“How dreadful!” Esmeralda exclaimed. “Has he already upset Sir Arthur’s plans?”
“No.” Robert’s lips curled in a nasty sneer, but then he sighed. “I’d almost have preferred it if he had. Sir Arthur went out to greet him, and—you won’t believe this—Burrard wouldn’t even come ashore to look over the land and the disposition of the troops.”
“But Robert, perhaps that is a good sign. Perhaps it means that he trusts Sir Arthur and will not interfere.”
“Don’t you believe it.” Robert’s voice shook slightly with rage. “All it means is that he’s too damned lazy. He’s like all those blasted Guardsmen, the Duke of York’s pets. Burrard calls Sir Arthur a sepoy general and looks down his nose at him, but Burrard’s never commanded more than a brigade, no, a division it was, at Copenhagen, and he didn’t do a thing. Sir Arthur was the only one who was in action.”
Esmeralda bit her lip. “Did he give any indication of what he plans to do?”
“Plans to do?” Robert’s voice scaled upward. “Burrard hasn’t got a plan in his head. That old dotard didn’t even want to listen to Sir Arthur’s report. There’s plenty of time, he says. Sure there’s plenty of time. Time to let the French bring in reinforcements from all over Portugal. If it’s up to Burrard, we’ll sit here until Boney gets back from wherever the devil he is—Austria, I think—and brings the whole damned Grande Armée down on us.”
“No,” Esmeralda said, “I meant Sir Arthur. Will he stay and serve under Burrard?”
Robert sighed and shook his head. “I don’t know. This has hit him hard. He knew, of course. Somerset told us in Figueira that Sir Arthur had been informed he would be superseded. But I know he’s been hoping that we would have the French out of Portugal before Sir Harry got his orders.”
His voice was now more tired and discouraged than furious. Esmeralda put down the shirt she had unconsciously been clutching. “Come, sit down,” she said. “I’ll get you a glass of wine. Would you like something to eat?”
He came across the room and dropped heavily into the chair Esmeralda had pulled out invitingly. “No, nothing to eat.” He smiled wryly. “Sir Arthur’s damned old boots are still sitting pretty heavily in my stomach, but I’ll take that wine. Sometimes he’s a devil to serve under. I’ve never eaten such awful food, and the wine’s nearly as bad. We were just talking the other day about how we could convince him to let Burghersh buy his wine.” The smile died. “It’s so cursed unfair.”
“But Sir Arthur did have a victory against Delaborde. Perhaps if Sir Harry doesn’t act, Lord Castlereagh can use that to make the Horse Guards put Sir Arthur back in command,” Esmeralda suggested hopefully.
Robert sipped the wine. “The trouble is that it would probably be too late. Junot’s not going to let us sit here enjoying the lovely countryside. I know Sir Arthur planned to move tomorrow and attack, maybe to clean out Peniche so we’d have a decent landing site or maybe move right on Lisbon while Junot isn’t ready for us. But if Burrard waits for the additional division coming with Sir John Moore—which was the only thing he said that had the slightest military significance—the chances are that the French can collect a big enough army to overwhelm us.”
He had been staring into nothing as he spoke, and Esmeralda could not think of anything to say that would comfort him. Gently she put a hand on his shoulder, almost expecting him to shrug it off angrily. Instead he tossed off the wine and then looked up at her. “My gracious silence. Come, let’s go to bed and seek our comfort there.”
It seemed to Esmeralda that she had barely closed her eyes when there was a pounding on the door. Before she had even struggled to a sitting position, pulling up the blanket hastily to cover her bare breasts, Robert was at the door and had it open a little way. The voice from the other side of the door was too low for Esmeralda to make out the words spoken, but Robert exclaimed, “Good God, what luck! Yes, I’ll be there in five minutes.”
