Текст книги "Kings and Emperors"
Автор книги: Dewey Lambdin
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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 26 страниц)
“Up, form line, odd-numbered companies!” some senior British officer was shouting. “Up, form line and stand ready! Front ranks will kneel!”
The skirmishers were back on the crest and taking their places at the left flanks of their regiments. Grenadier companies were forming at the right ends, and the line companies were now shoulder-to-shoulder. Lewrie got off two more quick shots as the French got within one hundred yards, and beginning to swing out into a firing line.
Haven’t shot this well in years! he congratulated to himself as he tore open another cartridge; I may take up duck-hunting, next!
He’d run out of obvious officers in front of the French column, so he settled for a tall soldier in the centre of the first rank, and dropped him with a shot just below his brass cross-belt plate.
“Get out of the way, you bloody damned fool! We volley, and we will cut you down!” someone was shouting behind him.
Lewrie assumed that that was addressed at him and spun about to realise that he was looking down the muzzles of over six hundred levelled muskets. “Oh, shiiitt!” he yelled as he hastily flung himself to the ground!
“Front ranks … fire!” came a second later, and all Hades erupted. The whole ridge roared with noise, and spurting powder smoke blanked out his view, from an ant’s level, of an entire regiment delivering a massed volley. “Second rank, fire!” and by then all that he could make out were trouser legs and boots below the smoke pall.
He could hear the balls rushing overhead like a swarm of bees, screams and shouts from the French down-slope, even the meaty thumps of bullets tearing into enemy bodies.
“Front ranks … level!”
He stayed where he was, wishing that he could dig deeper, for though British troops were the only ones in the world who actually practiced at live musketry, the Tower musket, “Brown Bess,” had even more rudimentary sights than his Ferguson, and the command was “Level,” not “Take Aim.” Rapidly delivered massed volleys at sixty to seventy-five yards was the desired effect, “shotgunning” fire in the foe’s general direction! And, as he’d seen at the firing butts at Gibraltar, some soldiers did not even bother to aim, turning their heads as far from the flash and smoke in the priming pans as possible, with their muskets pointed in the general direction. He heard one ball hum disturbingly close to his head, just inches above him, and squirmed to make himself flatter.
He also had another desperate urge to pee!
“Regiment will … advance!” some senior officer bawled out. “Fix … bayonets.”
Captains of companies shouted their own orders for the first ranks to stand, and to fix bayonets, and close ranks.
“Regiment … twenty paces forward … march!”
Marching men weren’t likely to be shooting, or so he thought, so Lewrie warily got to his feet, still lost in the powder smoke fog, hearing the swish of boots through grass, and the tramp of marching men in lock-step, the pace being called out by sergeants.
He wanted to be out of their way, but had no clue as to where to go. An instant later and he was blundered into by a young Private who let out a screech of fright, almost dropping his musket.
“Frog!” the soldier squeaked, “A Frenchie, roight ’ere!”
“British officer!” Lewrie shouted back, almost nose-to-nose.
“Sykes, ye silly sod!” his Sergeant yelled. “Pick up yer damn musket!”
Lewrie turned sideways to sidle ’twixt the soldiers of the first rank, then their rear-rank mates, all of whom were laughing at their unfortunate companion.
“Silence in the bloody ranks!” an officer demanded.
The two-deep line of troops seemed to be marching into clearer air, so Lewrie ambled along behind them a little way as the regiment began to descend the crest of the ridge.
“Regiment will halt! Load cartridge! By platoons, level … fire!” a senior officer ordered very loudly. Lewrie looked around to see a Colonel near him, a short fellow who was on his tiptoes, hopping in the air to see downslope past his soldiers, which Lewrie found a funny sight.
The regiment, and the others on that part of the ridge, opened fire down on the struggling French column, and any hope of a view of the results was blotted out. The platoon volleys rippled down the regimental line, four rounds per man per minute, from the Grenadier Company on the right to the Light Company on the left, repeated as soon as the right of the line was re-loaded. Now and then, one better-trained company’s volley didn’t sound like a long crackle, but a muted Chuff! as every trigger was pulled at the same second.
