Fortune's Bride (Heiress, Book Four)

by Roberta Gellis

  Sir Arthur’s intention had been to hold back the frontal storming of the heights until Ferguson and Trant were positioned to attack simultaneously on the left and right flanks. However, it was soon apparent that the fate of the too-intrepid light companies at Brilos had not made sufficient impression on all his field officers. Everything went smoothly enough at first. Two batteries of guns were established near a windmill on the northern slope of Roliça hill and began to bombard the new French position while the divisions redeployed.

  Unfortunately, Colonel Lake of the Twenty-ninth had misunderstood his orders, thought he saw an opening he could fill with little loss, or simply suffered a rush of mistaken heroism. Long before there was any hope of Trant or Ferguson being anywhere close enough to begin flank attacks, Lake led his regiment up a deep gully just beyond the village of Columbeira. When he heard the crackle of firing begin, Sir Arthur’s lips tightened. He combed the area ahead with his spyglass, but the depth of the ravines and the growth of brush and trees along them obscured the view.

  “Go and see what that is, Moreton,” he said quietly after a few minutes. “If you think the situation can be salvaged, you may request assistance from General Hill.”

  Robert rode off, skirting the eastern edge of Columbeira, and entered the gorge. Now that he was in the ravine, he was better able to see what had happened. The high ground protruded to some extent around the dry streambeds that had cut the gorges, and as the cut slanted left, it exposed the attacking troops to fire on three sides. Nonetheless, they had forced their way a considerable distance up.

  Just as he realized it would be unwise to push his horse much farther up, Robert heard voices above him. Most were indistinguishable shouts, but among those were a few voices crying “Friend.” Apparently Lake and his men had gained the heights, and the troops facing them were not determined to hold out. That, however, was no guarantee that other enemy troops in the vicinity would feel the same. Lake’s one regiment, which must have taken considerable losses, could not hold the ground alone. They would need General Hill’s assistance. Robert turned back and made the best speed he could, calling out for information about General Hill’s position as he rode.

  He found the general on the extreme right, where, having already noted the movement of the Twenty-ninth, he had just directed the light companies of his brigade and the first battalion of the Fifth Regiment to start up the most westerly of the ravines. He listened to Robert’s report and Sir Arthur’s order and nodded calmly.

  “You may tell Sir Arthur,” he said to Robert, “that I will take the Ninth up myself. You may also say that I have begun an assault on the far right, as it is impossible, in my opinion, to wait for the flanking parties without losing the Twenty-ninth entirely.”

  As he spoke, General Hill urged his horse into motion. Robert wasted no time himself, knowing that the sooner the entire army was in motion, the better it would be for all. By the time he reached Sir Arthur, however, all units except the reserve were already in motion.

  “Do you know just where the Twenty-ninth is?” Sir Arthur asked after he had acknowledged Robert’s report. His voice was raised, for the general and his staff had closed in as the troops moved forward and the intermittent boom of the artillery was now only a background to a rising roar made up of shouts, screams, and the constant explosions of muskets.

  “Yes, sir,” Robert shouted in reply.

  “Very well, then, follow General Hill up and tell him I am moving one of Crawfurd’s battalions to cover Columbeira. If the Twenty-ninth is not able to re-form and Lake needs Hill’s support, he may send down for them.”

  Not able to re-form? Obviously Sir Arthur had seen some action on the heights that had fulfilled Robert’s fears of the regiment’s inability to hold the position. Robert had seen that the Twenty-ninth had taken losses, but they were not so severe in his judgment as to make it impossible to re-form.

  Robert made directly for the place he had seen Hill enter when he rode back earlier with his message to Sir Arthur The gorge wall that had then looked impassable was now open at an angle, a cannonball having taken down a small tree and the passage of a number of men having leveled the brush and beaten down the earth somewhat. Beyond was a small wood in which some wounded men, who had retreated there for what shelter they could find, were lying.

  After pulling up his horse to let the animal breathe, Robert looked around for a man capable of answering his questions. Before he could ask, however, a tremendous noise broke out above and to the left. Robert opened the saddle holsters of his guns, but he did not draw them, being uncertain about exactly what the violent eruption of gunfire portended. His movement in the direction of the noise was almost immediately blocked by a group of men stumbling down the precipitous hill in retreat.

  “Hold up!” Robert bellowed. “Stop.”

