Send Me Safely Back Again Read Free

of his proposal, and he did not know whether those hopes were forever dashed.
    ‘Ah, actually it’s Major now,’ drawled Wickham complacently. ‘My brevet came through at the start of the month,before I left England.’ The newly minted major dismissed their automatic congratulations with becoming modesty. ‘Gentlemen, may I present some members of my old corps . . .’
    One of his companions cut in. ‘I am well acquainted with Mr Hanley already, and it is a great pleasure to see you again,’ said Ezekiel Baynes, a round-faced, portly civilian, who looked like a cartoon John Bull sprung to life. Ostensibly he was in the wine trade, but many years of commerce in Spain and Portugal had allowed him to be of service to the government. Hanley had met him in the autumn, when army officers able to speak Spanish were in great demand. ‘Do you recollect that I mentioned Hanley to you not long ago, Colonel D’Urban?’ This was to the third rider, an officer with the laced blue jacket and fur-trimmed pelisse of the light cavalry. The colonel was in his early thirties, with a slim face, long nose and bright eyes that suggested a quick intelligence.
    ‘I am glad to see you, Mr Baynes,’ said Hanley with a smile. The merchant was good company, although he suspected that his bluff exterior veiled a mind which was both sharp and probably ruthless.
    ‘This is Ensign Williams, also of our Grenadiers.’ Wickham was somewhat put out to have lost his control of the conversation, but made the most of what little was left to him. He considered Williams to be a rather dull lump of a man, lacking accomplishments or notable friends. ‘This time last year he was a volunteer in the 106th.’ A Gentleman Volunteer was a man who lacked the money to buy an officer’s commission or the friends to secure one for him. He served in the ranks, wore the uniform of the ordinary soldiers, but lived with the officers, waiting for battle to create a vacancy. If Wickham had intended to inform his companions that the fair-haired officer was a man of little standing, he failed.
    ‘Promoted for gallantry, no doubt,’ said D’Urban enthusiastically. ‘Yes, of course, your regiment did splendidly in Portugal. Let me shake your hand, Mr Williams.’ He reached down and took the ensign’s hand in a hearty grip.
    ‘You must tell us all about your exploits,’ added the genial Baynes, his red face once again radiating honest joy. ‘And what brings you to us now?’
    There was no chance to answer, as a Spanish officer urged his fine Andalusian mount alongside the three Englishmen. ‘Excuse me, your excellencies, but the general is to address his officers. Would you care to follow . . .’ He stopped, obviously astonished. ‘Guillermo! It is you, isn’t it? Holy Mother of God, I’d never have believed it.’
    The recognition was not instant. It took Hanley some time to see past the heavily braided white coat, the gold sash and the round hat with its brass plate proclaiming ‘Long live Ferdinand VII – Victory or Death!’ to recognise Luiz Velarde, one of the circle of artists he had known in Madrid. It was hard to detect much trace of the loose-limbed, shabbily dressed sculptor in this dashing officer. Yet the eyes were the same, and immediately confirmed his recognition, for there was the same mix of quick humour and passion, and yet all the while the sense that the soul behind them was impenetrably veiled.
    ‘Luiz,’ he began, but then their mutual surprise and reunion had to wait, for a voice called for silence and all who were able turned to see the general.
    It was the first real glimpse Hanley had had of Lieutenant General Don Gregorio García de la Cuesta, and the first thought that struck him was how old the man looked. He wore a powdered wig, which reinforced the impression of a relic of a bygone age. Yet he sat his horse well, and his gorgeously laced and gilt uniform graced a body still straight. For all his years – Hanley guessed