That Colonel bulled his way through the ranks of his taller soldiers, drew his sword, and cried “Cease fire! Poise bayonets, and … Charge!” as he rushed out ahead of his men, whirling his sword about and shrieking like a banshee. With wild, feral howlings, his troops raced down the hill with him, and Lewrie was left alone at the crest of the ridge, again.
“Bugger that for a game o’ … soldiers,” he said aloud, wishing no part of the melees to come.
But, it was an awesome sight to see. The French drummers were whacking away on their skins with urgency, but the column was having no more of it. The front six or seven ranks, thirty or so men across, had been shot to a reef of dead and wounded against which the French behind could make no progress. There looked to be an attempt to fan out from column to line and respond with musketry, but that had also been shot to a halt, and when the British regiment began its charge downhill with wickedly sharp bayonets, all order dissolved, and the French turned their backs and began to scramble over each other to get away, some tossing aside their muskets in their haste.
What Lewrie had seen through his telescope of the first two-column attack to the West was being repeated close up here. It was an un-controlled rout, a stampede of survivors, that ran back downhill. Off to Lewrie’s left, the other column that had come uphill alongside this one was also retiring, though in better order. Over there, the British troops had not launched a charge, but had kept up a steady rolling fire that stopped that column in its tracks and decimated it, convincing its surviving officers that staying and dying was futile. Those French soldiers were skulking off to the rear, defeated, and pursued by derisive cheers and curses from the victors.
Downslope, now that the gunsmoke was clearing, the regiment had stopped its charge, having run out of Frenchmen available to skewer, butt-stroke, or shoot. They were coming back to the ridgeline laden with quickly snatched souvenirs; shakoes or brass regimental shako plates, the short infantryman’s swords, the sabre-briquets, bloodied epaulets torn off dead men’s shoulders, pipes and tobacco purses, and what little solid coin they could find in dead Frenchmen’s pockets, no matter how officers and sergeants railed against the practice.
Young subalterns were crowing and congratulating each other in high spirits, passing leather or metal flasks of brandy to toast their success. Lewrie had not brought any of his aged American corn whisky, so he had to settle for several gulps of water from his borrowed canteen.
“Saw you, sir, potting away at the Frogs,” one Lieutenant brayed. “Get any?”
“A few, thankee,” Lewrie replied, “just before I had t’throw myself flat so I’d not get shot, then nigh got trampled. So much for the French and their famous columns.”
“By God, you’re right, sir, absolutely right!” the young officer crowed. “Why, I can’t recall the French ever being stopped so surely.”
“I’ll thankee for my flask back, Snowden,” another young man grumbled. “Stopped? Here and there, rarely, on a part of a battlefield one of their attacks might have been held off, but never like this. Let them keep it up, and we’ll slaughter the entire lot of them by sundown, hah hah!” he boasted, then took a deep sip from his flask.
“If they’ve the bottom t’keep it up,” Lewrie cautioned, wishing for some of their camaraderie, and a sip of something stronger than water. “They’ve most-like never known defeat. Bashed straight through the Spanish, the Portuguese, Austrians, and God knows who else. I’d expect their soldiers’re not feelin’ all that plucky anymore.”
“By God, he’s right, gentlemen!” the one named Snowden cried. “We could inflict the first defeat that ‘Boney’s’ ever suffered!”
“Well, there was Egypt, and the Holy Lands,” another quipped. “Maybe Marshal Junot will send Paris a letter calling it a victory!”
“See to your men, sirs!” a Major snarled at them as he passed. “There’s wounded to be seen to, and the day’s not over, not by a long chalk. Leftenant Acklin?”
“Sir?” the young fellow who’d demanded his flask back replied, stiffening.
“You will take command of the Light Company,” the Major said. “Captain Ford’s wounded, and doesn’t look long for this world. Belly wound, the worst kind. Off with you, now.”
