Too Few for Drums Read online

  Fox went over to the men and barked them into some kind of formation. Critically he let his gaze run along the short rank, and what he saw neither pleased nor encouraged him. He was a professional who had been in uniform since he was fifteen, and the group cowering under the jail wall were amateurs, most of them first-campaign men without the least idea how to survive in this kind of situation or measure up to the seasoned veterans of Napoleon at this moment descending the pass in their tens of thousands. Lickspittle and his crony Croyde were a pair of condemned felons whose presence here had cheated some seacoast hangman of his fee, for they had been taken in a fight with revenue men and given the choice of enlisting or decorating a gibbet. They were a hard-bitten, truculent pair, and he had already seen each of them flogged for looting and brawling. They hated military service as they hated all authority and were kept in check only by the fear of the provost’s firing squad. But now, Fox reflected, there was no provost and they would undoubtedly desert at the first opportunity, so he said, addressing them directly, “The French advance guard is led by dragoons and lancers. They are fast-moving scouts and never take prisoners. If either one of you is thinking of surrendering, forget about it. They’ll collect your firelocks, strip you naked and then hack you to pieces!”

  He moved on a pace, addressing the remainder of the squad. “The ensign knows of a ford higher upstream and we’re going to march for it now. If we keep together we shall be across the river in twenty-four hours and your one chance of living through this is to keep closed up. Any stragglers will be picked off by the dragoons. One of them just killed Captain Sowden at three hundred yards’ range!”

  He could see that Privates Watson, Lockhart, Strawbridge and Morgan were impressed, but Watson, the man with soot ingrained in his sallow skin, was grinning, as though anticipating some kind of lark. The boy Curle, however, looked as if he might burst into tears at any moment and Fox thought, not for the first time, of the Government’s absurdity in enlisting children utterly unable to withstand the rigors of a campaign outside the walls of a garrison town. He stood for a moment in front of the boy, regarding him gravely, almost paternally. “You, boy, what’s your name? Speak up, sonny! What do they call you?”

  The boy threw up his chin, mastering his tears.

  “Curle, Sergeant! My mother was cantinière in the Fifty-first!”

  Fox raised his eyebrows and looked at the child with interest. If his mother was a cantinière, then it meant that the boy had been born in the Army and was therefore a veteran, despite his extreme youth.

  “You were at Busaco?”

  “Yes, Sergeant, I was wounded there.” Suddenly the boy seemed to find all the confidence he needed and, dropping his drum, he raised his wide sleeve, displaying a red, half-healed gash about three inches in length.

  Lickspittle laughed outright, but the sergeant glared at him.

  “It’s a damned sight more than you’ll ever have to show!” he snapped and pretended to examine the graze carefully.

  “It was a Frog bayonet!” said the boy eagerly. “It ripped me sleeve, see!” He pointed to some rough stitching an inch or two above the sleeve buttons.

  “Did you kill him?” said Fox gravely.

  The boy smiled shamefacedly and shook his head. “He was dead when he did it. Sergeant Murphy shot him through the head, and when he rolled over, his bayonet come at me like a … like a spear! It bled, though, it bled awful!”

  “Good boy!” Fox said gratefully and suddenly felt cheered. He made them all empty their cartridge boxes and piled the cartridges on an abandoned table nearby.

  The count showed a total of 104, which, together with his own ammunition, added up to about fifteen rounds apiece. Carefully he counted out seven piles and told each man to help himself. Curle carried no arms and Fox told him to abandon the drum.

  At that moment Graham reappeared. He had not found Sowden’s body, much less his valise, for both were buried deep under a vast pile of debris blown there by the exploding mine.

  Fox said, “They’ve got about fifteen rounds apiece. You won’t have a musket yourself, sir?”

  “No,” said Graham, “nothing but this,” and he touched his ornamental sword hilt.

  Fox hesitated a moment and then he swung his knapsack to the ground and flicked open the flap, pulling out a heavy brass-mounted pistol, a powder flask and a shot bag. “I got these from a cuirassier in the mountains, sir!”