He did not bother to turn up the lamp, since the dim light was enough for him to see his clothing—neatly and properly laid out this time. As he dressed, he said to Esmeralda, “Junot’s on his way. I told you God was on our side. Nothing could be better. Burrard can’t tell us not to fight if we’re attacked, and Sir Arthur will have the troops all set so Sir Harry can’t make a mess of that. If Sir Arthur had a grain of sense, he wouldn’t even send a message. Like as not, that old dotard will come ashore at the last minute and take the credit for winning the battle.”
Esmeralda started to get out of the bed, and Robert shook his head at her. “Don’t get up,” he said. “I have no time for breakfast now—don’t want it, anyway. Go back to sleep. Nothing will happen for hours and hours.” He shrugged into his coat, grabbed his hat, and strode toward the door, where he stopped suddenly and came back to kiss Esmeralda quickly. “I’ll try to stop in around six to have a cup of tea with you if I can. If not, don’t let it worry you.”
Although she wanted desperately to beg Robert to be careful, Esmeralda knew that if she opened her mouth she would burst into tears. That would never do. She knew how much he disliked wailing women. If he thought she was going to make a scene before every battle, he might change his mind about not sending her to England. He had reached the door again and opened it, but he paused and turned around sharply.
“You may use your damned spyglass,” he said severely. “In fact, the church tower would not be a bad place to be while the battle is going on, unless they start to shell the village, in which case you come down out of there at once, understand? But if I discover that you have left the village and gone wandering around the countryside…”
Still speechless, Esmeralda shook her head emphatically. Robert eyed her for another moment and then went out. She sat perfectly still, fighting fear, afraid to cry lest Robert had forgotten something and returned. But the fear this time was not a panic that threatened to choke her. She remained innocently convinced that Robert would not be personally involved in the fighting. Still, as far as Esmeralda was concerned, it was dangerous enough that he should be out in the open. There might be stray bullets flying about or stragglers like the one who had threatened her.
She could not sleep, of course, but after a time she lay down obediently to wait for the sun to rise. Then it would be time to make tea and sit in the kitchen to wait again until Robert came—if he came. Esmeralda both eagerly desired and dreaded his corning. He might not have thought it odd that she did not speak during the short time it took him to dress. She hoped she had seemed half-asleep. But it would be different later. She would have to speak, to seem cheerful.
This task turned out to be easier than Esmeralda had expected. She went down to the kitchen at half after five, just in case Robert should come early, and was greeted with cries of delight from several of the other ADCs staying in the house. They did like her, of course, but Esmeralda knew that their joy at her presence was owing to the fact that she would slice bread and cheese, brew tea, provide cold meat if there was any, and in general save them from the onerous task of feeding themselves. Despite this casual commandeering of her services, Esmeralda was as delighted to see them as they were to see her. While his friends were there, doubtless Robert would address his remarks to them and she could hide her terrors behind the teapot.
Actually, it was hard to continue to be frightened in the face of the tearing high spirits of the young men. They laughed and joked, and Robert was equally animated when he arrived. No one seemed to doubt that they would be victorious, and all seemed almost tearfully grateful to Junot for attacking them, calling him the best of good fellows to arrive when he was most wanted. Each time a new person came in, everyone jumped up asking eagerly, “Are the French in sight?”
The last arrival was Lord Fitzroy, and as soon as he appeared in the doorway, cups were set down with a clatter, food dropped, and hats and whips were grabbed up. “Sit. Sit,” he said, grinning broadly as a groan went up. “Just came by for a handout. Be a while yet before Joh
nny Crapaud gets here. They’re down by the bridge near Villa Facaia having a nice sit down and some breakfast.”
“Well, I wish they’d get a move on,” Colin Campbell said fretfully. “It’s getting late.”
“What do you mean, late?” Burghersh asked. “It’s true the Beau ordered the troops into position an hour before sunrise, but they aren’t standing to attention or anything. Our men are probably having something to eat, too. You don’t think the waiting will put them in a pucker, do you?”
“It’s nothing to do with the men,” Campbell replied. “They’re all right. But Burrard’s likely to wake up sooner or later and decide to come ashore.”
There was an appalled silence. In the excitement of delivering orders and seeing the battle lines drawn up, everyone had forgotten Burrard.