The subalterns scattered, shame-faced, as the regimental bands-men and the regiment’s wives went past to begin recovering the wounded and the dead. Walking wounded, aided by their mates, began to struggle to the top of the ridge from their charge, some chattily happy to have taken survivable wounds, yet most ashen, and fearful of what they faced with the surgeons. Some whimpered, some wept, and some unharmed soldiers shared tears with them over the loss of good friends.
And the day was not over, Lewrie realised as he heard trumpets or bugles, and turned to look down over the ridge to the land below. Another pair of those massive French columns were forming up to make a fresh attempt near the village of Vimeiro, and a whole three fresh columns were assembling farther to the East. He pulled out his watch and found that it was not quite ten in the morning.
“I need a sit-down, somewhere,” he muttered.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
There was no way that Lewrie could walk all the way to where the fresh French attacks would come; that would be asking too much of a sailor’s legs. Un-employed, he drifted to the back slope of the ridge to see if his horse was still there, or had galloped off in fear. It was restive, but glad for some stroking and nose rubs, and the men who served as grooms had provided it with oats and water, and assured him that his mount was fine.
Further down the slope, on a flattish ledge, the surgeons were doing their grim best under a series of canvas awnings, shirtsleeves rolled to their elbows yet still bloody, their leather aprons from upper chests to their knees slick with gore.
Lewrie had been taken down below to the cockpit surgery a few times in his life, and could sympathise with the soldiers undergoing the surgeon’s ghoulish ministrations. He could appreciate his ship’s surgeons’ wit and civility … but he had no wish to witness them at work. Already there was a small pile of amputated legs, arms, and hands laid out on a tarpaulin, gruesomely near wounded men who waited to be seen to, a wailing, cursing, praying lot. He heard the rasp of a bone saw, the screams of the soldier losing his right arm, and his ability to work, his regimental home, and most likely his life if his wound festered, and turned away.
There was a row of wounded men laid out on blankets, men who had been seen to, operated on, or given up as lost causes. A kindly looking older Sergeant with white hair was tending them, ladling water or rum to those who were awake and able to swallow, and Lewrie felt drawn to that group, no matter his distaste.
“Yessir?” the old Sergeant asked, looking up from his chores.
“There’s a Captain Ford?” Lewrie said in a croak.
“’E’s over ’ere, sir, poor fellow,” the Sergeant, said. “Goin’ game, unlike some. You should face h’it as brave as th’ Captain, you lot,” he gently admonished the dying. “You’ll be with th’ Lord in Paradise, some o’ you, an’ there’s still time t’ask forgivness fer your sins, th’ rest o’ you. Want some ’elp prayin’ do you, lads?”
Lewrie slowly paced down the row of wounded, unable to hide a grimace ’til he discovered Captain Ford, propped up on a field pack, and nude under a blanket. Some effort had been made to staunch his bleeding, but the bandages and cotton batt were soaked.
“Captain Ford?” Lewrie began, kneeling down beside him. “I am sorry, sir.”
“Ah, Captain Lewrie,” Ford said in a weak voice, though his face lit up with joy to have someone visit him. “I’m glad to see that you’ve come through unscathed, so far. We saw the French off right smartly, did we not?”
“In a panicked rout, sir,” Lewrie tried to assure him, and give him some cheer, “flyin’ like flushed quail. That’s four of their columns smashed, so far.”
“Ah, good,” Ford said in a sigh. “It appears that the column cannot prevail against the line. My First Leftenant, Acklin. Do you know if he is well?”
“I met him, briefly,” Lewrie told him. “Aye, he’s whole, and your regimental Major told him to take command of your company.”
“Good, good,” Ford said, “young Acklin can be a thoughtless fellow, but he’s shaping well as an officer. My men will be in good hands, thank the Lord. I’d dearly like to see how the battle goes, but—” Ford cut off with a wince and a stifled groan of pain. “I’m done for, you know.” To which Lewrie could only nod. “A belly wound. You don’t come back from those. There’s nothing the surgeons can do for you, but make you comfortable. God grant me a quick exit, for I fear I might un-man myself does the pain get much worse … Aaahh!”
