‘Sir,’ Somerset called out.‘I think we should withdraw to somewhere less dangerous.’
He was right, Arthur knew. Commanding generals had no right to put themselves at risk when their men needed them.Yet this situation was different. If anything happened to Arthur, Sir Harry could take over the moment he heard the news.
‘Just a moment,’ he said.
The French had reached the wall and were locked in a desperate bayonet fight with the British soldiers defending the village. Badly outnumbered as they were, Arthur’s men would have to give way eventually, he realised, and with a quick gesture to Somerset to follow him he wheeled his horse round and rode back through the village to where the Twenty-Ninth and the Light Dragoons were waiting. Arthur rode up to the colonel commanding the dragoons.
‘Taylor, I aim to break the French attack once their formation is held up by the village. The moment I give the order I want you to charge them. Go in hard and fast and make as much of a show of it as you can.’
‘Yes, sir!’ Colonel Taylor’s eyes glinted with excitement at the prospect. ‘My boys will carve them up nicely.’
‘No doubt. But listen here,Taylor, we have too few mounted men to waste. Don’t let your men pursue the enemy too far. Rein ’em in once the enemy are making a run for it. Understand?’
‘Yes, sir.You can rely on me.’
‘Very well then.’
Arthur left the dragoons and trotted forward to the men of the Twenty-Ninth. There were barely more than a hundred and fifty survivors formed up in front of the colours, yet the battalion must suffer still more grievously if the centre of the British line was to hold. Clearing his throat, Arthur addressed them.
‘Men, I know you have tasted rather more of battle than you might like, but there is one last duty I would ask of you.’ He paused and glanced along the lines of sombre faces. ‘The French desire possession of Vimeiro. I will not have it, I tell you. So then, Twenty-Ninth, it is up to you to clear those rascals away!’
Someone in the rear rank laughed and piped up,‘We’ll do it for you, Nosey!’
Arthur glared in the direction of the shout and feigned umbrage as he walked his horse to one side.
‘By God, they lack manners,’ he muttered to Somerset, and the latter smiled.
‘That is so, sir. But I think they do not lack a degree of affection for you.’
‘Indeed?’ Arthur raised his eyebrows. ‘Even as I send some of them to their deaths? A peculiar thing, is it not?’
The acting commander of the battalion, a captain, drew a breath and swept his sword out of its scabbard with a flourish. ‘The Twenty-Ninth will advance! At the double!’
The small band of men surged forward, boots pounding along the dry lane that led into the village, towards the sound of firing. Some more of the howitzers had added their fire and the clear sky beyond Vimeiro was punctuated by the deadly puffs as the shells burst over the heads of the oncoming French, scything men down. Arthur turned his mount to one side and trotted up to the top of a nearby knoll, with a solitary tree upon its crest. From there he could see that the head of the French column had penetrated the village. The enemy had already suffered grievously and the ground in front of Vimeiro was dotted with bodies. A moment later there was a roar as the Twenty-Ninth charged into the fray. The musket fire intensified briefly and then the French began to fall back from the village. The men behind them stalled and the column ground to a halt in confusion as the men fleeing from the village ran into their comrades.
Arthur turned towards the dragoons and waved his hand to attract Taylor’s attention. ‘Now’s your time, Taylor!’ he yelled. ‘Charge ’em!’
The bugler sounded the advance and the horsemen surged forward, riding round the flank of the village in squadron lines. As the smoke-shrouded French column came into view the bugle’s strident notes sounded the charge and the dragoons spurred on, swords raised and flashing in the morning sun as they thundered over the dry ground towards the enemy. Only a few shots were fired as they charged home, and Arthur saw one of his men topple from his saddle and disappear into the swirling dust. Then the dragoons were in amongst the enemy, hacking to left and right. Within moments the column had ceased to exist as a formation and the French had turned and were fleeing across the open ground.
