Lawrence pursed his lips. “Well, the pedlar was right, Fitz. Our friend Hawkwood’s certainly not a man to be trifled with.”
Lawrence gazed into his drink, remembering. “Four years ago, it’d be…The Americas. We were part of Sam Auchmuty’s expedition, sent to reinforce Beresford.” Lawrence smiled grimly. “We were fighting the damned Spaniards then. Now they’re our allies. Who’d have thought it?”
It had been before Fitzhugh’s time. A misconceived and ill-fated attempt to liberate South American colonies from Spanish rule. The first wave of troops under the command of Brigadier-General William Carr Beresford had achieved some initial success by taking Buenos Aires, at which point disaster had struck.
Lawrence winced at the memory. “Turned out we weren’t reinforcing Beresford, we were rescuing the silly sod! By the time we got there, the Spanish had regrouped and recaptured the city, and Beresford along with it!”
Lawrence leaned forward, warming to his story. “Now, old Sam knew that if we were to stand any chance of getting to Beresford we’d have to take Montevideo first, as a bargaining tool. Which we did, but by God they gave us a fight! The bastards were waiting for us on the beach. We forced ’em back, of course. Then found they’d fortified the bloody place, so we had to lay siege. Bombarded them with the ships’ twenty-four-pounders. Took us four days before we finally secured the breach.”
Lawrence’s voice trailed off. Fitzhugh realized that the major was holding the watch. The cover was open and Lawrence was fondling it abstractedly, running his thumb across the engraved surface. He looked up, recovered himself, slipped the timepiece back into his sash and continued. “Lost a lot of good men before they surrendered. Took a host of prisoners, too, including the governor, Don Pasquil. But there was one fellow, a general he was, in command of the citadel. Can’t remember his blasted name. Refused to give himself up. Auchmuty sent a flag of truce promising safe passage, but he declined the offer. So Sam ordered in the sharpshooters.”
Fitzhugh’s eyed widened. “Sharpshooters?”
“We had a detachment of the 95th with us. A brace of their riflemen were ordered to a nearby tower with orders to pick this general out and shoot him dead. I was directed to assist. Our friend was one of the riflemen. A lieutenant he was. Didn’t know his name then, though I recall thinking it strange that they should have sent an officer to do the job.”
Fitzhugh frowned. “How can you be sure it was the same fellow?”
“Because of what I witnessed that day. It’s not something I’m likely to forget. We were atop the tower, the riflemen, myself and a couple of privates, waiting for the general to put in an appearance. Sure enough, out he came, up at his ramparts, strutting around in his frills and finery, proud as a turkey cock.”
The major reached inside his jacket and extracted a shortstemmed clay pipe and a leather tobacco pouch. With what seemed to Fitzhugh like maddening deliberation, Lawrence packed the pipe and returned the pouch to his jacket. Fitzhugh watched in frustrated silence as Lawrence lit a taper from the candle on the table and held the flame to the pipe bowl. When the tobacco was glowing to his satisfaction, Lawrence extinguished the taper with his thumb and forefinger and returned it to the container by his elbow. At first Fitzhugh suspected the major was toying with him, prolonging the agony. Then he realized that Lawrence was using the opportunity to collect his thoughts.
The major sucked noisily on the pipe stem. “Never saw anything like it, Fitz. Our friend stands there, looking out over the rooftops towards the general’s position. Doesn’t say a word, just stares. Then, calm as you like, he takes up his rifle, loads it, rests it on the parapet, and takes aim.
“One shot, Fitz, that’s all it took. I was watching the general through my glass. The bullet took the bugger in the head. Blew his brains out.”
“What was the range?”
“Two hundred and twenty yards, if it was an inch.”
“Good God!” Fitzhugh’s jaw dropped.
“Best damned shooting I’ve ever seen.”
“I can believe it,” Fitzhugh said, marvelling.
“Did the trick, of course. Spaniards surrendered almost immediately.”
“And the rifleman?”
