Kings and Emperors

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 ca

“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.