Arthur watched without expression. The effect of the dragoons’ sudden appearance was all he had hoped.Taylor’s men had smashed the column. Arthur trusted the man had sufficient presence of mind not to get carried away by the charge, and to call his men back in good time. But the bugler kept sounding the charge and the notes became more and more distant as the cavalry fanned out across the plain, running down isolated victims and avoiding those pockets of Frenchmen who had held together and were now retreating in good order.
‘Damn the man,’ Arthur growled.‘He should call his men back now, before it is too late.’
‘I fear that it is already too late,’ said Somerset, as he watched one of the clusters of infantry fire a ragged volley that carried three of the dragoons off their saddles.
Taylor’s men were so scattered by that time that the French were turning on them, and now the disparity in numbers began to tell.At last, the bugler sounded the recall and the troopers broke off their pursuit and trotted back towards Vimeiro, singly and in small groups. The French continued to fire on them, causing more casualties, until they were out of range.
Arthur sighed.‘It seems we have a deal of work to do in disciplining our cavalry.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I don’t know what it is about cavalry, that makes them stuff their heads with straw.’
Somerset smiled. ‘You know how it is, sir. The brightest fellows join the engineers, and, failing that, the infantry. As for the rest . . .’ He gestured towards the dragoons who had returned to Vimeiro and were slowly re-forming their companies.
‘Quite.’ Arthur nodded. ‘At least they have repulsed the enemy. The field is ours. All that remains is to pursue Junot to his destruction.’ Arthur paused and glanced up the hill.‘But that is an order for Sir Harry to give. Come on!’
He spurred his horse and galloped back up the slope to the crest of the hill. Sir Harry Burrard was where Arthur had left him. He smiled broadly as Arthur came pounding towards him.
‘Damned fine work, Wellesley! The frogs are on the run.’
‘Yes, sir!’ Arthur panted.‘Now we must seize the fruits of victory, sir. Give the order to advance and Junot is finished. Lisbon will be in our hands within three days.’
Sir Harry smiled again, and shook his head. ‘Fortune has smiled on us today, Sir Arthur. It would be rash to tempt providence. Let us wait until General Moore arrives with his men.Then we shall dominate the enemy.’
Arthur thrust his arm out towards the retreating French soldiers. ‘But, sir, we already dominate them.You have but to give the word and we can run them to ground and compel Junot to surrender.’ He paused as he swiftly considered the best way to change Sir Harry’s mind.‘Think of the glory, sir. The man who forces Junot to surrender will be the hero of the hour.’
‘And the man who throws caution to the wind and leads the army to disaster will be the villain in perpetuity, Wellesley. I will not be that man. Besides, we should wait and see what Sir Hew Dalrymple decides.’
‘With respect, sir, Sir Hew is not here. If he was, then I am sure he would seize such a fine opportunity to destroy the enemy.’
‘Enough, Wellesley,’ Sir Harry said curtly. ‘I have made my decision. There will be no pursuit. We will wait for General Dalrymple and the rest of the reinforcements.’
Arthur stared at his superior for a moment. His heart was crying out with frustration and despair, but there was nothing he could do. Sir Harry was the ranking officer, and his word was final. Trying hard to hide his feelings, Arthur turned away and gazed towards the escaping French. All around him he heard the cheers of his men, but there was no joy in his heart.
Chapter 46
The follow
ing afternoon Arthur visited the wounded in the makeshift hospital in Vimeiro. Even though the hard-pressed medical orderlies were doing their best to treat the men’s wounds and find them shelter from the sun’s searing heat, the cries and groans of the soldiers were pitiful and there were constant demands for water. All the while more casualties were being brought in from the battlefield, men who had been lying in the sun the previous day, left through the night and into the following morning. Many were suffering from sunstroke and were delirious, their cracked lips trembling as they babbled incoherently. As he moved from one room to the next in the small monastery Arthur was assailed by evidence of the true horrors of war. And it was not just the sight of the shattered limbs and bloodied dressings that caused him distress, it was the stench of urine, faeces, vomit and corrupted wounds that assaulted him.
