I have made reference in several places to how the Wellington’s Dragoon Series came to be. I am a member of a small writing group in the East Yorkshire town of Howden where I live. We are interested in not just in the act of writing, but we also discuss books, genres, and the written word in any form. However, one of our favourite activities is the setting of little writing challenges, and it was one of these that gave rise to Michael Roberts and his adventures.
The challenge was to write the first page of a book, as it must grab from the beginning, a lesson I have to remind myself of at the start of writing every book so far. The enthusiastic reception it got from the writing group led first of all to a short story, and then the books. This is what I wrote:
Lieutenant Michael Roberts, of His Majesty’s 16th Light Dragoons, lay in the shade of a stunted olive tree, eyes closed, listening to the crickets, the murmur of quiet conversation from the two dragoons with the picketed horses, and the occasional clink of harness. The tree was almost at the top of a ridge, from which could be seen miles of rolling plains, shimmering in the heat of a Spanish summer.
‘Dust, sir’. The words came from Sergeant Taylor, where he lay at the top of the slope, watching the landscape for any signs of movement.
With a groan, Roberts rolled over and wriggled up next to his sergeant and squinted in the direction indicated. Several miles away a small cloud of dust rose from where the road they were watching left a small village. He extended his telescope, covering the lens from the sun to avoid any tell-tale reflection, and focussed on the slowly moving cloud.
‘Cavalry’, he said, ‘about half a dozen’. Suddenly he saw tiny specks of reflected sunlight flashing above the riders. ‘Damn it, they’re bloody lancers’.
He rolled on to his back and looked down at where the two dragoons were already bridling up the horses and tightening girths and surcingles. ‘Evans, ride back to Captain Rowlandson and tell him there are lancers coming down the road, about half a dozen, three miles off. We’ll watch for a bit longer and then fall back on the picquet. And try not to raise too much dust, I’d rather we weren’t seen’.
As Evans mounted and headed off at a trot, keeping to grass where he could, Roberts turned back to watch the distant enemy. They were French lancers, they had to be, coming from that direction, where French Army was known to be. The French were moving cautiously down the road that passed through a shallow defile to the left of where Roberts and his men were concealed. Feeling their way forward, looking for the British Army, and no doubt keeping a very close eye on the ridge, an obvious vantage point.
Suddenly a much larger cloud of dust issued from the road in front of the village. ‘God damn it, it’s a whole bloody squadron!’ He swung his telescope and focused on the rolling plain beyond the village, shimmering and cut across with silver and blue mirages. ‘It looks like a whole brigade behind them. Right, mount up, keep below the skyline. Another five minutes and we will be off.’
David J Blackmore 