Текст книги "Fire and Sword"

Автор книги: Simon Scarrow

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Текущая страница: 36 (всего у книги 44 страниц)

Chapter 46

The following afternoon Arthur visited the wounded in the makeshift hospital in Vimeiro. Even though the hard-pressed medical orderlies were doing their best to treat the men’s wounds and find them shelter from the sun’s searing heat, the cries and groans of the soldiers were pitiful and there were constant demands for water. All the while more casualties were being brought in from the battlefield, men who had been lying in the sun the previous day, left through the night and into the following morning. Many were suffering from sunstroke and were delirious, their cracked lips trembling as they babbled incoherently. As he moved from one room to the next in the small monastery Arthur was assailed by evidence of the true horrors of war. And it was not just the sight of the shattered limbs and bloodied dressings that caused him distress, it was the stench of urine, faeces, vomit and corrupted wounds that assaulted him.

As he emerged into the courtyard of the monastery Arthur breathed deeply to expel the foul vapours that had filled his lungs. He turned to Somerset. ‘See to it that those men are fed and watered properly. They are to be made as comfortable as possible while they recover.’ He paused. ‘If they don’t recover, at least they shall be comforted as far as possible in the time left to them.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Somerset replied.

Arthur noted the tremor in his young aide’s voice and turned to look at him directly. ‘The face of battle is grimmer than you had ever imagined, eh?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Somerset nodded, and Arthur saw that his face was quite drained of colour. ‘It is my first real battle,’ Somerset admitted. I had thought that the fight at Roliça was bad enough. But this . . .’ He gestured towards the rooms lining the courtyard.

‘This is the reality of war,’ said Arthur. ‘You had best grow used to it. Or try to.’

Somerset regarded his commander closely. ‘Have you grown used to it, sir?’

For a moment Arthur was tempted to lie to make it easier for his subordinate, but then decided there was no point in hiding the truth. If Somerset lived long enough he was certain to see far worse than the battlefield at Vimeiro. He shook his head. ‘I have never lost a battle, Somerset, yet every victory has left a sour taste in my mouth when I contemplate the price that has been paid. Perhaps it is a good thing that war is so terrible. It would be dangerous if men got used to it.’ He reflected for an instant before continuing. ‘That is the real evil we are fighting. It is not France, nor the soldiers that are sent against us. It is the taste for war that Bonaparte and his followers have acquired. That is what we must defeat.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘See to these men as best you can. I must report to Burrard.’

They exchanged a salute and Somerset strode off to find the officers of the supply commissariat and ensure they provided adequate food and water for the injured. Arthur waited a moment, drinking in the sweet smell of the herbs that grew in the flower beds running along the walls of the monastery. Then he sighed and made his way outside to where his mount was tethered. Unhitching the reins and climbing into the saddle, he turned the horse towards the cluster of tents on the crest of the hill and dug his spurs in.

As he dismounted and handed the reins to an orderly, Arthur heard a burst of laughter from inside the army commander’s tent. The sentries on either side of the open flaps presented arms as Arthur passed through. The shade inside was welcome, as was the faint breeze that entered through the panels that had been removed on two sides. A group of officers stood about the large campaign table that dominated the centre of the tent.

‘Ah, Wellesley!’ A voice boomed from behind the table and Arthur saw that Sir Hew Dalrymple had arrived to take command. The third commander in less than a day, Arthur reflected wryly. Like Burrard, Dalrymple was a man with meagre experience of campaigning. Arthur saluted as he strode up to the table and then leaned across to shake his superior’s hand.

Dalrymple pretended to look offended as he continued, ‘It seems that you have done my job for me. Couldn’t wait, eh?’

‘I was attacked by Junot, sir. I did not seek to pre-empt your involvement.’

‘Tsh! Don’t be touchy, Wellesley. I am jesting. In truth you have won a fine victory and I shall be sure to give you full credit for it in my report to London.’

Arthur was momentarily tempted to mention that it might have been a far more complete victory had the army pursued Junot to destruction once the battle was won. But with Burrard standing at Dalrymple’s shoulder and the evident bonhomie that filled the tent, now was not the time, Arthur told himself. Instead he nodded.

‘That is most kind of you, sir.’

