Read Online True Soldier Gentlemen (Napoleonic War 1) by Adrian Goldsworthy - Free Book Online
Authors: Adrian Goldsworthy
Tags: Historical fiction
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redcoats followed him anyway. He staggered and fell when another ball buried itself in his side. Then he was up again, still roaring and waving his sword, until a third shot broke his left leg and knocked him down for good.
For Moss, Egypt had been a short war, and his glory was soon submerged in the greater glory of Abercromby’s victory at Alexandria a few weeks later. The captain had still been with the surgeons at the time, damning their eyes and threatening to shoot anyone who tried to take his leg. The doctors had shaken their heads, but eventually given up on the irascible captain and let him take his chance. By then they had too much other trade from the Battle of Alexandria to worry overmuch about one fool. The fever had come and gone, and if anyone had had the time to think they might have been amazed at Moss’s recovery. He kept his leg, and was walking on it long before anyone else thought this wise. Years later there was not even the slightest trace of a limp. The side wound had also healed. So did the injury to his face, but that gave him a permanent scar. Most people – and especially the ladies – felt this was a marked improvement. Before then he had looked immensely boyish. With a dark red slash on his cheek he looked piratical, and his smile changed from innocence to roguish charm.
Alexandria had been the army’s last great victory. Back in ’06 a small force had shattered an equally small French army at Maida in Italy, but that had been little more than a skirmish. Since then there had been little glory, and more than a few humiliations. South America was the worst, but even in Egypt things had turned sour. Moss despised failure. He knew he was a good soldier, a bold man who would not hold back until victory was won. Yet he had had no chance to smell powder since Egypt. Britain’s navy ruled the waves and covered itself with the laurels of triumph time after time. The army did not get its chance, and Moss chafed at years of inaction. It seemed so absurd when the world was is he middle of the greatest war in history.
When Moss gained his own battalion he was adamant that he would take them to war. Enough time had already been wasted and there was a good deal of lost ground to recover. His cousin was an MP, and he had connections at high levels in Horse Guards, the headquarters of the army, but Sir Richard was a family friend and by far the best guide to the mechanisms of power and influence in London. Following his advice, Moss flung himself head first at any opportunity to influence those who determined the postings given to regiments. The 106th was not a famous corps and had few obvious patrons. It was now the junior regiment of infantry in the entire British Army. There had once been regiments with higher numbers, even a 135th Foot, but most had existed only on paper and these ghost units had been abolished by the Duke of York, along with all the opportunities for corruption they had brought. The 106th had survived, but there was a danger that it would only ever get the worst assignments. Moss had no intention of taking his men back to the Caribbean or to any other unwholesome backwater.
He lobbied hard, spending his own money to entertain generals, ministers and senior clerks alike. He paid court to the men themselves and anyone who might persuade them. Over the months he seduced the wife of an elderly general, at the same time lavishing gifts and favours on the mistress of another. He gambled with men in government, letting them win enough to enjoy his company, but never making it too obvious. Finally, it had worked. The outbreak of smallpox among a battalion stationed in Ireland and allocated to a force bound for South America had provided the opportunity. A replacement was needed, and Moss could boast that his regiment was the bravest and best trained in the army, and that it would be a criminal waste to leave them guarding Dorset against imaginary enemies when there were battles to be
For Moss, Egypt had been a short war, and his glory was soon submerged in the greater glory of Abercromby’s victory at Alexandria a few weeks later. The captain had still been with the surgeons at the time, damning their eyes and threatening to shoot anyone who tried to take his leg. The doctors had shaken their heads, but eventually given up on the irascible captain and let him take his chance. By then they had too much other trade from the Battle of Alexandria to worry overmuch about one fool. The fever had come and gone, and if anyone had had the time to think they might have been amazed at Moss’s recovery. He kept his leg, and was walking on it long before anyone else thought this wise. Years later there was not even the slightest trace of a limp. The side wound had also healed. So did the injury to his face, but that gave him a permanent scar. Most people – and especially the ladies – felt this was a marked improvement. Before then he had looked immensely boyish. With a dark red slash on his cheek he looked piratical, and his smile changed from innocence to roguish charm.
Alexandria had been the army’s last great victory. Back in ’06 a small force had shattered an equally small French army at Maida in Italy, but that had been little more than a skirmish. Since then there had been little glory, and more than a few humiliations. South America was the worst, but even in Egypt things had turned sour. Moss despised failure. He knew he was a good soldier, a bold man who would not hold back until victory was won. Yet he had had no chance to smell powder since Egypt. Britain’s navy ruled the waves and covered itself with the laurels of triumph time after time. The army did not get its chance, and Moss chafed at years of inaction. It seemed so absurd when the world was is he middle of the greatest war in history.
When Moss gained his own battalion he was adamant that he would take them to war. Enough time had already been wasted and there was a good deal of lost ground to recover. His cousin was an MP, and he had connections at high levels in Horse Guards, the headquarters of the army, but Sir Richard was a family friend and by far the best guide to the mechanisms of power and influence in London. Following his advice, Moss flung himself head first at any opportunity to influence those who determined the postings given to regiments. The 106th was not a famous corps and had few obvious patrons. It was now the junior regiment of infantry in the entire British Army. There had once been regiments with higher numbers, even a 135th Foot, but most had existed only on paper and these ghost units had been abolished by the Duke of York, along with all the opportunities for corruption they had brought. The 106th had survived, but there was a danger that it would only ever get the worst assignments. Moss had no intention of taking his men back to the Caribbean or to any other unwholesome backwater.
He lobbied hard, spending his own money to entertain generals, ministers and senior clerks alike. He paid court to the men themselves and anyone who might persuade them. Over the months he seduced the wife of an elderly general, at the same time lavishing gifts and favours on the mistress of another. He gambled with men in government, letting them win enough to enjoy his company, but never making it too obvious. Finally, it had worked. The outbreak of smallpox among a battalion stationed in Ireland and allocated to a force bound for South America had provided the opportunity. A replacement was needed, and Moss could boast that his regiment was the bravest and best trained in the army, and that it would be a criminal waste to leave them guarding Dorset against imaginary enemies when there were battles to be
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