“Trying to herd together the disaster that once was an army,” Robert snarled.
Colborne made no reply to that, and Robert took the letters—an enormously fat one in his mother’s delicate hand, a relatively plump one from his father and a single, thin sheet from Perce. He opened the third one. It contained three sentences:
“You damned lunatic! Send your wife home at once. Sabrina and I are coming in from Cornwall and will wait at Stour House in London until she arrives.”
A little of the tension eased out of Robert’s face. He stuffed the two unopened letters into his coat pocket. He was not in the mood to read raptures or bewailings from his mother and carefully phrased suggestions from his father. But Perce’s letter had solved most of his problems. Although he had been determined to do it, it did seem the outside of enough to saddle Sir Charles with finding Merry a decent hotel, guaranteeing the bill seeing that she had money, and arranging all the other details entailed in protecting a young woman who had no friends. Now all Sir Charles had to do was drop her at Stour House in London, and he was going to London anyway.
All Robert had to do in addition to ensure Esmeralda’s comfort was write a draft on his banker, which Perce would have cashed, so that Merry could buy what she wanted without the embarrassment of asking for money. He sighed with relief, then frowned again. Merry was going to get stubborn as a mule if she had to leave Molly and Carlos behind. Robert’s mind checked and backed up to the word “mule”. He groaned audibly.
Colborne looked up from what he was writing. “Now what’s the matter?”
“Is the ship that will take Stewart in the harbor now?”
“Yes. Why?”
“I have to speak to the commander. Is he bribable, do you think?
“What?” Colborne asked, unbelievingly.
Robert smiled wryly. “I want to see if I can get him to take a horse and a mule as well as my wife, her maid, her maid’s infant, and her boy servant.”
Colborne just stared at him, his mouth slightly ajar. “A horse and a mule on a courier ship?” he got out at last.
“Well, I think Merry will trust me to bring Boa Viagem if there isn’t room for both,” Robert said thoughtfully, “but Carlos will not go without Luisa. If we force him, he’ll probably jump overboard and try to swim back. And I’m going to have enough trouble with Merry without suggesting that she leave Carlos, so the mule must go.”
Colborne closed his eyes and shuddered. Then, faintly, he gave the name of the vessel and the name of the naval officer commanding her. Robert smiled grimly and set out for the docks. There he was fortunate enough to encounter not only the naval officer but Sir Charles also. It was not exactly easy to arrange matters, and Stewart’s guffaws of laughter did not help much, however, when he stopped laughing, Sir Charles gallantly added his own request to Robert’s, and the thing was done. No poor naval commander was going to oppose the Earl of Moreton’s son and Lord Castlereagh’s brother.
All this took so long that, when Robert at last went to Merry, he had to tell her that she and all her dependents must be ready within the hour. In one way he regretted it. There was time for nothing but one hungry kiss. In every other way, he was devoutly glad. The suddenness of her departure was such a shock that her emotions were numbed. He did not have to see the fear and grief in her eyes. He knew she would worry about him—he was worried about her traveling the wintry seas—but it was less painful to know something if one did not see the stark evidence of it.
But Esmeralda would not have argued in any case. To weep and plead could only make Robert miserable. His expression told her it would not change his mind. Knowing that, it was best to make everything easy for him, as she had always done—and his gratitude was thanks enough. She did not even ask what she was to do when she came to London. She knew his parents had a residence there, and she intended to send a note to Moreton House with the name of the hotel at which she would stay. That way Robert would know where to find her. They were actually all on board ship before Robert said that she was to go not to Moreton House but to Stour House, where his brother and sister-in-law, Sabrina, would be expecting her.
“Oh, no,” Esmeralda cried. “I could not—”
“Perce is the best of good fellows,” Robert assured her, and thrust into her hands Perce’s letter and the draft on his banker, “and you will like Sabrina. She looks like a candy doll, all silver tinsel, but she’s just as tough as you are, my love, and has most excellent good sense. And if you’re safe with Perce and Sabrina, I’ll not worry about you.”
