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Authors: Adrian Goldsworthy
Tags: Historical fiction
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fought. Adding the 106th to the expedition would be the simplest solution. Sir Richard called in favours and gave advice.
Moss was almost there. Sir Richard assured him that his regiment would join the force soon to embark at Cork, and his assurances were as certain as anything could be in politics, even if HorseGuards had not yet written the order. What he did not know is where the expedition would be sent, and that was because as far as he could tell no one had actually made up their minds. There was no more mention of South America, which made him suspect that plan had been abandoned, at least for the moment.
Sir Richard liked the thrusting, impatient Moss, as well as being obliged to his father. As importantly he guessed that the young officer would go far in the army, at least if he stayed alive. Furthermore, Moss had no brothers or sisters, and so was sole heir to a great fortune. Langley had long since considered the many advantages of a union with his own daughter.
They rode slowly for ten minutes, the silence broken only to acknowledge acquaintances as they passed. At the end of this time, Moss turned to his companion – in spite of a smaller horse their faces were level. ‘Spain, eh,’ he said, nodding to himself with a look of fixed intent. ‘Good.’ There seemed to be no more for a while, but Sir Richard waited, knowing that Moss was not listening and anyway never one for needless talk. ‘Any idea of who will be in charge?’
Sir Richard Langley smiled, the tight skin of his long face fracturing into a web of wrinkles. ‘Ah, now that I do know.’ There was open ground ahead of them and he kicked his horse straight into a canter. Moss instinctively followed and found himself laughing as the strong mare pounded across the firm grass.
‘Damn you, sirs! Damn you all to hell! Is this the pledged word of England?’ The little man’s English was excellent, until his fury grew too incandescent and he could express it only in Spanish far too rapid and heavily accented for Sir Arthur Wellesley and his companions to follow. General Francisco Miranda had come to London from Venezuela to persuade the British to help him raise rebellion in Spain’s American possessions. That aid had been promised, and Wellesley appointed to lead a strong British expeditionary force. They had met several times to plan the enterprise. Now, at the last minute, Britain’s government had changed its mind.
‘You betray us!’ Miranda reverted to English, his voice lower, but more precise as he controlled his rage. ‘You betray freedom itself! God will judge you for this treachery. You will be lost!’ The last words were bellowed as once again the anger overcame him and he stalked off down the street.
The British had deliberately arranged to meet the general and his followers in the street, hoping that this would prevent too unpleasant a scene. It had not gone entirely to plan, and more than a few passers-by had paused to watch the gaudily uniformed man’s explosion of anger. Wellesley did not blame the would-be revolutionary.
‘He is angry enough to lead a revolt on his own,’ said one of his companions, both civilians sent by the government.
‘If they do, then well and good,’ said Wellesley. The government men looked at him, but already knew him sufficiently to understand that he was unlikely to expand on this comment. In truth he had been uncomfortable with the plan from the very start. To raise a people to revolution seemed too great a responsibility, for so many things could go wrong and there was no knowing where such impulses would stop. Yet the command was still a command, and any chance of active service was better than the drudgery of administration in Ireland. Apart from that, he was
nimmukwallah
– even in thought he liked using the Indian word. He was the government’s man, had eaten their salt and was duty bound to go where they sent him.
The night after that uncomfortable episode, he sat in contented
Moss was almost there. Sir Richard assured him that his regiment would join the force soon to embark at Cork, and his assurances were as certain as anything could be in politics, even if HorseGuards had not yet written the order. What he did not know is where the expedition would be sent, and that was because as far as he could tell no one had actually made up their minds. There was no more mention of South America, which made him suspect that plan had been abandoned, at least for the moment.
Sir Richard liked the thrusting, impatient Moss, as well as being obliged to his father. As importantly he guessed that the young officer would go far in the army, at least if he stayed alive. Furthermore, Moss had no brothers or sisters, and so was sole heir to a great fortune. Langley had long since considered the many advantages of a union with his own daughter.
They rode slowly for ten minutes, the silence broken only to acknowledge acquaintances as they passed. At the end of this time, Moss turned to his companion – in spite of a smaller horse their faces were level. ‘Spain, eh,’ he said, nodding to himself with a look of fixed intent. ‘Good.’ There seemed to be no more for a while, but Sir Richard waited, knowing that Moss was not listening and anyway never one for needless talk. ‘Any idea of who will be in charge?’
Sir Richard Langley smiled, the tight skin of his long face fracturing into a web of wrinkles. ‘Ah, now that I do know.’ There was open ground ahead of them and he kicked his horse straight into a canter. Moss instinctively followed and found himself laughing as the strong mare pounded across the firm grass.
‘Damn you, sirs! Damn you all to hell! Is this the pledged word of England?’ The little man’s English was excellent, until his fury grew too incandescent and he could express it only in Spanish far too rapid and heavily accented for Sir Arthur Wellesley and his companions to follow. General Francisco Miranda had come to London from Venezuela to persuade the British to help him raise rebellion in Spain’s American possessions. That aid had been promised, and Wellesley appointed to lead a strong British expeditionary force. They had met several times to plan the enterprise. Now, at the last minute, Britain’s government had changed its mind.
‘You betray us!’ Miranda reverted to English, his voice lower, but more precise as he controlled his rage. ‘You betray freedom itself! God will judge you for this treachery. You will be lost!’ The last words were bellowed as once again the anger overcame him and he stalked off down the street.
The British had deliberately arranged to meet the general and his followers in the street, hoping that this would prevent too unpleasant a scene. It had not gone entirely to plan, and more than a few passers-by had paused to watch the gaudily uniformed man’s explosion of anger. Wellesley did not blame the would-be revolutionary.
‘He is angry enough to lead a revolt on his own,’ said one of his companions, both civilians sent by the government.
‘If they do, then well and good,’ said Wellesley. The government men looked at him, but already knew him sufficiently to understand that he was unlikely to expand on this comment. In truth he had been uncomfortable with the plan from the very start. To raise a people to revolution seemed too great a responsibility, for so many things could go wrong and there was no knowing where such impulses would stop. Yet the command was still a command, and any chance of active service was better than the drudgery of administration in Ireland. Apart from that, he was
nimmukwallah
– even in thought he liked using the Indian word. He was the government’s man, had eaten their salt and was duty bound to go where they sent him.
The night after that uncomfortable episode, he sat in contented
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