  To his intense delight, they did stop as soon as they reached the shelter of the wood, but he could see others coming down. “Move back,” he ordered. “Make room for your fellows. Now, face about. Reload.” He drew his saber.

  “‘M’ out o’bullets, sir,” one man shouted.

  “Anyone short of ammunition, help himself to the bullet bags and powder horns of the wounded,” Robert ordered.

  More and more men were pouring down the hill into the shelter of the wood, but as soon as they saw their fellows standing quietly or busy scavenging ammunition or reloading their pieces, they too steadied. After about fifteen minutes the flow downhill stopped. Although there had been a pretty free play of bullets into the wood at first, that tapered off without doing any damage.

  Robert looked around and judged that he had about a hundred soldiers and that they were not beaten men. Indeed, from the remarks he heard, he was sure that they were ready, in fact, determined, to assault the French again. However, there did not seem to be any officer with them. Robert would have loved to lead the attack himself, but he dared not. His duty was to continue his search for General Hill, particularly because the reserves might be necessary. On the other hand, he did not like to leave the men without any officer in charge.

  “Has anyone—” he began when a horse burst through the brush on the far side of the wood.

  “Who’s in charge here?” the officer roared.

  Robert recognized Captain Leach of the Ninety-fifth, which surprised him since the men in the wood were mixed companies of the Twenty-ninth and the Ninth. Normally an officer confined his attentions to his own men, but Leach might have been sent by a superior officer to try to stem what looked like a rout.

  “The men halted on my command, Captain Leach,” Robert called.

  By then Leach was already headed in his direction, having spotted the single mounted man. They met about midway, in front of the troops, some of whom were leaning on their guns and others sitting on the ground catching their breaths. As they approached one another, Leach recognized Robert.

  “Why the devil don’t you get yourself a line regiment, Moreton?” he asked, laughing. “Every time I look around, there you are in the midst of the action, waving a pistol or a sword.”

  “M’ father won’t hear of—” Robert’s voice was drowned as a cannonball hit a tree with a tremendous crash and rolled among the men slowly enough, owing to its original impact, for them to step aside, “—it,” he continued, curbing his horse, which had taken violent exception to the sudden increase and change in the noise. “And m’ mother has the vapors every time she sees me in regimentals.”

  “And you went and married?” Leach remarked with mild astonishment.

  “Merry’s not like that at all!” Robert exclaimed.

  Another cannonball crashed through the trees. This one did not strike any object large enough to impede its progress and rushed in among the men. The sound had given warning, however. Some dodged, some threw themselves flat on the ground. One man was bruised as the ball barely touched his shoulder going by, but no one was seriously hurt.

  “One’s a mistake,” Leach said, “but two means t
hey’ve found us.” He turned his head toward the men. “On your feet, there,” he bellowed. “Form into your companies, smart.”

  “Do you know where General Hill is?” Robert asked, holding Hermes on a tight rein.

  “On the left wing,” Leach replied.

  “I’m off, then.” Robert gave a casual salute and loosened his reins. Hermes bounded forward, but Robert had to curb him almost immediately, the ground being unsafe for too rapid movement. His eyes were busy between watching the ground and seeking General Hill, but his mind had somehow stuck on his statement that, “Merry’s not like that at all.” It was true. Merry never made a fuss. She never had, right from the beginning when she was really in a terrible situation without money or identification. She hadn’t even mentioned her troubles until she had to explain why she was so eager to travel with him.

  Had he been wrong, Robert thought suddenly, to assume she didn’t care what happened to him just because she said it wasn’t necessary to tell her every time he was delayed? That was part of the same thing, not wanting to make a fuss. And then, with a terrible feeling of guilt, Robert remembered he had not sent her a note that morning. She would know a battle was about to take place. Tom Pace would have told her that if she had asked, and Robert, knowing how much interest Merry took in anything to do with the army, was sure she would have asked.

  Tonight he would have to ride back to Caldas, no matter what. Just as he made that decision, a burst of shouting came from over a rise of ground to Robert’s front. A horse came trotting forward, followed by a wave of men. A second company followed, led by an officer on foot with bare saber in hand. Robert angled Hermes in that direction, but had to hold back until the troops passed. Then, before he could cross the ground, he saw a group of horsemen led by General Hill charging forward on the far flank.