So she agreed to that, too, thinking in the back of her mind that she would convince Sir Charles to leave her in a hotel. She could tell him that she wished to wash off the soil of her journey and change her dress—not that she had a dress to change into, since all had been abandoned to lighten Luisa’s load—and that she would go to Stour House when she was presentable. She did not begin to cry until after the boat had taken Robert back to the docks, not until they set sail and she could no longer see him, a tiny blue and white speck, watching the ship recede.
For the remainder of that day, Robert felt very strange. There was a large hole in his life. It was not only that he missed Merry in a physical sense. These past weeks he had actually seen very little of her, but until this day he had always been conscious that she was there, a certain number of miles away, that he could get to her if it was really necessary. Now she was no longer there, and he did not like the feeling at all.
The next day, January 14, was busy. The transports had finally arrived and embarkation of the sick, wounded, and dependents began. In addition, the French were now heavily massed. Colonel MacKenzie of the Fifth reported that another division and a multitude of stragglers had swelled the force with which Soult had been advancing cautiously. Moore seemed to throw off his depression at this news and went out to examine the ground himself.
There were three ridges of hills, the first two more formidable than the third and far more extensive. Moore had no more than fifteen thousand men. He resolved to set his defense on the third ridge, called the Monte Moro, and for the first time since they had left Sahagun, Robert recognized the commander under whom he had begun his career. By the morning of January 15 the British were in position, braced for an attack by a force considerably larger than their own, but in surprisingly good spirits.
The first part of the day was a grave disappointment. The French could be seen moving on the higher ridges, but nothing happened. As the day advanced to noon, Sir John became convinced that Soult would not attack after all and ordered General Edward Paget to march his troops down to the harbor, since they were to be the first to embark. About a quarter to two in the afternoon, however, there was a crash of artillery fire from the top of the westernmost crest.
Sir John at once galloped up behind General Baird’s division and saw columns of French pouring down into the valley and cavalry regiments pushing out from behind the Penasquedo Heights. The first smile Robert had seen since the retreat had begun lightened Moore’s face. Although the excitement that Robert always felt at the prospect of action stirred in him, one part of his mind remained very cold.
He knew Sir John welcomed this battle because a victory that would permit him to embark his troops under the very noses of the French would do much to soften the bitter criticisms that would be launched at him. But Robert could not forget that if Moore had permitted the army to stand its ground at Astorga and had managed the retreat in a less hysterical fashion, there would be fewer frozen bodies along the road. Thus, the satisfaction Robert felt at seeing his old mentor enthusiastically discussing the coming action with Baird had a tinge of bitterness in it.
Not more than fifteen minutes later, another dose of gall was added. The artillery barrage grew more intense. Even Hermes, hardened old trooper that he was, danced and curveted, and Robert reined him hard and backed him, suddenly aware that one stirrup seemed loose. He bent to check and then jerked the horse farther aside a
s a muffled scream sounded ahead of him and an angry whoosh seemed to go right by his left leg. When he came erect he saw a crowd surrounding General Baird, lifting him from his horse and working over him.
“What—” he said to Colborne.
“Ball shattered his left arm. It missed you by a hair.”
Robert gritted his teeth. He liked General Baird.
“Moreton,” Sir John called. “The Fiftieth is coming up from Elvina. See that it re-forms on the Forty-second. They are to make ready to charge down when the French come up the slope.”
The Fiftieth was retiring under heavy fire. Robert knew that Sir John had intended him to wait with the Forty-second, but his anger and frustration needed an outlet. He passed Sir John’s order to Lieutenant Colonel Stirling, left Hermes with the reserve mounts of Stirling’s ADCs, and ran down toward the action. It was just as well that he had decided to go down, for Major Charles Napier was trying to rally his men already, and Robert’s instructions eased his conscience about not holding the village.
