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

urged along by a pair of Portuguese boys hired in Lisbon. The former volunteer still carried a pack as full or heavier than those of the ordinary soldiers.
    Altogether there were eight officers, thirty-seven non-commissioned officers and two drummers in MacAndrews’ little force. They were a long way from Wellington’s main army or any large Spanish force, but as far as anyone knew the nearest French outposts were a good forty miles away and not likely to come closer any time soon.
    Pringle came to the end of the little column and nodded to Williams.
    ‘Christmas at Fort Conception,’ he said, pronouncing it the English way. It was 24 December, and just a year ago they had been much further into Spain under Sir John Moore.
    ‘Well, they do say home is where a man hangs his hat!’ Williams stamped his feet for warmth, letting the rear rank go on and the boys pass him with the donkeys. ‘Soon be warm, Raynor,’ he said, as the man went by, riding on Williams’ own mule. The new recruit was skilled with pen and account books, and had only lost his job through drunkenness. Williams had encouraged MacAndrews to take him along as they would need someone to act as clerk, and that meant that within months of joining, Raynor was an acting corporal, able to send more money home each month to help his mother care for his son. His wife was dead, and from what Dobson had said it had been that loss more than anything else that turned Raynor to drink. The veteran had promised to do his best to keep the man in line. Dobson and Murphy – both now made up to sergeant – were with the party, and as Williams glanced at them, hunched against the cold, their greatcoats stained with mud, he could not help thinking back to their immaculate turnout when serving in the recruiting party. Their wives were in England with the regiment, for no followers were permitted to accompany the detachment.
    ‘I suppose conception is an apt enough name for the season,’ mused Pringle, but when he saw that his friend was baffled he explained. ‘I presume it comes from the immaculate conception.’
    Williams shook his head. ‘I cannot quite get used to the Iberian tendency to give martial things such sacred names. Wouldn’t something like Fort Defiance be rather more inspiring?’
    ‘Today, I believe I would settle for Fort Plum Pudding!’
    ‘Ah yes, the gallant defence of Plum Pudding. It’ll go down in the annals of history without a doubt.’
    ‘Thank God we kept the holly flying,’ said Pringle happily.
    The column came to the big square blockhouse, where a Spanish sentry shivering in the shadow of the gate directed them towards the fort itself. The sunken road took them through the fortified stables.
    Closer to the fort, Williams tried to imagine attacking the place. In the old days castles had had high walls, so that the defenders could throw, drop or pour things down on the attackers. High walls were usually thin and certainly easy to see, and once cannon were perfected they were desperately vulnerable. It was an easy thing to knock them down, their own rubble tumbling down to provide attackers with a ramp leading into the place.
    Modern walls were made to be very thick, but their main defence was that they were low. As the column trudged along the approach road, Williams could see that there was a smooth earth bank – a glacis – ahead of the main walls, so that only the very top of the rampart itself was visible. That made it hard for gunners to hit the wall, for most shot would bury itself in the glacis or be deflected up to fly harmlessly over the rampart. The deceptively gentle slope had another advantage, and even though he was expecting it, Williams was amazed at how deep the ditch was when they crossed the little bridge spanning it. One of the great bastions shaped like a spearhead jutted towards them as they reached the ramparts themselves. Gunners loved to fire at a long straight wall, for the balls would smash it quickly, and