Dalrymple bowed his head graciously and then cleared his throat. ‘Gentlemen, the task that faces us now is to complete the good work that General Wellesley has begun. Though we have bested Junot and sent him running off towards Torres Vedras, he still has more men under arms in Portugal than I have, at least until General Moore arrives. Therefore, having consulted with Sir Harry, I am of a mind to wait here and gather our strength before we continue the advance towards Lisbon.’

Arthur let out a faint groan before he could stop himself. At once, Dalrymple’s eyes fixed on him.

‘Do you wish to comment, General Wellesley?’

‘Sir, I think we should push forward before Junot recovers from yesterday’s defeat. We outnumber him at present, and he cannot concentrate his other forces quickly enough to save himself. If you pursue him, sir, I am sure that you can force him to surrender without conditions. If we delay then we simply hand the initiative to the enemy. And what if Junot is sent reinforcements from Spain? The enemy’s strength in the Peninsula is such that they will always outnumber us. Our best chance is to defeat the French piecemeal. Sir, if you would end this campaign swiftly, then I urge you to move against Junot immediately.’

Dalrymple’s expression hardened. ‘I thank you for the lecture, Wellesley, but I think you misjudge our enemy. Junot’s attack yesterday was clumsy and ill-considered. He underestimated the British army and paid the price. I will not repay him in kind.Who is to say that he is not preparing a trap for us even now? He has been in Portugal long enough to learn the lie of the land.We have been here a matter of days and I say it would be rash to throw caution to the wind and rush after the enemy. So we will wait until Moore arrives, and then consider the situation. That is my decision, gentlemen. If that is quite all right with you, Wellesley?’

Arthur felt anger pierce his heart. Dalrymple was evidently the kind of commander who was inclined to jump at the least shadow. He was wrong to sit here at Vimeiro and wait for more men, Arthur was certain of it. Even though the chance to crush Junot utterly had been lost the day before, the advantage still lay with the British, if they acted now. But Dalrymple was his superior and he had made his decision. The matter was settled, whatever Arthur may think. So he kept his mouth shut and nodded.

‘Good!’ Dalrymple smiled and clapped his hands together. ‘Now then, gentlemen, I suggest we repair to lunch. My staff have prepared a modest feast down on the shore, by way of a celebration of yesterday’s battle.’ He turned to Arthur.‘Now that at least will be to your taste, eh?’ Then he laughed at his unintended pun, and Arthur forced himself to smile as the other officers joined in.

Before he could respond there was a sudden pounding of hooves outside the tent. A moment later a young infantry captain entered the tent and snapped to attention in front of Arthur, his chest heaving from his wild ride.

‘Sir, beg to report that—’

Arthur raised his hand.‘I am no longer the commander of the army. You should address yourself to General Dalrymple.’

The captain glanced towards Dalrympe uncertainly and the latter frowned. ‘What is it?’

‘Sir, beg to report that the enemy has sent an officer to our lines with a flag of truce. He says that General Junot wishes to discuss an armistice.’

‘An armistice?’ Dalrymple looked surprised for an instant before a smile spread across his countenance. ‘Already? By God, the campaign is as good as over. Have this French officer brought here at once.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The captain saluted and turned smartly on his heel to leave the tent. Once he had gone Dalrymple looked round at his senior officers. ‘An armistice, then. It would seem that Junot is a beaten man after all. One battle and the enemy is humbled.’

That was stretching the truth a bit far, Arthur reflected. Junot had been given a reprieve, and would naturally seek to turn any truce to his advantage. Even though he had lost on the field of battle, he might yet secure a victory of sorts over the negotiating table.

Dalrymple dismissed all his officers save Arthur and Burrard, and passed the word for an honour guard to be assembled outside the tent. Shortly afterwards came the sound of horses approaching, and the British commander led the way outside to greet the French officer formally as he dismounted.

At a sharp word of command the company of grenadiers lining the approach to the tent snapped to attention and presented arms. The French officer pulled his sleeves down and straightened his jacket before striding towards Dalrymple. As he approached Arthur saw that the man was about the same age as himself and, judging from the proliferation of gold braid on his blue uniform coat, a general officer. His hair, streaked with grey, was tied back in a short tail, and though his features were heavy there was an intelligent spark in his eyes. He smiled slightly as he stopped in front of Sir Hew and bowed.

‘General Kellermann at your service, sir.’