The regiment had fallen back in good order, however, and were quite ready to come down on the French again. With the support of the Forty-second, they drove in the tirailleurs with a crushing fire, but the supporting columns held out against them, and they took shelter behind a line of stone walls. Not far from the major, Robert took aim with a musket snatched from a wounded soldier. He swore in disgust as his target remained standing. But a man to that soldier’s right cried out and fell, and Robert wondered whether it was his bullet that had struck him. He cursed the inaccuracy of the weapon in his hands and threw it down, drawing his pistol.
Before Robert could fire, he saw Sir John coming down the slope, calling out that they must advance. He expected next to hear his name and a scathing remark on his self-indulgence, but either the general did not see him or he was too busy to concern himself with the erratic behavior of one of his usually reliable aides. The regiments, encouraged by their officers, climbed or leapt the walls and pressed forward, Robert with them.
The head of the French formation melted before their volleys, and the battle rolled downhill toward Elvina again. At the closer range of a pursuit, Robert’s pistol took its toll, and he blessed it and its maker because it did not jam. Just above the village, the Forty-second halted, but Major Napier was determined to take back what he had lost and led his men in among the houses. The French were not making a determined stand, but even so, clearing them out of the place was dangerous work.
One of the tirailleurs who had survived the initial charge suddenly stepped around the comer of a house and fired at Robert from about ten feet. Obviously he had been confused for just a moment by Robert’s blue coat and had not lifted his gun until he saw Robert raise his own, which gave him no time to aim. His bullet took off Robert’s cocked hat, but Robert’s shattered the man’s head. Robert leapt for the shelter of the wall while he drew his saber, for his pistol was empty. He suspected that where there was one Frenchman, there might be others. Shouts made him turn to look, relieved to see red coats only a few yards behind, and the world exploded… And then there was nothing.
Chapter Thirty-One
There are many things that can be said about a winter sea voyage, most of them bad, particularly on a very small ship not intended for passengers. However, if the wind is right, it is usually strong, and the one good thing about Esmeralda’s trip to England was that it was quickly over. Moreover, the sour, silent moods of the commander of the vessel, whose quarters Esmeralda and Molly occupied, and of Sir Charles Stewart, who carried less than exhilarating news for his brother and in addition was having serious trouble with his eyes, suited Esmeralda very well. All of them hardly exchanged a hundred words, although they saw each other every day.
Even Esmeralda’s attempt to avoid being pushed on Robert’s family was settled in very few words. She asked to be settled in a hotel, and Sir Charles said, very simply, “No.” When she gave her reasons, he shrugged. Then he uttered a full sentence. He allowed that she could walk out of Stour House one minute after he brought her into it, but that was where he said he would take her, and he would do it.
Esmeralda did not really fight very hard. Naturally she had read Perce’s note, and there was something very warm and comforting in it. When she considered that aspect of it, she felt a thrill of hope that she might, after so many years of isolation, again find the tender concern of fond relatives, which she had lost when her mother died.
Then at other times she found herself enraged at the notion that Perce should call Robert a damned lunatic. She was not personally offended. Somehow she was sure that the words did not have to do with Robert’s sudden marriage but with the fact that he had allowed his wife to follow the army. She resolved firmly to defend her husband’s decision even if that defense did not please Robert’s brother, and she further intended to make clear that in the future she would go right on following her husband and she would not thank anyone for trying to interfere.
But then the question of her baby would arise. Now that they were on the ship, Molly confessed that she had been surprised Esmeralda had not lost the child, owing to the hardships she had endured. Esmeralda had exclaimed in horror. It had never occurred to her that she would miscarry. Molly had had the same experiences or worse. But Molly soothed her by assuring her she had only mentioned the matter because it was the best of good signs. The baby was sure to be strong and healthy.
New hopes flickered in Esmeralda’s heart. If Perce and Sabrina accepted her and if she could convince them that it was her desire to follow the army, could she induce them to believe it was not wrong? Then would they act as surrogate parents for a few months at a time so that she could be with Robert? This hope was so enticing that it did more harm than good because it made Esmeralda nervous about the impression she would make on her new relatives.