As he emerged into the courtyard of the monastery Arthur breathed deeply to expel the foul vapours that had filled his lungs. He turned to Somerset. ‘See to it that those men are fed and watered properly. They are to be made as comfortable as possible while they recover.’ He paused. ‘If they don’t recover, at least they shall be comforted as far as possible in the time left to them.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Somerset replied.
Arthur noted the tremor in his young aide’s voice and turned to look at him directly. ‘The face of battle is grimmer than you had ever imagined, eh?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Somerset nodded, and Arthur saw that his face was quite drained of colour. ‘It is my first real battle,’ Somerset admitted. I had thought that the fight at Roliça was bad enough. But this . . .’ He gestured towards the rooms lining the courtyard.
‘This is the reality of war,’ said Arthur. ‘You had best grow used to it. Or try to.’
Somerset regarded his commander closely. ‘Have you grown used to it, sir?’
For a moment Arthur was tempted to lie to make it easier for his subordinate, but then decided there was no point in hiding the truth. If Somerset lived long enough he was certain to see far worse than the battlefield at Vimeiro. He shook his head. ‘I have never lost a battle, Somerset, yet every victory has left a sour taste in my mouth when I contemplate the price that has been paid. Perhaps it is a good thing that war is so terrible. It would be dangerous if men got used to it.’ He reflected for an instant before continuing. ‘That is the real evil we are fighting. It is not France, nor the soldiers that are sent against us. It is the taste for war that Bonaparte and his followers have acquired. That is what we must defeat.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘See to these men as best you can. I must report to Burrard.’
They exchanged a salute and Somerset strode off to find the officers of the supply commissariat and ensure they provided adequate food and water for the injured. Arthur waited a moment, drinking in the sweet smell of the herbs that grew in the flower beds running along the walls of the monastery. Then he sighed and made his way outside to where his mount was tethered. Unhitching the reins and climbing into the saddle, he turned the horse towards the cluster of tents on the crest of the hill and dug his spurs in.
As he dismounted and handed the reins to an orderly, Arthur heard a burst of laughter from inside the army commander’s tent. The sentries on either side of the open flaps presented arms as Arthur passed through. The shade inside was welcome, as was the faint breeze that entered through the panels that had been removed on two sides. A group of officers stood about the large campaign table that dominated the centre of the tent.
‘Ah, Wellesley!’ A voice boomed from behind the table and Arthur saw that Sir Hew Dalrymple had arrived to take command. The third commander in less than a day, Arthur reflected wryly. Like Burrard, Dalrymple was a man with meagre experience of campaigning. Arthur saluted as he strode up to the table and then leaned across to shake his superior’s hand.
Dalrymple pretended to look offended as he continued, ‘It seems that you have done my job for me. Couldn’t wait, eh?’
‘I was attacked by Junot, sir. I did not seek to pre-empt your involvement.’
‘Tsh! Don’t be touchy, Wellesley. I am jesting. In truth you have won a fine victory and I shall be sure to give you full credit for it in my report to London.’
Arthur was momentarily tempted to mention that it might have been a far more complete victory had the army pursued Junot to destruction once the battle was won. But with Burrard standing at Dalrymple’s shoulder and the evident bonhomie that filled the tent, now was not the time, Arthur told himself. Instead he nodded.
‘That is most kind of you, sir.’
Dalrymple bowed his head graciously and then cleared his throat. ‘Gentlemen, the task that faces us now is to complete the good work that General Wellesley has begun. Though we have bested Junot and sent him running off towards Torres Vedras, he still has more men under arms in Portugal than I have, at least until General Moore arrives. Therefore, having consulted with Sir Harry, I am of a mind to wait here and gather our strength before we continue the advance towards Lisbon.’