His English was good, Arthur noted, though there was a faint accent to it that he could not immediately place.

‘Sir Hew Dalrymple at yours.’ The British commander returned the bow with a nod and gestured to the two men at his side. ‘May I present Sir Harry Burrard, my second in command, and Sir Arthur Wellesley.’

Kellermann’s eyes fixed on Arthur for a moment before he turned his gaze back to Dalrymple. ‘May I offer my congratulations on your fine victory yesterday, sir? I have never seen such magnificent troops as yours in battle. Steady as a rock and yet handled with a lightness of touch that does full credit to you, sir. I only wish our men had been equal to the occasion.’

‘Ah, yes . . .’ Dalrymple replied awkwardly. ‘The truth is that I have only just arrived, General.You were defeated by General Wellesley.’

Kellermann glanced at Arthur with an appearance of surprise. ‘I am confused. Surely in your absence General Burrard would have been the ranking officer.’

‘General Burrard did not reach the field until after the battle was as good as won,’ Dalrymple explained.

‘Ah, I see.’ Kellermann nodded, then turned very deliberately to Arthur and bowed. ‘Then it is to you that I offer my congratulations.’

Arthur bowed in return, sensing the irritation of both his superiors.

Dalrymple cleared his throat. ‘Yes, well, you’d better come inside the tent, General Kellermann.’

He led the way inside and the three British officers took their seats behind the table while Kellermann settled opposite them.

‘Now then,’ Dalrymple began, ‘you wish to discuss terms for an armistice.’

‘Yes, sir. My superior, General Junot, has authorised me to negotiate for the complete withdrawal of French forces from Portugal.’

Dalrymple’s eyebrows rose. ‘The surrender of Portugal?’

‘In effect, sir, yes.’ Kellermann nodded, then drew a folded sheet of paper from his pocket.‘The detailed terms are set out here. I have taken the liberty of translating them into English.’

‘Your command of our tongue is commendable,’ said Arthur. ‘But I cannot quite place the accent.’

Kellermann smiled.‘I had the honour of representing my country at our embassy to your former colonies in America.’

‘Ah!’ Burrard nodded. ‘That explains the coarseness of the accent.’

‘For which I apologise.’ Kellermann smiled again as he passed the sheet of paper across the table. ‘Now, if you wish to consider the terms proposed by General Junot.’

Dalrymple looked at the document before passing it on to Burrard, and then Arthur read through it. Junot proposed to surrender every fortress and town in Portugal and evacuate the country. In return he asked that his gallant and generous British opponents should permit the repatriation of his army to France, together with all its equipment and property. When he had finished Arthur lowered the document and looked up at Kellermann with a feeling of concern. If Dalrymple accepted the offer, then the French army would be spared to fight another day. To be sure, lives would be spared, but the opportunity to truly humiliate the French would be lost. Junot had shrewdly calculated that he could at least save his army if he offered to quit Portugal without a fight.

Dalrymple slid the document back in front of him. ‘This would appear to be a reasonable basis on which to proceed. Of course the precise details would need to be discussed.’

‘Indeed,’ Arthur added, fixing his gaze on Kellermann. ‘To begin with, precisely how do you propose to repatriate your forces?’

‘Alas, since the French fleet was defeated by your Lord Nelson our navy has not been equal to the tasks requested of it. So it would seem most reasonable to ask that the army is conveyed to a home port by British ships.’

‘British ships?’ Arthur was astonished. ‘In British ships? Out of the question.’

‘Restrain yourself, please,Wellesley,’ Dalrymple said firmly, and spoke to Kellermann again. ‘And why should we agree to such a suggestion?’

The Frenchman shrugged. ‘It is the quickest way to remove our soldiers from Portugal. Of course, if you would be prepared to wait until a sufficient force of French warships was ready to carry them away . . .’

That would delay the surrender of Portugal for at least a month, Arthur realised. Plenty of time for fresh French columns to arrive from Spain and continue the struggle. The point was clear to all, and Dalrymple nodded.

‘Agreed. There is a convoy of merchant ships, as well as Admiral Cotton’s squadron, lying at anchor. They should suffice for the task.’

‘That is good.’ The Frenchman smiled. ‘I am sure your navy will carry out the task with their customary efficiency.’

‘You can count on it.’

