Kings and Emperors

“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. Ca

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 ru

“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, gri

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.