  He handed them to Graham, who took them with a nod and stuck the pistol into his belt. Fox again glanced toward the mountains, and this time the pale afternoon sun caught the gleam of a casque and threw it back like a winking signal. He lifted his arm, pointing, and Graham, looking northeast, saw what looked like a long, rolling shadow in the narrow valley between the peaks. At the same time the deserted town seemed as still as a tomb and, cocking an ear, he could hear a far off murmur like the sea. He knew he would have to get used to asking the sergeant direct questions.

  “The main body, how far off would it be?”

  Fox sucked his cheeks and seemed to measure leagues with his eye. “Eight-ten miles,” he said and Graham noticed that for the first time he dropped the “sir,” as though by asking a question Graham had surrendered the leadership.

  “And their cavalry scouts?”

  “Yon was a thruster,” Fox said, jerking his head toward the little platform from which the dragoon had fired. “You always find them among the light cavalry. A youngster, mebbe, who won’t last very long!” And suddenly he smiled and Graham felt immensely grateful for his strength and the vast store of experience that lay under the battered shako like a reserve of ammunition waiting to be used. Fox went on, “He’ll have ridden back to the squadron by now, telling them how clever he was and how the bridge was blown. We could spare a few minutes to hunt up rations. If we don’t find the ford we shall want all we can carry!”

  Graham nodded. He was getting himself in hand now, steadying himself upon the two handgrips represented by the sergeant’s presence and his own raw pride. He said, “Very well, Sergeant, tell the men to search the houses. I’ll wait here with the boy. He’d best save his strength for the journey.”

  Fox returned to the group under the jail wall, and a moment later the six men fanned out, moving in and out of the wretched dwellings surrounding the plaza. The boy Curle crossed toward Graham, still dragging his drum, and when he reached the ensign he saluted.

  “Sergeant says to leave the drum, sir,” he squeaked, and Graham noticed that the child’s mouth was set in a sullen line. “I didn’t ought to leave me drum, not now I carried it this far!”

  Graham smiled, remembering Addington, the village children there, ragged little scarecrows who used to run behind his pony calling for ha’pennies.

  “The sergeant’s right, boy,” he said. “We’ve got a long march ahead of us and it isn’t likely you’ll be asked to beat the charge!” Then, seeing the boy’s crestfallen look, he poked among the mass of rubbish in the street until he found a half-filled sack containing household utensils. He emptied it and gave it to Curle. “You can be quartermaster,” he said, “and all the rations can go in the sack.”

  The boy’s sullen expression vanished at once, as though he saw in this assignment a kind of promotion. Whipping out a clasp knife, he stabbed two holes in the hem of the sack and threaded his crossbelt so that the sack hung on his shoulders like a big knapsack. The swift action seemed to give him stature and he drew himself upright, standing almost to attention.

  Graham, one eye still cocked toward the mountains, saw the men drift back toward the center of the square, chivvied by the active Fox, who peered into their haversacks to see what they had found. It was not very much—two strings of onions, a half-gnawed loaf green at the edges, a small jar of tobacco and a few worthless odds and ends. What little food there had been in the town had been wolfed down by the rearguard or carried away by the fugitives. Over the mountains blue-gray clouds were gathering, and soon the wind rose, gusting down the
street and lifting tatters of debris as it passed. Fox came back, carrying the spoil, and they stuffed it into the drummer-boy’s sack.

  “There are two men we’ll have trouble with anon,” Fox said, in a low voice. “The jailbirds will have to be watched. The other four are good enough, especially that man Lockhart. He was a gamekeeper and is reckoned the best shot in the regiment. We’d best be moving now, sir.” He hesitated a moment and then, with some difficulty, went on, “It might be as well if you said something to them first, sir. Coming from you it will do more good. There’s no provost to scare ’em, but they’ll march and fight better if they understand the situation!”

  Graham nodded, sharing the sergeant’s embarrassment as he walked over to the six men now standing in a little group in front of the most important-looking house in the town. The sergeant moved slightly ahead, barking, “Squaaad—’shun!” and bringing them to attention. Curle hung on the officer’s heels, as though he were already an NCO not required to stand in rank with the men.