“Returned to his unit. Never saw him again. Never forgot that shooting, though. Quite outstanding.” Lawrence fell silent, lost in a quiet moment of reflection. He drew on his pipe, then lifted his mug and drained the contents.
“Another?” Fitzhugh asked.
Lawrence stared down at his mug, as if noticing for the first time that he had emptied it. “Why not?”
Fitzhugh raised his hand and beckoned to one of the serving girls. At the summons of a handsome young man in uniform, she approached the table with a ready grin. Rounded breasts strained against her low-cut bodice as she bent forward and retrieved the empty mugs. Fitzhugh gave his order and the girl pulled away, her left breast pressing heavily against his arm, reminding the lieutenant of his and Lawrence’s plans for the evening: a visit to a small and very discreet establishment off Covent Garden, in which hand-picked young ladies of beauty and charm provided entertainment of a kind not found in the Officers’ Mess.
Fitzhugh watched the girl depart, following her passage through the gauntlet of roving hands and lewd enticements. A thought occurred to him and he turned back to Lawrence.
“Why do you think he denied having met you before?”
Lawrence shrugged. “Hard to say, though he has less cause to remember me than I do him.”
Not strictly true. The major was being modest. Fitzhugh knew for a fact that Lawrence’s contribution to the taking of Montevideo had been considerable. The watch that the major prized so highly was testament to the fact. It was a part of regimental lore handed down to junior officers.
The British had laid siege to the city’s Spanish fortifications using tried and tested means, albeit medieval in conception. They had constructed batteries and breastworks, gabions and fascines to protect the guns brought up from the men-of-war that had transported them from Rio de Janeiro.
The walls of the city were six feet thick. As Lawrence had said, it had indeed taken four days for the cannon to knock down the gates. The British troops had attacked in the early morning, under cover of darkness. The forlorn hope, the forward troops charged with leading the frontal assault, had been led by a Captain Renny. When Renny had been felled by a Spanish musket ball, it had been the young Lieutenant Lawrence who had, quite literally, stepped into the breach and pressed home the attack, leading his men across the wall and on into the town.
Sir Samuel Auchmuty had presented Lawrence with the watch, his own timepiece, as a measure of his regard for his junior officer’s bravery. As further reward, Lawrence had also received his captaincy, courtesy of the late, lamented Renny.
The girl returned bearing their drinks. Another smile for Fitzhugh and she was gone, with perhaps just a slight exaggeration in the sway of her broad hips.
“Damned curious change of career,” Fitzhugh mused, taking a sip from his freshly filled mug. “Rifleman to Runner.”
“And a damned efficient one would be my guess,” Lawrence responded, adding ruminatively, “though I doubt it’s gained him too many friends.”
Before the lieutenant could query that observation, the major rose to his feet and drained his mug. Tapping his pipe bowl against the table leg, Lawrence grinned at his lieutenant’s expression. “Come now, young Fitz, drink up. It’s time you and I took a stroll. The way that serving girl’s been giving you the glad eye reminds me we’ve to keep our appointment at Mistress Flanaghan’s. Seeing the dumplings on that young wench has done wonders for my appetite!” Without waiting for a response, the major stowed his pipe, reached for his shako and started for the tavern door.
Realizing he was about to get left behind, Fitzhugh gulped down his brandy and followed suit.
As the two officers emerged on to the darkening street, Lawrence’s thoughts returned to the encounter in the tavern yard. There was certainly more he could have told Fitzhugh about the taciturn ex-rifleman; a lot more, as the lieutenant probably suspected, following their hasty departure. But there had been something in Hawkwood’s eye that had caused Lawrence to stay his hand. It had been clear, from their exchange, that there was a reluctance on Hawkwood’s part to revisit the past. Absently, the major’s hand reached for his watch chain. Reassuring himself that the timepiece was intact and in place, the major breathed an inner sigh of relief. And a man’s past was his own affair. Hawkwood could disappear back into the obscurity he obviously preferred. As for young Fitzhugh, well, the