“He can’t stop the action now,” Williams pointed out. “Even if he wanted to retreat, there isn’t anywhere to retreat to.”
“That’s true enough,” Robert agreed. “But there’s always the chance that he’ll take it into his head to run the battle himself. And it would be a shame if Sir Arthur lost the credit.”
“He wouldn’t do that, would he?” Burghersh asked, looking at the more experienced of the ADCs.
Robert shrugged, but Williams shook his head slowly. “I don’t think so,” he said. “Sir Harry is really a pleasant and good-natured person.”
Nonetheless, the reminder of Burrard’s right to interfere put a damper on the breakfast party, and a few minutes later there was a general movement toward departure. Robert lingered just a half step behind as if he intended to say something to Esmeralda in private, but his name was called and he did no more than wave at her gaily as he went out. Esmeralda found that she was having difficulty in believing in the reality of this battle. Was it possible that soon men would be maimed and die, and that what worried Robert and his friends was whether or not Sir Harry Burrard would undeservedly take credit for Sir Arthur’s work?
The anxious ADCs were relieved to find no sign or message from Burrard. Nor had any come when Sir Arthur had word that a dust cloud had been sighted coming along the Tôrres Vedras road. It was nearly nine o’clock by then, and everyone breathed a sigh of relief, having begun to fear that possibly Junot had heard of the landing of four thousand additional troops and had decided not to attack. After a quick personal inspection of the broad front of men, indistinctly visible among the woods and rolling uplands, Sir Arthur rode out to check on his troop dispositions.
Vimeiro village lay in a small valley created by the river Maceira, surrounded by a range of hills, particularly steep and formidable toward the south, and it was from the south that Sir Arthur expected to be attacked. He had stationed the brigades of Hill, Bowes, Caitlin Crawfurd, Nightingale, and Acland, with eight of his few guns, on the ridges of the southern range.
Just in front of the village was an isolated hill, partly covered by vineyards and thickets, which would provide excellent cover for defenders. Fane and Anstruther held that as the first line, with six guns. Ferguson and Trant were behind Vimeiro on the lower heights to the north, ready to serve as a reserve to Fane and Anstruther. The tiny cavalry—two hundred and forty English and two hundred and sixty Portuguese—waited on the banks of the river.
Having assured himself that all was in order, Sir Arthur returned to the hill in front of Vimeiro and watched the approach of the great French column. He expected to see the head of it swerve left and move along the valley of the Maceira, but it did not do so, continuing on north completely past the heavily defended right wing on the southern ridge. He watched quite calmly, waiting to make certain that this was not a feint. Two of Junot’s brigades began to deploy just in front of Fane and Anstruther, but away to the north the cavalry advance guard was still riding, and it was obvious that infantry was following them.
“I see that General Junot has decided to leave the southern heights alone,” Sir Arthur said. “Well, well, I had been led to believe he had more dash, but it appears he intends to throw most of his weight at us here.”
He swept his glass around the area to be quite sure his right wing was safe, then drew out his notepaper and unstoppered the inkhorn. When he had written his messages, he took another look around. The sound of rifle fire was drifting up toward them, as the small pickets Fane had stationed a mile forward of his position were driven back toward the main lines. The French were forming a line of battle with its southern end opposite Wellesley’s center.
“Captain Williams, will you please take this to General Ferguson? Tell him to make all haste to the heights behind Ventosa, avoiding notice if he can. It would be nice to provide the French with a little surprise. Also, please tell General Ferguson that Generals Nightingale and Bowes will follow to support him as quickly as they can, and Colonel Crawfurd will be near Mariquiteira to protect his left.”
Sir Arthur then passed out notes and messages to the other officers involved in the shifting of the battle line. Robert was sent to General Acland, who was to act as reserve to General Ferguson and the others. “Also,” Sir Arthur said smiling, “pass my apologies to General Hill. He will likely have a very dull time of it, but I cannot leave the right flank completely unprotected, and, after all, he and his men had the liveliest sport during the engagement at Roliça.”