  Graham cleared his throat, wishing heartily that he had grown a beard or at least a moustache during the voyage in the transport and the few short weeks in Lisbon. It would, he felt, have given him some kind of excuse to hector a group of men all older than himself in years and experience. He said harshly, “We shall march southeast along the riverbank until we find a ford. Perhaps we can wade or maybe we shall find a boat of some sort. Sergeant Fox will shoot any man who attempts to straggle. If we keep together we shall catch up with the rearguard tomorrow. No one is to fire without my command and if any one of you finds food it is your duty to surrender it at once.”

  The squad remained silent, their eyes registering the dull acknowledgment of men who had heard officers address them in these terms many times and took but little account of it. Graham studied the file, trying to memorize their features—Watson’s narrow, chirpy face, the heavy stolidity of Strawbridge, the half-mocking shiftiness of Lickspittle and Croyde, the somber blank-ness of the Nonconformist Morgan and the easy confidence of the marksman, Lockhart. “We shall march in single file,” he added. “Sergeant Fox?”

  “Sir?”

  “I shall lead with Private Lockhart. Space the men in twos at intervals of twenty paces and bring up the rear yourself.”

  “Sir!” And as Fox wheeled about and began pairing the men Graham could have sworn that there was a twinkle in his eye, as though he were watching a child take its first, staggering steps across a floor and make a grab at the nearest piece of furniture.

  Because he felt himself flushing, Graham moved off smartly, Lockhart a pace or two behind with his musket carried on the crook of his arm as Graham had seen his father’s gamekeepers walk the Addington rides when pheasants were rearing. The man was obviously the best of the bunch and it was reassuring to have an expert marksman beside him when they passed directly under the rock platform from which the dragoon’s shot had come. They went on down to the narrow beach and followed the wide curve of the river for more than a mile, the mountain wall getting steeper all the time and the dark river on their right stabbed with slab-sided rocks upon which the current broke and eddied. Then, quite suddenly, the river narrowed and storm clouds centered on a massive wall of rock right ahead, so vast indeed that its bulk gave Graham the impression that he was marching into the mouth of a huge cavern. The beach narrowed until it was less than a yard wide and then disappeared altogether as water rose over his calves. At the same time there was a ceaseless booming, like Atlantic breakers pounding Lisbon bar, and as he edged his way around a protruding rock Graham saw the source of the noise and would have cried out in dismay had he not been aware of Lockhart at his elbow.

  The river at this point was a roaring torrent swelled by a tributary spilling directly out of the mountain cleft and cascading down over rocks more than a hundred feet high. The din was deafening and the place so forbidding that Graham shuddered, gazing hopelessly at the waterfall and beyond, where the gully of the lesser river was hemmed in with close-set timber, cork and scrub oak, trunk upon trunk crowding to the very edge of the stream.

  There was no crossing it. On the far side of the junction a vertical cliff contained the main stream, and a direct ascent of the water slide would present impossible difficulties to men carrying muskets, packs, canteens, side-arms and ammunition. Graham stared at the rocks, trying to find some kind of cleft or chimney where the force of the descending water was lessened, but such handholds as presented themselves were wet and slimed, offering no promise to inexperienced rock climbers. He saw Lockhart doing his own survey, studying the thick growth of scrub and giant fern immediately above their heads, and then the second couple edged their way around the cliff face and all four were crowded onto the narrow ledge under the overhang.

  Graham shouted at the nearest newcomer, the Welsh preacher Morgan. “Tell Sergeant Fox to join me!” he bellowed, and when the man cupped his ear he repeated his instructions and waved his arm.

  Presently the man seemed to understand and passed the message to his companion, Watson, who at once wriggled out of sight around the bulge. Graham saw Lockhart shouting to him and saw him struggling with the flap of his knapsack. He did not hear what the gamekeeper said, but, as he watched, Lockhart succeeded in opening the leather flap and his hand emerged with a length of rope, a cord of about ten or twelve feet. He pointed to the ledge about twelve feet above them and made a crouching motion, indicating that the ensign should take the rope and climb upon his back, but at that moment Fox edged into view and behind him the boy Curle, his ration bag swinging in his teeth to give him more elbow room. Fox sized up the situation at once and pointed to the boy. Lockhart passed the rope to Fox and then turned, pressing his face to the rock and straddling his legs, at the same time cupping a hand to give Graham a foothold.