He stiffened as another wave of pain took him.
“I enjoyed our discussion this morning, Captain Ford,” Lewrie said, knowing full well that men wounded like Ford could linger for days, screaming in agony as their stomachs and bowels went gangrenous. “It was delightful to hear such a fine exposition on the units of the French army.”
“Always was a quick study,” Ford said with what sounded like a deprecating laugh, even as his pain ravaged him. “I knew when I went for a soldier that one must learn all one can about the enemy … unlike some,” he added, making a face, then turned serious and looked Lewrie directly in the eyes. “I am ready, you know, Captain Lewrie. My will is made, and my last letters to my parents written. They might not recoup all the costs of purchasing my commission, not in a fielded regiment, but, today’s laurels may encourage some young fellow to buy into a successful regiment. If we’d only managed to capture one of their damned eagles … aahh! Damn!” He broke off, groaning and gritting his teeth.
“Is there anything I can do for you, Ford?” Lewrie asked him. “Water, or some rum, or…?”
“Just enough to wet my mouth, I fear,” Ford said with another stoic grin as the pain passed for a moment. “The surgeons say that I’m not to drink anything. The bowels, you see.”
Lewrie offered him his canteen, which Ford used to dab at his dry lips, and swirl round his parched mouth.
“If someone could prevail upon the butchers to allow me a dose of laudanum,” Ford supposed, looking skyward. “I am trying to go game, but, Lord, it is hard!”
“I will ask them for you,” Lewrie promised, feeling a cowardly urge to get away from Ford, as if dying was catching. Men who’d died aboard his ships passed away out of sight on the orlop, unseen if not unheard, mourned later, after they’d been committed to the sea. He had never sat with one of them, not for long.
“I’d admire if you did, Captain Lewrie,” Ford said, extending his right hand. Lewrie took it, and felt him squeeze as his pains gnawed harder for a moment. “Buzzards, or kites? Or are there vultures in Portugal, do you know?”
“What?” Lewrie gawped.
“Those foul birds circling up there,” Ford said, jutting his chin skyward, and Lewrie looked up to see a whole flock of scavenger birds gyring about. “Wish they were larks, or something else. Just waiting for their feast, the horrid things. I wonder if you could tuck me up, Captain Lewrie. I’m feeling a bit of a chill.”
Lewrie lifted the rough army blanket up to pull it higher to cover Ford’s chest, noting that his thick pad of bandages were soaked red and dripping. He drew the blood-wet blanket up under Ford’s chin. “That better?”
“Yes, don’t know why … such a warm morning…,” Ford dreamily said. “If you’d hold my hand awhile longer, sir?”
Lewrie took hands with him, waving his left to atract the old Sergeant’s attention, who came over with his ladle and pail.
“’E ain’t t’have no water, sir.”
“His wound’s bleeding heavily, and he says he’s cold,” Lewrie told him. “One of the surgeons—”
“Won’t do no good, sir,” the old Sergeant said, shaking his head and whispering. “’At’s a blessin’, an’ God’s mercy ’at ’e’s bleedin’ out. ’E’ll go quick, all fer th’ best, ’at is.”
Lewrie could feel Ford’s hand go slack in his, and lowered it to the blanket, then stood up. “A brave fellow.”
“’E was, sir,” the Sergeant agreed. “A friend o’ yours?”
“Only met him this morning,” Lewrie said, feeling bleak.
“You did a kindly thing fer ’im, sir, God bless you, an’ sure when h’it’s your time, you’ll be rewarded,” the Sergeant said with a pious bob of his head. “You run along, now, sir, an’ we’ll see ’im inta th’ ground proper. Wot was ’is name?”
“Captain Samuel Ford, of your regiment’s Light Company,” Lewrie told him. “You said you knew him by name.”
“Make a note of h’it, I will.”
Lewrie took off his hat and laid it on his chest for a moment, then clapped it back on as the sounds of battle swelled. Cannonfire, bursting shrapnel shells, French drums and “Vive l’Empereur!”, and the long crackling of rolling volley fire from thousands of muskets.