‘Now, is there anything else you wish to query, sir?’ Kellermann continued. ‘If not, then perhaps you and I might draft the armistice now.’

‘Now?’ Dalrymple was taken aback by the sudden challenge.

‘I see no reason why not, sir. There is no need to delay the completion of your conquest of Portugal.’

‘Liberation,’Arthur interrupted.‘We are here to liberate Portugal, not conquer it.We are not Frenchmen.’

‘Tsk, Wellesley,’ Dalrymple muttered. ‘There’s no call for that.’

‘I disagree, sir. There is a world of difference between liberation and conquest. Or at least there should be.’

‘Liberation then,’ Kellermann conceded and turned his attention back to the British commander. ‘May we commence with drafting the agreement?’

‘Yes.Yes, I suppose so.You may leave, Burrard, and you too,Wellesley. Wait for us outside.’

‘Perhaps it would be better for us to remain here, sir,’ Arthur suggested. ‘In case any of the finer points require further discussion.’

‘I am quite capable of making my own decisions, thank you,’ Dalrymple said coldly.‘Now be so good as to leave General Kellermann and myself to draft the document.’

Arthur stared back at him for a moment and then nodded slowly. ‘Yes, sir.’

For the next hour Arthur sat in the shade of an awning a short distance from the tent. From there he had a good view over the slope that had been so hotly contested the day before. Today all was quiet, but the traces of the battle were plain to see: gouges in the earth and rock where cannonballs had thudded home, and the bodies of hundreds of men strewn across the stubble and clumps of gorse and myrtle. Most were French, and only a handful of British corpses had not yet been removed by burial parties. The French dead would have to wait until the last of the redcoats were interred. Some of the bodies were naked, their clothes and other belongings taken in the night by camp followers and the local peasants. A faint breeze stirred and carried the sickening stench of decay up to Arthur and he felt his stomach clench in revulsion.

It was not just the thought of the dead that occupied his mind. He was worried about the terms of the armistice. Although it would mean that the Portuguese campaign was over for the present, with no further loss of life, the prospect of allowing Junot’s army to escape galled him. Worse still, he could imagine how people back in London might react to the news that a French army had been carried home in the holds of British warships.That was the kind of detail the newspapers and public opinion were bound to focus on, rather than the fact that the expeditionary force had achieved what it had set out to do, and expelled French forces from Portugal.

‘Sir!’

He turned and saw a staff officer beckoning to him. ‘Sir, the general wishes you to attend him.’

With a sigh Arthur rose to his feet and strode back across the top of the hill to General Dalrymple’s tent. Inside he saw that his superior and Kellermann were sitting side by side on the far end of the table. Dalrymple indicated the seat nearest Arthur.

‘Sit down,Wellesley.We have a draft for the armistice. Since you had the honour of winning the battle that led to this happy opportunity I feel it only fair that you should witness the fruits of your victory. So I will read the terms through to you and then you may comment on them, if you wish.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Dalrymple proceeded in a dry monotone and when he had finished he laid down the draft. ‘Well?’

There was little deviation from the details they had discussed earlier, but there was one matter Arthur wanted clarification of. ‘I do have a question for General Kellermann, sir. What exactly constitutes the “property” the French wish to take home with them?’

Kellermann stirred uneasily. ‘Just a question of personal effects. The clause mostly concerns our officers, as you might imagine.’

‘And what is the precise nature of this property?’

‘It is hard for me to say.’ Kellermann shrugged. ‘I should imagine it comprises silverware, wardrobes, the odd painting or piece of statuary. Perhaps a carriage or two.’

‘I see.’ Arthur’s eyes narrowed.‘Can I take it that none of these items were acquired during the course of the French army’s campaign in Portugal?’

Kellermann stiffened. ‘Are you accusing me, or my brother officers, of carrying off spoils of war?’

‘Not if you can give me your word that your propertyis not loot.’

‘Enough, Wellesley!’ Dalrymple slapped his hand on the table. ‘I will not have you undermine the armistice by making such accusations. Now then, those are the terms. General Kellermann, will you do me the honour of signing first?’

‘I would be pleased to, sir.’

Kellermann reached for a pen, flipped open the inkwell, dipped the nib and signed both drafts with a flourish. He was about to hand the pen to Dalrymple when he paused, and for an instant Arthur saw a crafty expression flash across the French officer’s features before he composed his face into a respectful smile.

