did the other the gross discourtesy of watching him as he went about this task.
Pringle and Garland waited at their marks. The rain slackened, although both men were already thoroughly wet, their hair flattened on to their heads. Garland stared boldly at his opponent, and, not to be outdone, Billy met his gaze. Neither man showed any sign of animosity, and Pringle wondered whether the light dragoon was genuinely without malice or simply dull-witted. Billy envied the cavalryman his silk shirt, and wondered whether it was warmer than his. Fragments of silk were easier for a surgeon to pick out of a wound than the threads of cotton. He knew that his father and brothers, like a lot of RN officers, always tried to wear a silk shirt and stockings with their uniform on a day of battle. Soldiers less often had the time for such careful preparations, or the capacity to carry so full a wardrobe on campaign – excepting the Guards, of course, for the ‘Gentlemen’s sons’ always had plenty of servants and pack animals to shield them from the worst rigours of campaigning.
Pringle let his mind wander rather than think about the coming ordeal. Then he noticed Garland start slightly when Tilney brought him the loaded pistols, and it was pleasing to see a trace of anxiety in his opponent. For a moment Pringle almost felt sorry for the boy. He could not blame him too much for wanting to tumble Kitty Williams. The three Williams sisters were pretty, with fine golden hair just like their older brother, and Kitty was a bold flirt of seventeen summers with the shape of the very ripest young Venus. Pringle doubted the seduction had been entirely one-sided, and part of him thought that bedding the little minx would be a damned sight more pleasant a use of his own time than this challenge, but that would not stop him from putting a ball in the randy little dragoon. Williams was a friend, and on brief acquaintance he had developed a great esteem for Anne, a taller, somewhat serious girl closer to her brother in character, and more Juno than Venus in shape. It was not just a question of desire. Billy was inclined to desire any half-decent woman he saw. There were feelings for the eldest Miss Williams that he had not yet had proper chance to understand. That prompted the absurd thought that it would make it all the more unfortunate if he got himself killed this morning, but it was too late to change anything.
‘A matter of honour,’ he said softly, and permitted himself a wry smile.
‘I beg your pardon?’ asked Hanley, who had brought the pistols.
‘Nothing of importance,’ said Pringle.
‘I believe you will need these.’ Hanley spoke almost casually, and Billy wondered whether he too was becoming tense. He took the first of the pistols in his left hand, holding it by the middle of the barrel with the muzzle pointing behind him and away from Garland. He glanced down to see that it was already drawn back to full cock, shifted his grip to grasp it properly and then held it down against his leg.
‘Stop!’ A feminine voice broke the tense silence. Pringle turned to see a dishevelled and pale-faced Miss Williams emerge from the grove of trees behind them. There was mud spattered liberally on her dress and several tears in its hem, while her bonnet was so wet that it had partly collapsed on one side. The promise that Kitty would stay in her room at the Cock Horse had evidently lasted less than a hour, and she must have lost her way, for the path to this quiet spot was hard to follow.
‘Madam, you have no place here!’ The only time Billy had ever heard Truscott shout so loud was when he had ordered the battalion forward at Talavera – a captain in command because all the senior officers had fallen. ‘Hanley, see to the lady and keep her out of the way.’
Major Tilney looked angry. Pringle thought that Garland was confused, and the boy’s cheeks flushed in spite of the cold. Hanley gave him the other pistol with even less ceremony and lurched off towards the girl. After more than a year in the army he still seemed incapable of standing straight.
‘Come, sir, we must proceed,’ ordered Tilney.
‘In a moment, sir; I shall not be rushed,’ Truscott replied, smarting at his tone. ‘Mr Hanley, kindly keep Miss Williams back.’
The girl was breathless, unable to do more than stammer incoherently. Hanley took her gently by the shoulders and urged her back to the top of a grassy bank.
‘It is too late to change anything,’ he said firmly, and the sadness in his voice moved her more than its force.
‘But he might die,’ the girl said feebly. It was unclear who ‘he’ was.
‘Gentlemen, make ready,’ called Truscott. Pringle turned so that his right shoulder pointed towards Garland, who matched the movement. It offered the smallest target to an adversary, although Billy Pringle could not help thinking that his greater height and broad stomach made him a far better mark than the slim light dragoon.
‘Now that you are ready, Major Tilney will give the orders to fire,’ said Truscott.
Miss Williams stood close beside Hanley, his arm round her shoulder. She was breathing heavily and he knew that this was no longer mere fatigue.
‘I cannot watch,’ she gasped, but when he glanced down her eyes were open and as excited as they were fearful.
‘Gentlemen.’ Hanley would not have thought that someone could shout and drawl at the same time, and yet somehow Tilney managed it. ‘I shall call your name in turn, and give you leave to fire. You will then present and as promptly fire. Do you understand?’
Pringle nodded. Garland said nothing and made no gesture.
‘Do you understand, Mr Garland?’ asked Tilney.
‘I understand,’ said the lieutenant, his voice higher than normal.
‘Good, then we shall begin.’ He paused, standing at attention and in silence. Miss Williams reached up with both hands and pressed Hanley’s fingers tightly as they rested on her shoulder.
‘Mr Pringle,’ Tilney ordered, ‘you may give fire.’
Billy raised his arm, the pistol feeling suddenly heavy, and levelled it at Garland, whose eyes were closed. A gentleman did not pause to aim and so without hesitation Pringle squeezed the trigger so that the hammer slammed down and the flint sparked.