He went back to the crest of the ridge to look both East and West to see French columns sway-marching into battle, unwilling to admit that they had met their match, and that their vaunted tactics no longer prevailed.
Horses neighed, drawing his attention down the line where Sir Arthur Wellesley and an older, stouter General in a red coat dripping with gold-lace sat their mounts in discussion.
“Captain Lewrie?” someone called out.
“Hey?” he called back, swivelling round to see who spoke.
“You came up to see the battle, too, sir?” Lt. Beauchamp, who had been his guide the day before, said in delight as he reined his horse over from the generals.
“Still an aide, Lieutenant Beauchamp?” Lewrie asked with a grin.
“A galloper today, sir, one end of the ridge to the other,” the young fellow breezily boasted.
“Who’s the stout fellow yonder with Wellesley?” Lewrie said, pointing.
“Oh Lord, that’s General Sir Henry Burrard, sir,” Beauchamp said in a lower voice, pulling a face, “come to see how our General’s running the battle.”
“Hope he leaves well enough alone,” Lewrie commented, not liking the look of the newcomer, and his skeptical scowling.
“Amen, sir, we seem to have the French well in hand, so far,” Beauchamp agreed quickly. “Unless they come up with a new tactic, it looks as if they’ll throw their army away trying to batter against us. We’re reaping a wondrous slaughter!”
“So it seems, sir,” Lewrie agreed. “You know, Burrard is known as ‘Betty’ Burrard?” he added with a sly grin.
“Well, he’s in a bad position, Captain Lewrie, sir,” Beauchamp said, idly flicking his reins. “If Sir Arthur wins, he’ll get no credit for it, and I hear that Lieutenant-General Sir Hew Dalrymple will be coming from Gibraltar to take charge in the field, and Burrard’ll have to play second to him, and if something goes wrong after that, Burrard might end up with the blame for it.”
“Not exactly Admiral Nelson’s ‘band of brothers,’ is it, sir?” Lewrie commented with a guffaw. “Though it makes me wonder if those gentlemen in my Service ever really eschewed playin’ personal politics all that long. No one’s that un-ambitious.”
“Our officer’s mess in the Ninth has made me more cynical,” Lt. Beauchamp replied with frank honesty. “God help our army do some of my fellows gain high rank.”
“Galloper, here!” General Wellesley barked out. “Beauchamp! Quit that prittle-prattle with the naval person. I’ve a directive for Ferguson, out beyond Ventosa. He’s to shift positions Eastward and prepare to receive a fresh attack.”
“Very good, sir!” Lt. Beauchamp loudly replied, stiffly formal and tossing off a quick salute as he took the folded-over despatch and reined his mount about to gallop off.
The naval person, am I? Lewrie thought, grinning over that description. He ambled back up to the crest of the ridge, near where the two generals sat their horses, noting that Wellesley and Burrard were observing the battle below, without saying a single word to each other, studiously avoiding even looking at each other.
Lewrie pulled out his pocket watch to note the time; just 11 A.M. The French had been shoving their massive columns forward for nigh two hours, now, with nothing to show for it. He traded his watch for his telescope and looked West to the latest attack near Vimeiro.
Good God, are they fightin’ hand-to-hand? he gawped. Red coats and blue coats looked mingled, with a lot less musket smoke than before. Even as he realised the fierceness of the fight, though, blue-uniformed soldiers began to fall back, to turn and run, far enough for a brace of British guns to open upon them again, and the wide defile into which the French had attacked was now lined with green-coated Riflemen on either side, sniping at the confused mass and making a rich harvest.
“Rifles,” he heard Wellesley grump. “Damned useful.”
“Primadonnas,” Burrard commented, squirming in his saddle but not looking at Wellesley, and ignoring that fight as well, looking to the far distance to the South. “Too slow to fire, too.”
Lewrie swivelled about to look East to where three French columns had launched their attack, but that looked to be pretty-much over, too, shelled then shot to pieces at close range and thrown back in confusion. The two fresh columns forming to make yet another attack beyond the little village of Ventosa had yet to move forward.