Fortunately, this idea did not occur to her until she was so exhausted by being shaken and banged about in the post chaise racing toward London that she soon fell asleep. Just as her eyes closed, Esmeralda gave a dizzy thought to Molly and Carlos, traveling with Luisa by slow stages. She would have much preferred to go with them, but Sir Charles would not hear of it. He had promised his escort, and his escort she would have, even if it meant she must travel at courier speed.
In the end, she had no time for nervousness before arrival because she was not aware of having arrived until Sir Charles shook her gently and said, “Here we are, Mrs. Moreton.”
He lifted her out of the carriage and supported her up the steps. Esmeralda’s lips trembled. Among the many reasons she had been relieved at going to Stour House rather than Moreton House was that she thought a Mr. St. Eyre’s home would be less grand than an earl’s residence, but the building into which she was being shepherded seemed more magnificent than the governor’s house in Bombay. She was shaking so hard that Sir Charles kept his arm around her as he sounded the knocker. Esmeralda shuddered. There was something strange about the house, a blank, empty look that was forbidding.
“I don’t think there’s anyone here,” she said faintly, crushed by disappointment despite her initial reluctance to come.
However, the door opened just as Sir Charles began to answer, and he turned to the footman instead, saying, “This is Mrs. Moreton. I believe Lord and Lady Kevern are expecting her.”
The footman’s eyes first widened in shock and then narrowed in disbelief. His glance flickered over Sir Charles’s arm, which still supported Esmeralda, then over her stained, ragged riding dress and Sir Charles’s uniform, which was in even worse condition, torn and blackened with powder stains, mud, and dried blood.
“If you will give me your card,” he said coldly, “I will present it to—”
Upon which Sir Charles put a hand on the footman’s chest and shoved him back into the house with considerable force, following him in and dragging Esmeralda with him.
“You bloody nodcock!” he roared. “D’you think I carry visiting cards on the
battlefield?”
Almost simultaneous with Sir Charles’s outraged bellow came the sounds of footsteps—several heavy pairs from the back of the house and the brief click of high-heeled slippers as a woman crossed a piece of polished flooring between two carpet runners. But Esmeralda did not notice that. In fact, she had hardly taken in Sir Charles’s enraged roar because what she saw on entering had confirmed her original fear. There was no one to meet her. The house was empty. All the furniture was dust sheeted.
“Sir Charles—” she began in a shaking voice, intending to urge him to leave and take her to a hotel. She got no further, being interrupted by a firm feminine voice.
“Whatever is the—” Sabrina began, and then she, too, took in the condition of her visitors’ clothing. However, she was much less impressed with the external marks of status than her footman, and she came immediately to the correct conclusion. Of course, she also recognized Sir Charles Stewart, which was helpful, so she finished with an exclamation. “Sir Charles! Oh, have you brought my brother’s wife home? Oh, thank you.”
“Yes,” he said as Sabrina came down the stairs, “this is Mrs. Moreton.”
But Sabrina did not acknowledge the introduction. All her attention was focused on Sir Charles. She remembered with horror similar stains on a uniform her husband had worn. “Are you hurt, Sir Charles?” she asked breathlessly, and then when he shook his head,
“Is there anything I can do for you? I see you have come directly from the field. Would you like to bathe? A change of clothes?”
“I thank you, no,” he replied. “I am going directly to my brother’s house and will be accommodated there.” Then his voice softened. “Mrs. Moreton has had rather a bad time,” he said.
“Oh my God!” Sabrina cried, “Robert? Has—”
“No, no,” Sir Charles said hastily. “Captain Moreton was perfectly well when we left him. I only meant… Well, Mrs. Moreton will explain, I am sure. My business with my brother is very urgent, so if you will pardon me, I will take my leave at once.”
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