  It came into Graham’s mind as he hoisted himself onto the man’s shoulders that they were all engaged in the kind of game played by a group of boys released from school. Behind them the cascade hissed and roared and the main stream seemed to boil under the weight of the descending water, soaking them with spray and almost alive in its determination to pluck them from the ledge and plunge them into the current. His groping hands sought and found a crevice and he hung on, clawing the naked rock while the drummer-boy hoisted himself from Lockhart to Graham and thence, to Graham’s relief, into a mass of trailing roots a couple of feet beyond. The boy’s hobnailed boot skinned his cheek, but a moment later Curle’s weight was gone and, glancing up, he saw the boy knotting the rope to roots as thick as a man’s wrist. Fox, crouched beside Lockhart, was pointing upward and Graham understood his signal. Using Lockhart’s shoulders as a springboard, he leaped upward, grabbing the rope with one hand and a root with the other. For a moment he swung, his feet kicking at the rock wall, and then, exerting every ounce of his strength, he hauled himself into the round hollow where the boy was squatting.

  They came up slowly and painfully, the massive Strawbridge replacing Lockhart as mounting block. First Lockhart, then Watson, agile as a monkey, then Lickspittle, then the clumsy, cursing Croyde, then Morgan and finally Sergeant Fox, who seemed to have had some kind of dispute with the big countryman but finally scrambled onto his shoulders and was hoisted into the hollow. Up here the roar of water was deadened by the crowding undergrowth, and by shouting into one another’s ear they could just make themselves heard. But there was little need to discuss the new dilemma, that of hoisting the huge, lumbering Strawbridge a distance of more than twelve feet on a short length of rope.

  He stood there looking up at them, his expression placid and pleasant, as though his bulk presented no problem to seven men and a boy huddled together in a hollow made by an uprooted pine, with a roaring torrent on one side, a dense mass of scrub above and the swift-flowing main stream below. His gaze was fixed on Graham as though persuaded that he had done his part as springboard and now it was for the officer to think of something.

  It was Graham, in fact, who took the initiative. He collected
all the crossbelts knotting them together and lengthening the rope by another seven feet. Then he made a pad of greatcoats, wedging it under the rope to guard against fraying. Leaning over the ledge, he conveyed to Strawbridge by dumb show that he was to use the last crossbelt as a stirrup, and when this was done he spaced the men along the rope as far as the root to which it was anchored. He was excited now, his fears and anxieties temporarily forgotten. He leaned far over the ledge and when the men began to heave, hoisting Strawbridge up the cliff face by inches, he made a grab at the countryman’s crossbelts and hung on, his knees and elbows scrabbling on the rock for a hold. There was a moment when he thought they would never hoist the man to the top. He swung four feet below the ledge, gyrating slowly on the makeshift rope, his expression still calm and trustful as the men behind Graham strained and slithered among the mush of mud and dead leaves that filled the hollow. Then, as they took the strain once more, Strawbridge began to rise and Graham improved his hold, the sergeant kneeling on the small of his back to keep him from pitching forward into the river. Bruised and battered, his bleeding cheek ground into the rock, Graham hung on and at last Strawbridge flung up a hand that was caught by Fox and between them they managed to drag his dead weight over the edge of the hollow.

  With his lungs bursting and blood streaming down his face Graham lay beside the prostrate countryman, sobbing for breath, and behind him the men gave a little cheer. Then, as their wheezing subsided, Watson made one of his Cockney quips that came to mean so much to them. Pointing to the inert Strawbridge, he said derisively, “What did I tell yer? Pregnant, he is, and it’s gonner be twins!” and everyone but Morgan laughed at this small joke and began to scrape some of the mud from their uniforms and faces. To Graham, lying face downward on the rock, Watson’s jibe somehow was a password that gave him right of entry into a new world where men were measured by what they did rather than by their social caste. Although he was to come to know each one of these men with an intimacy that would have been impossible under different conditions, it was Watson, the man with lines of soot ingrained into his sallow skin, who symbolized the spirit of unity that was to emerge from this unlooked-for experience.