Arthur let out a faint groan before he could stop himself. At once, Dalrymple’s eyes fixed on him.
‘Do you wish to comment, General Wellesley?’
‘Sir, I think we should push forward before Junot recovers from yesterday’s defeat. We outnumber him at present, and he cannot concentrate his other forces quickly enough to save himself. If you pursue him, sir, I am sure that you can force him to surrender without conditions. If we delay then we simply hand the initiative to the enemy. And what if Junot is sent reinforcements from Spain? The enemy’s strength in the Peninsula is such that they will always outnumber us. Our best chance is to defeat the French piecemeal. Sir, if you would end this campaign swiftly, then I urge you to move against Junot immediately.’
Dalrymple’s expression hardened. ‘I thank you for the lecture, Wellesley, but I think you misjudge our enemy. Junot’s attack yesterday was clumsy and ill-considered. He underestimated the British army and paid the price. I will not repay him in kind.Who is to say that he is not preparing a trap for us even now? He has been in Portugal long enough to learn the lie of the land.We have been here a matter of days and I say it would be rash to throw caution to the wind and rush after the enemy. So we will wait until Moore arrives, and then consider the situation. That is my decision, gentlemen. If that is quite all right with you, Wellesley?’
Arthur felt anger pierce his heart. Dalrymple was evidently the kind of commander who was inclined to jump at the least shadow. He was wrong to sit here at Vimeiro and wait for more men, Arthur was certain of it. Even though the chance to crush Junot utterly had been lost the day before, the advantage still lay with the British, if they acted now. But Dalrymple was his superior and he had made his decision. The matter was settled, whatever Arthur may think. So he kept his mouth shut and nodded.
‘Good!’ Dalrymple smiled and clapped his hands together. ‘Now then, gentlemen, I suggest we repair to lunch. My staff have prepared a modest feast down on the shore, by way of a celebration of yesterday’s battle.’ He turned to Arthur.‘Now that at least will be to your taste, eh?’ Then he laughed at his unintended pun, and Arthur forced himself to smile as the other officers joined in.
Before he could respond there was a sudden pounding of hooves outside the tent. A moment later a young infantry captain entered the tent and snapped to attention in front of Arthur, his chest heaving from his wild ride.
‘Sir, beg to report that—’
Arthur raised his hand.‘I am no longer the commander of the army. You should address yourself to General Dalrymple.’
The captain glanced towards Dalrympe uncertainly and the latter frowned. ‘What is it?’
‘Sir, beg to report that the enemy has sent an officer to our lines with a flag of truce. He says that General Junot wishes to discuss an armistice.’
‘An armistice?’ Dalrymple looked surprised for an instant before a smile spread across his countenance. ‘Already? By God, the campaign is as good as over. Have
this French officer brought here at once.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The captain saluted and turned smartly on his heel to leave the tent. Once he had gone Dalrymple looked round at his senior officers. ‘An armistice, then. It would seem that Junot is a beaten man after all. One battle and the enemy is humbled.’
That was stretching the truth a bit far, Arthur reflected. Junot had been given a reprieve, and would naturally seek to turn any truce to his advantage. Even though he had lost on the field of battle, he might yet secure a victory of sorts over the negotiating table.
Dalrymple dismissed all his officers save Arthur and Burrard, and passed the word for an honour guard to be assembled outside the tent. Shortly afterwards came the sound of horses approaching, and the British commander led the way outside to greet the French officer formally as he dismounted.
At a sharp word of command the company of grenadiers lining the approach to the tent snapped to attention and presented arms. The French officer pulled his sleeves down and straightened his jacket before striding towards Dalrymple. As he approached Arthur saw that the man was about the same age as himself and, judging from the proliferation of gold braid on his blue uniform coat, a general officer. His hair, streaked with grey, was tied back in a short tail, and though his features were heavy there was an intelligent spark in his eyes. He smiled slightly as he stopped in front of Sir Hew and bowed.
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