Nothing happened. Either the powder had shaken out or the earlier drizzle had left it too damp to flare.
‘Bugger,’ hissed Billy Pringle to himself, and he could not help wishing that the meticulous Truscott had been capable of loading instead of the well-meaning but militarily casual Hanley. Still, the cause did not truly matter any more, as a misfire counted as a shot.
‘Dear Lord, he is safe,’ whispered Miss Williams, making her sympathies clear. Hanley wondered whether the girl realised that duelling was illegal, and that if either man died all present could be charged with murder. Yet his friends, who in other circumstances he held to be prudent and sensible, most certainly knew this and were still doing this damned silly thing – as was he, although at least he did not have to be happy about it.
‘Mr Garland,’ called Tilney without hesitation, ‘you may give fire.’
The light dragoon seemed surprised to have survived the shot and perhaps did not fully understand what had happened. It was known for men to forgo a shot when their opponent misfired, but there was no sign that the thought had entered Garland’s head. He raised his pistol and fired. The report was muffled by the wind, which instantly whipped away the dirty smoke.
Billy Pringle felt something flick through his thick brown hair. He dropped his discharged pistol on to the grass and reached up with his hand. His hair was damp, but only from the rain.
‘Is there blood, sir?’ demanded the major. The surgeon seemed finally to wake up, his creased red face alert as he went forward, his legs swishing through the long grass.
Pringle held up his hand, fingers stretched wide. ‘No blood,’ he said.
‘There is no wound,’ said the doctor after a close inspection. Pringle could smell the gin on the man’s breath and wished that he had some. It seemed unfair that the offence could be given after a good few drinks, while the encounter must be fought by the sober.
‘Mr Pringle, prepare yourself,’ called Tilney as the surgeon retreated. Pringle switched the loaded pistol to his right hand and again held it down against his leg.
He noticed that the watching dragoon subalterns had turned to look behind them. A tall horseman was riding hard through the meadow beside the stream. The wind had dropped, and Pringle caught the dull pounding of heavy hoofbeats. It was a big piebald horse with heavy features and thick legs, and its rider was an officer, his cocked hat covered in oilskin and his cloak blowing behind him to reveal a scarlet jacket.
‘It’s Ham,’ said Miss Williams in a loud tone of genuine surprise. Pringle had not become used to the nickname the sisters used for their brother, but had already recognised that it was Lieutenant Williams in the flesh.
‘Damn it, sir, I will brook no more impediments or interruptions.’ Tilney sounded outraged. ‘Go about your business, sir, and leave us in peace.’
‘Forgive the intrusion,’ said Williams. ‘I am here merely as a friend, and as a witness.’
‘Well, sir, be damned to you if that proves your funeral as well as ours,’ snapped Tilney. ‘Now dismount and call no more attention to yourself. You must not distract the principals. I do not know how the infantry conduct affairs of honour, but in the cavalry we insist on proper decorum.’ Pringle saw Williams bridle, and Truscott also stiffened noticeably, but both men evidently decided that one duel was enough for the day and made no issue of the remark.
The elegant light dragoon major waited impatiently as Williams dismounted, hitched his reins around a fence and then walked over to join his sister and Hanley.
‘Mr Pringle, I say again, prepare yourself.’ Tilney waited, fingers drumming impatiently against the tail of his coat.
‘Mr Pringle, you may fire.’
Pringle levelled his piece and again pulled the trigger. Again the flint sparked, but the main charge failed to ignite. His muttered oath was longer this time, and he turned to glare at Hanley.
‘Mr Garland, you may fire.’
The discharge seemed louder this time, carried to them by a sudden hard gust of wind, and Hanley felt the girl flinch at the noise and flame. The ball went nowhere near Pringle, although whether this was intention, the wind or mere poor aim it was impossible to say.
‘Gentlemen, you have withstood two fires,’ called Truscott. ‘It would be fitting to end this affair with apologies.’ He looked at Garland, who had given first offence and so must be first to relent.
‘No apology.’
Pringle was surprised, although after two misfires it would be reasonable enough for the man to see himself as safe. For his part, he was ready to make public apology for the blow, but it seemed that he would not have the opportunity.
Williams, his sister and Hanley watched Truscott and Tilney consult each other.
‘How did you get here?’ asked Hanley quietly.
‘Long story,’ Williams said, and then Truscott called Hanley to join him. The principals were to exchange one more shot, and so he was required to load. Pringle would have preferred the more capable and martial Williams to do the job, but it was a concession for Hanley to be involved and Major Tilney was by now in no mood to extend a further courtesy.
‘Take care to load this well,’ was as close as Truscott came to direct criticism, but Billy Pringle raised one eyebrow quizzically when Hanley passed him the pistol.
‘Gentlemen, prepare yourselves.’ The two men were already in place and in the proper stance, and so Tilney paused only briefly before he continued.
‘Mr Pringle, you may fire.’
Billy Pringle raised his arm until it was straight and pulled the trigger. There was the familiar snap and spark, and then he almost jumped when the main charge went off and the pistol jerked back with the discharge.
Lieutenant Garland dropped like a shot rabbit.
Kitty cried out and buried her head against her brother’s chest.
‘Well, I’m damned,’ said Billy Pringle.
It was not a bad wound. The surgeon quickly proclaimed as mu
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All in Scarlet Uniform
Adrian Goldsworthy
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