By the time Robert returned, the action had started in earnest. The usual thick line of French tirailleurs, or sharpshooters, were advancing up the hill with about four battalion columns close in their rear. But the tirailleurs were not sniping easily at massed British troops. The riflemen of the Sixtieth and Ninety-fifth were taking a toll as they retreated. Behind, on the slope of the hill but hidden by a convenient dip of the ground, the Fifty-second and Ninety-seventh waited in line, well covered by the full-leafed vines of the vineyards. As the Riflemen melted in among their comrades, the six guns on the crest roared in a fierce volley.
Robert saw Sir Arthur stiffen to attention, and he did so, too. Those guns were loaded with an experimental type of cannon shot invented by Major Shrapnel. Instead of being solid, this was a shell packed with smaller, individual shot. The theory was that having been fired, the shell would burst and spray the individual shot over a wide area. For once, theory actually worked in practice. Major Shrapnel’s shell worked like a charm—or, rather, like a blast out of hell.
The advancing troops, already shaken by the murderous cannon volley, were then charged by the British line, the Ninety-seventh meeting them head on and the Fifty-second taking them in the flank. Sure and determined, the British held their fire until they were little more than ten paces from the French, who were somewhat disordered, and then released a smashing discharge that almost literally blew away the front ranks of the opposing regiments. Those still able to move recoiled amid the screams and moans of their comrades.
Another volley from the second line penetrated deeper into the column, which broke apart and retreated pell-mell down the hill.
This time when the drums beat out the orders, the British halted their pursuit and formed up again, only cheering when the word was passed that they had not only beat off the first attack but had captured seven of Junot’s guns. Sir Arthur smiled, and there was warmth in his piercing blue eyes.
“They will make good soldiers,” he said to General Fane, who had just given the order to send the Fiftieth and the reserve Riflemen down upon another regiment.
There was a breathing space while the remnants of the shaken French regiments were rallied outside of musket range and two battalions of grenadiers from the reserve were sent ahead of them up the hill for a second assault. The British guns came into play at once and fired regularly. Changing tactics, the French launched a narrow attack, intended to break through the British line and spread out behind them, but the attempt was a disastrous failure, for the compact formation was blown to pieces by Shrapnel’s shells and the converging fire of the Fifty-second and Ninety-seventh.
With determined courage, the French res
erves managed to struggle halfway up the hill, but they could not withstand the intense fire, and they retreated. The British pursued, but with caution, keeping in contact so that they could present an adequate front to any new counterattack, and the battle rolled down into the little pinewood at the base of the hill. It was apparent, even through the screen of the trees and brush that the French could not rally.
At this point, it seemed that Junot decided not to send the remainder of his reserve into this conflict and attempt to push the British back. He had apparently despaired of taking the hill by frontal assault. He threw in his last reserves in an attempt to turn the flank of Fane’s brigade and penetrate to the village of Vimeiro.
When the direction of the third attack became clear, Robert’s hands tightened on the reins of his horse so that Jupiter backed and fidgeted. Although he had been in personal danger many times during his army career, Robert had never been frightened. He knew, in an intellectual way, that he could be wounded or killed, but the possibility was never real to him.
Now, for the first time in his life, Robert was terrified. There were no units directly in the path of the French thrust, and he broke into a cold sweat, imagining the infuriated troops charging into Vimeiro, breaking open houses, looting, seizing Merry… He opened his mouth to say he must go to protect his wife, but it seemed as if his throat was frozen shut, his lips and tongue paralyzed. Before he could make a sound, an ADC was already galloping headlong toward General Anstruther’s position and Sir Arthur himself had moved away, riding quickly toward an area from which he could observe the action.
Robert threaded his horse through the other officers surrounding the general. “Sir Arthur—” he began.
“Take this to General Acland,” Wellesley said, handing him a note, as if he had not heard, and perhaps he had not, for there was still considerable noise. “He is to attack the left flank of the French. Anstruther will be taking them on the right.”
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