‘General, I think that it would be appropriate for an officer of equal rank to sign on behalf of the British.’

‘Really? Why is that?’

‘Out of respect for your rank, sir. It would not be seemly for your name to appear on equal terms with my own.’

‘Oh, I see. No, of course not.’

‘In that case, sir, may I ask General Wellesley if he would do me the honour?’

Dalrymple looked up at Arthur. ‘Well, what d’you say?’

Arthur was sorely tempted to refuse. He had had no hand in drafting the terms of the armistice, and some of the clauses were far too generous to the enemy. But if he refused it would only cause further ill will between him and his superior. He nodded, and took the pen offered to him by General Kellermann.Then the French officer slid the documents across the table and indicated the space beneath his own signature. Arthur dipped the nib in the ink, composed his hand and signed his name with neat, deliberate strokes. When he had finished he laid the pen down and sat back as the documents were whisked away. Kellermann handed one to Dalrymple and folded the other to tuck inside his coat as he stood up.

‘I must return to General Junot and tell him the good news.’

Dalrymple and Arthur rose to their feet and exchanged handshakes with the French officer before Kellermann strode out of the tent, mounted his horse, and galloped away. As Arthur watched him go, he could not help doubting the wisdom of what his commander had agreed to. But at least the French would quit Portugal. Once Portugal was established as a base of operations the British army could turn its attention to Spain, and the next, far more ambitious, phase in the campaign to eject the French from the Peninsula.

A week later General Junot surrendered the Portuguese capital to the British. Dalrymple, reinforced by Sir John Moore and another fifteen thousand troops, moved south to occupy the city. There was a brief celebration in the streets as the inhabitants cheered the departure of the French garrison, but joy soon turned to disbelief and anger when it became apparent that the ‘property’ that the enemy were taking with them, with British consent, included gold and silver plate from Lisbon’s churches and other loot taken from the royal palaces and homes of the wealthy. It was a bad business, and Arthur, who had signed the armistice, began to dread the manner in which it would be received in London. Worse still was the mood in the army. The plodding nature of Dalrymple, and the common knowledge that he had permitted the French to get the better of him, soured the mood of officers and common soldiers alike.The fact that they continued to report to Arthur in the first instance caused understandable resentment in his superiors. Arthur felt himself to be in a peculiar bind. On the one hand he had proved himself to be a fine commander who had the respect and affection of his men, which meant that it was impossible for him to serve with the army in a subordinate role. On the other, he did not wish to quit in case senior officers complained that he was unwilling to serve where he did not command.

The difficult situation was resolved for him late one afternoon in the middle of September when a message arrived from London. Somerset brought the despatch to Arthur’s office in the Lisbon house he was renting, where he had been reading through the latest correspondence from home. His brother William was full of news of the public outcry over the armistice, and his letter included a newspaper clipping that referred to Dalrymple, Burrard and Arthur himself as cowardly curs. William urged his brother to seek leave and return to London to clear his name.

Arthur looked up as Somerset rapped loudly on the door frame.

‘Come in!’

Somerset crossed the room, emerged on to the balcony and held out a sealed letter. ‘From Castlereagh, sir.’

‘Ah.’Arthur felt his heart sink a little, already guessing at the contents of the letter. He hesitated a moment before taking it from his aide and breaking open the seal. Unfolding the sheets of paper he read through them quickly and then looked out over Lisbon, glowing in the light of the late afternoon sun.

‘Well, Somerset, it seems that my campaigning days may well be over.’

‘Over?’ Somerset frowned. ‘Why, sir? What’s happened?’

‘I have been summoned home immediately, to face a military inquiry. Generals Dalrymple and Burrard are to follow. General Sir John Moore is to assume command of the army. That’s something, at least. Moore is a fine officer, and he’ll keep his blade in the Frenchman’s back.’

‘I suppose so, sir.’ Somerset frowned. ‘But it isn’t fair, sir.You are not at fault.The whole army knows it.’

Arthur raised a hand to quiet his subordinate.‘I must defend my part in the treaty.You have to hand it to that fellow Kellermann. He outfoxed us.’ Arthur smiled bitterly as he recalled the manner in which he had been coerced into signing the armistice. ‘Me most of all.’