Kings and Emperors

“Rifles,” he heard Wellesley grump. “Damned useful.”

“Primado

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 wi

“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 Kellerma

“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.”