“You, there,” Lewrie heard from his right side as the soft clops of an approaching horse pricked his senses. “Whatever are you doing here, sir?”
“Trying t’make sense of how the French fight, sir,” Lewrie re-joined, lowering his telescope and turning to face Wellesley, looking up a considerable distance, for the General was a rather tall man on a tall horse. He doffed his hat in salute. “Captain Sir Alan Lewrie, of HMS Sapphire, at your service, sir.”
Wellesley’s salute was a riding crop tapped on his plain, and unadorned bicorne. “You have powder round your mouth, Sir Alan. Done some shooting, have you?”
“As the attack came up the ridge just yonder, a few minutes ago, Sir Arthur,” Lewrie told him. “Seemed a good idea to contribute.”
“With a Sea Pattern musket?” Wellesley sniffed, sounding dubious.
“A breech-loading rifled Ferguson, sir,” Lewrie informed him, un-slinging the weapon and holding it out for Sir Arthur to inspect. “Good for at least one hundred fifty to two hundred yards.”
“Formed any opinions of the French, have you, Captain Lewrie?” Wellesley asked after looking the rifled musket over and handing it back. His eyes had lit up in enthusiasm to see such a rarity; perhaps that was why he seemed less stiff. That thin-lipped, imperious mouth of his almost showed a faint smile.
“Well, it strikes me that the column is all they know,” Lewrie commented, removing his hat to ruffle his sweaty hair. “Once stopped, they just keep on doin’ the same old thing, hopin’ for the best. At Trafalgar—I wasn’t there, but my son was, and wrote me of it—Nelson attacked with two columns, took horrid punishment to punch through the enemy line of battle, and turned it into a melee, throwin’ all he had at ’em at once. Here, though…,” he said, tossing in a shrug of bewilderment, “four or five columns, closer together, attackin’ at once might prevail, but … I’m just a sailor, so what do I know of it? Land fighting? You’re welcome to it, sir. They keep this up, they’ll ruin themselves by dark.”
“No,” Wellesley countered, turning steely-eyed again. “By mid-day, I fully expect. I hope you enjoyed yourself, Captain Lewrie.”
With that, he tapped his riding crop to his hat and kneed his horse away at a trot towards Ventosa, leaving General Burrard behind. Lewrie heard a muffled “Goddamn” as Burrard spurred after him.
Lewrie looked over the battlefield below, suddenly feeling the urge to be away, to be back aboard ship where things made sense, and leave this form of butchery to those more accustomed to it. His right hand felt sticky, and he found that it and his shirt cuff were bloodied with Captain Ford’s gore. He would have washed it off, but his canteen, he also discovered, was almost empty, and he wondered where he’d drunk so much of it. His feet complained inside his boots, and he was tired and sore, and wolf-hungry.
He groped for his sausages, bisquit, and cheese, but they were nowhere to be found. Must’ve dropped ’em when I flung myself flat, he told himself, envying the soldier who picked them up.
What was left of the battle was happening far to the East beyond Ventosa. There didn’t look to be any French threat on the right round Vimeiro; even the battle smoke had cleared over there, so he ambled to the backside of the ridge, found his borrowed horse, and set off at a slow walk back down to Vimeiro, allowing the horse a drink from the Maceira at the ford. He got down from the saddle to wash his hands, dab at his powder-stained mouth, and re-fill his canteen, then went on into the village.
The army’s baggage train had come up near the water, a bit to the North of the village. Lewrie supposed that he could cadge some salt-meat and hard bisquit, but, there were some of the Irish waggoners nearby, round a campfire, cooking something that smelled simply amazing, and he led his horse over to them.
“Dere’s me passenger from dis mornin’,” his pre-dawn carter said, pointing Lewrie out to his mates. “Have yerself a nice battle, did ye, sor?”
“It was an eye-opener, aye, and God help all soldiers,” Lewrie replied.
“We winnin’ it, sor?” another asked.
