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

Portuguese, which might explain why they had not been issued. On most of the recruits the hems went down past their ankles or even brushed the ground, but they were warm. MacAndrews gave Corporal Raynor plenty of work, writing out clear copies of his own spidery drafts, bombarding Wellington’s headquarters and the political authorities in Lisbon and Seville with requests for stores, supplies and money to buy locally what he needed.
    ‘I told you,’ joked Morillo. ‘We Spanish all know that the English are rich.’
    ‘Well, I’m a Scot, and I’ve been poor all my life!’
    They did their best with what was available, and slowly help came in, but MacAndrews sometimes felt that he was abandoned and forgotten, of as much use and interest as this slighted frontier fort.
    Then, as winter came to an end, the war caught up with them.

7
     
    H anley looked at the gangs of workers piling the spoil from the ditch into a rampart and wondered whether this was yet another sign of defeat. The heights of Torres Vedras on the approaches to Lisbon were a hive of busy activity as fortifications were prepared. It was the beginning of March, and he greatly feared that the year 1810 would see the end of the war.
    ‘I presume these are intended to cover an embarkation, should it become necessary.’
    ‘You are the soldier, William. You tell me.’ Baynes always pretended complete ignorance of all military matters. He was a stocky man, with an immense belly barely enclosed behind the straining buttons of his waistcoat. His neck was thick, his face jowly, and even the slightest effort made sweat pour down his red cheeks, making him dab at them with a once brightly coloured handkerchief. As always, Hanley found himself thinking of the portly, gout-ridden and usually either jovial or bellicose characters of stout Englishmen drawn by cartoonists – a John Bull sprung to life.
    On first meeting him, it was easy to mistake Mr Ezekiel Baynes for a simple man of business. Some might even think him stupid, but only a true fool would go on believing this for any time. As a trader in wines and spirits, Baynes, Hanley suspected, had been cunning and successful. Openly merely a man assisting government representatives with his local knowledge and connections, he was in fact one of the most important collectors and interpreters of information and intelligence regarding the enemy, advising generals and ministers alike. Hanley knew from experience that Baynes was very clever, coldly calculating, suspicious by nature and utterly ruthless. He controlled a network of spies and informers, manipulating them as skilfully as a puppeteer pulled the strings on his marionettes, and with barely more affection for them beyond their usefulness.
    ‘Things are not going well for our cause,’ said Hanley, looking into the man’s pale grey eyes and knowing that it was impossible to read them.
    ‘No, they are not. A precise man might perhaps quibble at the presumption that we have a single cause. Possibly that is true if by “we” you mean purely His Majesty’s Government, although due emphasis on the “possibly” would be prudent even in this case. If it is extended to our noble allies in Spain and Portugal, then the word is stretched considerably. Yet if stripped to mean no more than a general desire to expel the French from their countries, perhaps it will stand. For the majority at least.’ He appeared to think for a moment, but Hanley now doubted that such pauses were anything other than deliberate. ‘There are some who welcome French rule, and with every defeat there will be more and more who decide that such a policy is wisest.’
    ‘Has it become so bad?’
    ‘It is still in the balance, but there have been too many lost battles.’
    ‘They need a general who knows how to win,’ said Colonel Murray, having jogged up to the top of the rocky outcrop to join the other two. Murray was Lord Wellington’s Quartermaster General, helping the British