Kings and Emperors

“Caught up with de bloody army,” the waggoner said, spitting.

Atop the nearest hill, and strung along the others that rose to the East and Northeast, there were soldiers in black shakoes, red coats, and grey trousers, some assembled in formal rank and file near their Regimental and King’s Colours, but most of them on the back slopes of the hills were sprawled or seated at their ease, doing what any soldiers did since Roman times; waiting.

There were more troops in the village of Vimeiro, and what little cavalry was with the army was posted round the village, and Lewrie could spot several dozen horses watering along the northern bank of the Maceira.

“Think I’ll get down here,” Lewrie told the waggoner, “and get a horse from them,” he said, pointing at the remounts.

“Man, ye iver see a battle?” the waggoner gawped, leaning back in astonishment. “Man on a horse, he’s the finest target in de world! Ah, on yer head be it,” he said, drawing rein.

Lewrie clumsily clambered down from the box and headed for the town. He spotted a face he recognised from the remount station, and cajoled the soldier to give him a mount, another of those non-descript locally commandeered Portuguese horses, a dull brown one with black mane and tail, equipped with what looked to be cast-off reins and saddlery, and stirrup straps that looked as if they’d come apart if too much pressure was put upon them.

Leery and cautious, Lewrie swung himself aboard, reined the horse around, and clucked his tongue to get it moving, but no; it took the heels of his boots to encourage it to move, and that only at a sedate walk into the village proper and past a plain two-storey house that, by the presence of so many officers, he took for Wellesley’s headquarters.

Mounted messengers, that the army termed gallopers, were coming and going, young fellows of spirit who could not resist the urge to make a great show of their duties and their temporary importance.

Lewrie drew rein a bit beyond the headquarters house to watch, and turned in the saddle to look astern as bugles and whistles blew, and some troops to the West left their positions and began to march through the village to the East.

“What’s happening?” he asked of a passing mounted officer.

“Change of position,” the officer replied, giving Lewrie a dis-believing look. “French columns have been spotted more to the Southeast, so we’re going up to the next ridge over. What the Devil are you doing here, sir? The ocean’s back that way, hah hah!”

“Curiosity,” Lewrie replied with a grin.

“That killed the cat, don’t ye know,” the fellow cast over his shoulder as he paced along beside his troops.

Lewrie decided to follow the regiment that was passing through Vimeiro. He let his horse have a drink from the Maceira, then forded it and went up the Eastern hills above Vimeiro. Once atop, he found a good view of the countryside, and began to get a grasp of the ground.

Stretching out towards the East and Northeast, there was a long ridge, nearly two miles long, he estimated. The Maceira, now a creek, ran along the ridge’s South foot, below an irregular slope which was rather steep in places, but approachable at most, though he thought anyone climbing up would be out of breath by the time he got to the top. To the South and Southeast there lay a rolling set of hillocks that made a second plain, well-timbered in places, and beyond there, what he took for another drop-off to lower ground, a narrow valley in between yet another row of hills.

There was movement all along the ridge as regiments marched further on to shift the whole army’s positions to counter … something. Lewrie pulled out his smaller pocket telescope and searched for a reason why, and, after a time, found it. There were clouds of dust in the Southeast, and, now and then, glints of morning sunlight off metal, perhaps brass shako plates or bayonets; he did not know, but strongly suspected.

He had loaded and primed all his pistols the night before, but had left the Ferguson un-loaded. Now, he felt the urge to load it. He cranked the long brass trigger guard–hand grip one turn, lowering the sealing screw to expose the breech of the barrel. From the cartridge box on his right hip he withrew a pre-made paper cartridge and bit off one end, using a dribble of powder to prime the pan, then shoved the rest of the cartridge, bullet-end first, into the breech and screwed the weapon shut. A final fiddling with the screw of the dog’s jaw that held the flint tight, and he lay it across the front of the saddle, ready for use.

Lewrie thumped his heels to get his horse moving again, along the ridge for a better view of what the newly-placed regiments were doing. He saw green-jacketed soldiers who carried shorter weapons than the Land Pattern Tower musket, men with silver hunting-horn insignia on their shakoes, who were moving downslope in pairs, spaced far apart from other pairs, and wondered who they were; red was the colour of soldiers, after all! The regiment closest to him was taking position along the backside of the ridge, detaching their Light Companies of skirmishers downslope a few paces, and along the crest. With another prompting thump, he goaded his horse for a closer look-see.

“Good Lord, a sailor, up here?” an Army Captain brayed, and let out a guffaw. “Lost your way, old man?”

“The French don’t seem all that eager t’oblige me at sea any longer, so I thought I’d see how they fight on land, sir,” Lewrie told him in a genial ma

“Well, you’ll see a fine show in an hour or so,” the Captain said with a twinkle of eager anticipation. “Horsley, sir,” he said to name himself, and his regiment.

“Captain Lewrie, of the Sapphire,” Lewrie said in return. “Who are those people in green down yonder?”

“The Rifles, sir, the ‘Greenjackets,’” Horsley told him with a roll of his eyes. “Think they hung the moon, they do. They fight like skirmishers, in pairs, march at the quick-step, and consider themselves chosen, above the common run of soldiers. They’re armed with Baker rifles, which are considered to be quite accurate, but damned slow to load. I’ve tried one, and it’s the very Devil to get a ball rammed down with a greased leather patch round it. Might as well use a hammer, haw! They specialise,” he imparted with a scowl, “at picking off officers and senior sergeants, at nearly two hundred yards, and God help us do they give the French the idea to emulate them. I see you came well-armed, sir. Well, you just might need all of that, do the French get up close. A custom musket, is it?”

“A breech-loading Ferguson rifled musket, sir,” Lewrie told him. “Got it at Yorktown, when I was a pup.”

“Egads, a Ferguson! I’ve never seen one. Might I?” Horsely pleaded, and Lewrie handed it over, explaining how it loaded.

“With hard practice, I could get off five or six shots each minute,” Lewrie told him, “though I’ve not had call for such speed in ages. Two hundred yards’ range is average.”

“We’ve trained our lads to get off four a minute,” Horsley said as he handed the Ferguson back, “but, they can manage more if they spit the ball down the muzzle and rap the butt on the ground to settle it all at the breech, with no need for the ram rod. Aha! Look there!”

Lewrie looked in the direction Horsley was pointing, and saw a French Tricolour flag at the head of a long column of fours, and the glint of a shiny symbol on a pole, as it emerged from the far trees, the advance regiment or brigade of an entire army.

“Eagles,” Captain Horsley said.

“Eagles?” Lewrie asked.

“Bonaparte issues all his regiments a silver spread eagle as a mark of distinction,” Horsley explained, “not just to units which have done something grand and brave. His Imperial eagles, d’ye see. Makes them think they’re as grand as his pampered Grenadiers, and it’s said they’d rather die than lose one, like the eagles of the old Roman legions. Be a grand thing to take one. Maybe today’s the day, hey?”