“It certainly looks like it,” Lewrie told him. “What’s cooking, and could you spare me a morsel or two?”
The meat on the spits was not chunks of salt-meat junk; it looked more like rabbit, or chicken. The army had Provosts to prevent looting and foraging, but the civilian carters did not quite fall under their authority, and would have ignored them if they did. Not only did they have rabbit and chicken, but, true to the carter’s word, they had baked fresh bread, not the dark army-issue ammunition loaf, but Irish soda bread, and where they had gotten the eggs and milk to make their dough didn’t bear thinking about.
Dark meat was most people’s preference, but since beggars can’t be choosers, Lewrie ended up with a pair of scrawny chicken breasts, and two thumb-thick slices of bread liberally spread with butter for the princely sum of six pence. The carters drove a hard bargain, sniggering in glee to rook an Englishman and an officer, but he paid it gladly, and found himself a low stone wall along the rutted road that ran through Vimeiro for his dining table, washing it all down with canteen water, and not above licking his fingers when he was done, dignity be-damned.
There were rather a lot of flies, though, and Summer swarms of midges or gnats to pester him during his meal. After a long look round, he discovered that there was another field surgery set up in the village, wounded soldiers trickling to it from the last attack by the French on this part of the line; was it his imagination, or did the humming of myriads of flies dominate over the moans and cries of the hurt and dying?
A troop of cavalry came clattering by at the lope, in some urgency, swinging out to the hills to the South. Somewhere, drummers began to beat the Long Roll, bugles blew, and weary soldiers arose from where they rested, armed themselves, and began to form ranks, as if yet another pair of French columns would make a fresh attempt upon the village. Brigadiers and Colonels and their aides left the two-storey house that served as headquarters, quickly saddled up, and loped off to follow the cavalry troop down the road that led to Torres Vedras and Lisbon.
He was tired, yes, but Lewrie’s curiosity was piqued, so he mounted his horse and rode South to see what was happening, coming abeam of a clutch of mounted officers busy with their telescopes.
“Bless my soul, it ain’t an attack,” he heard one Colonel say. “There’s no more than one squadron of cavalry, flying a flag of truce!”
“Think you’re right, Bob,” a Brigadier agreed. “Damn my eyes, but I believe there’s a General with them. It’s Kellermann, by God, the fellow with the white hair? Oh, a clever old fox is Kellermann. Practically saved their revolution in Ninety-Three, when everyone in Europe marched against the French frontiers. Fought them all off with his levée en masse.”
“Well, he’s come to pull their chestnuts from the fire today, sir!” the Colonel whooped. “We’ve broken them, bloodied every one of their damned battalions! I wonder if His Nibs will settle for a truce, or demand surrender.”
“Won’t be up to Wellesley,” the Brigadier grumbled. “That’ll be up to ‘Betty’ Burrard, he’s senior.”
Good Christ, we’ve won! Lewrie thought with glee; They ain’t invincible! As hapless as the British Army had behaved in Holland, as disastrous as their efforts had been at Buenos Aires where two armies had been forced to surrender to half-trained, poorly-armed Argentine patriots, no one had given this army, or “Sepoy” General Sir Arthur Wellesley, much of a chance against the French, yet…! The odds had been beaten, the French had been beaten, beaten like a drum, and Lewrie was suddenly very glad, and proud, to have seen it happen, and take even a minuscule part in it!
I could be dined out on this tale for years! he crowed.
Gallopers were headed along the ridge line to pass the word, and Lewrie identified Lt. Beauchamp coming from the opposite direction, with Wellesley and Burrard just crossing the Maceira to come to the parley.
With a sense of satisfaction and conclusion, Lewrie turned his horse about and headed back to the bay, crossing the shallow Maceira and threading his way through the baggage train to the open plain between the hills. It was a long two miles, but he let the horse pick its own way down to the sea. He worried whether there would be someone to take charge of the beast, or would he have to leave it to graze with dropped reins. It had been a poor prad, but it had served him well enough, and he gave the horse an encouraging pat on its neck.
