All in Scarlet Uniform (Napoleonic War 4) by Adrian Goldsworthy

had signed a treaty letting the French evacuate Portugal and carry away all their plunder.
    ‘Cannot say I blame them. So you have been here before?’
    ‘Not directly. We came to Almeida last autumn.’ The fortified town lay five miles away, guarding the road into Portugal. On the Spanish side, the town of Ciudad Rodrigo protected against invasion going in the other direction. ‘After that we marched into Spain and joined Sir John Moore.’
    ‘So you have seen some service, then.’
    Williams nodded.
    ‘And your commander, is he experienced?’
    Williams was surprised that the Spaniard had not been told about his counterpart, and was uncomfortable discussing his superior. However, there could be no harm in speaking the truth. ‘I believe he is the finest officer it has been my honour to serve under.’
    Morillo stared at him, as if judging his sincerity. ‘He seems old.’
    ‘Promotion rarely comes swiftly to a man without wealth or powerful friends.’
    The Spaniard rubbed his chin. ‘Yes, well, it is no different in our army.’
    Williams looked at him more closely, and realised that he was older than he had first thought. Morillo’s size and manner, as well as his glasses, reminded him a good deal of Pringle, and he had assumed that they were also of an age. Now he could see flecks of grey in Morillo’s hair and lines around his mouth and eyes. Williams guessed he was closer to forty than thirty.
    ‘It is hard to rise far for a man who is not an hidalgo,’ explained the Spaniard. ‘I was five years a sergeant. I would guess that is why they set me to be a drillmaster now.’ His face was grim. His hand moved from his chin to his brow, and he rubbed a scar just visible under his cocked hat.
    ‘Yet if I am not mistaken, you have also seen a good deal of service. Am I not right in recollecting you from Medellín?’ Morillo started at the name. ‘I watched as you and your gren-adiers charged the French battery.’
    ‘A bloody day,’ the Spaniard said, shaking his head. Soon after that charge the flanks of the Spanish army had collapsed, and then regiment after regiment of French cavalry had swept on to the plain and slaughtered half the army. Morillo was staring at Williams closely, and then tried to snap his fingers, but the sound was muted because of his gloves. ‘And you were there with Cuesta’s staff afterwards. Ah, you are that Englishman!’ Williams and Dobson had saved General Cuesta’s life, and then later, as they fled with his staff, Morillo and his grenadiers had appeared, still formed amid all the chaos, and escorted the party to safety.
    Morillo held out his hand.
    ‘Lieutenant Williams, One Hundred and Sixth Foot,’ said Hamish as they shook hands.
    ‘Well, perhaps this will do some good after all. That is, if it is not too late.’ Morillo sighed. ‘Come, let us get back into the warmth.’
     
    MacAndrews gave the men an easy Christmas Day. It was scarcely a feast, but the redcoats produced bottles of brandy in that mysterious way Williams had come to expect even if he could not understand it, and together with the wine brought by the Spanish, most of the officers and men alike felt worse for wear the next day. Colonel MacAndrews and Captain Morillo both looked as fresh as their brightly polished buttons and showed no mercy to the sore heads of their followers. The two senior officers had spent much of Christmas Day shut in their office as they discussed and planned. On 26 December the men were set to fatigues, clearing more of the barracks ready for the expected students and making the fort more like an active garrison. Williams was sent on a patrol with Dobson and Murphy and two Spanish sergeants to get a feel for the area. Williams had not drunk at all, and Dobson had resolutely kept to a single tot, in spite of repeated assurances from his comrades that Mrs Dobson would understand given the season. Murphy had drunk like a fish, but as ever seemed none the worse. The British and