  He turned to follow and heard the first roll of musket fire, an answering roar, and a reply to that. As he drove Hermes up the last steep rise, bullets were flying pretty freely about, but most of them were directed too low to do him any harm. The fourth volley sounded ragged, and Robert muttered an obscenity, fearing that the charge had been broken. He drove his heels into Hermes’s sides, urging him to greater speed, but topping the rise seconds later, he was relieved to see the redcoats still moving forward. The weaker gunfire must have come from the French, and then another rolling volley came from the British line. Robert cursed again because the gunsmoke obscured his view and he lost sight of Hill and his staff once more.

  Driving forward in the general direction, Robert was startled to see a figure rise out of the smoke almost alongside him. Instinctively, he slashed with his saber, which he had not even remembered was still naked in his hand. As he struck, he cried out himself, fearing that he had injured one of the Ninety-fifth, whose dark-green uniforms could easily be mistaken for those of some French regiments. His conscience was immediately salved, however, for a ball whistled by his head as his blade came down, and the shrieked word the man uttered was not English.

  A minute later another gun went off so close that Hermes screamed, shied, and stumbled. Robert thought he had been hit, but he recovered and leapt forward. He must have stepped on the wounded man who had fired the gun, Robert realized, hastily thrusting his saber into its scabbard and drawing and cocking a pistol. He was just in time, as another soldier ran at him with a bayonet. He fired, and the man twisted away as he fell.

  For a while longer he was too busy to look for anyone, but a new wave of red-coated troops soon flooded into the area, and Robert was able to abandon self-defense. Fifteen minutes later he found General Hill and delivered his message, although it was fairly obvious that the British were now well lodged on the crest and assistance from the reserve would not be necessary unless a massive French counterattack was launched. Since this was most unlikely, considering Delaborde’s limitations in numbers, the general confirmed Robert’s unspoken opinion, added his thanks, and scribbled a brief note for Sir Arthur about the current situation.

  But Wellesley was little easier to find than Hill, and by the time Robert caught up with Sir Arthur, the French were beginning to retreat in earnest. There was no panic. Robert could feel nothing but admiration for the French, who fell back in regular formation, two battalions holding off the somewhat disordered British troops while the other two retreated.

  Robert felt immense pride in their own men also. Although they were not as disciplined, owing to lack of experience in the field, their spirit could not be faulted. Their organization was not nearly as good, largely because their officers were too enthusiastic and excited to control them properly, but they went forward hotly, driving off several charges by the polished chasseurs à cheval and pursuing the French with such determination that in the narrow pass behind Zambugeira they managed to capture three of Delaborde’s five guns and take a number of prisoners.

  The steady retreat took on some aspects of a rout then, but it was growing late and Sir Arthur was not willing to allow his raw troops to pursue farther than Cazal da Sprega. In the more open ground there was too great a chance of the French re-forming and the British getting completely out of hand. By the time all units were informed of this decision, every staff officer had ridden several horses into trembling exhaustion, and Sir Arthur’s young gentlemen were themselves not in much better physical condition than their horses. Emotionally, however, they were exultant.

  No matter that the force opposing them had been smaller than their own. The troops actually involved in the battle had been nearly a match in numbers. And possibly Delaborde would have tried to hold the ground with more determination had the British not outnumbered him, but they had dislodged him from the heights of Columbeira, a very strong position, with no more men than he had. The British had beat Boney’s “invincible” troops.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The army was ordered to camp on a ridge of high ground above the road leading to Lourinha while Sir Arthur set up temporary headquarters in Cazal da Sprega. As soon as they could, all senior officers rode in to consult and receive orders. They found Sir Arthur in good humor despite Colonel Lake’s ill-considered advance. Sir Arthur said more than once that he had never seen more gallant fighting than that of the Twenty-ninth and the Ninth, and he complimented all the senior officers on the behavior of the troops.

  Under the circumstances, the wine bottles passed with unusual freedom during dinner, and even after the ADCs who were off duty were dismissed, they had no inclination to curtail their celebration. Someone had unearthed a new supply of wine, and they settled down in a house adjoining Sir Arthur’s temporary headquarters to describe to each other their individual battle adventures.

  The family of the house they had taken over had at first been terrified, however, when the young men brought out money and Robert explained to them in their own language that they would be much safer with British officers quartered in their home, their welcome became quite enthusiastic. The eldest daughter of the house, who was helping her mother serve the young men, was particularly free with her smiles, the wannest of which along with the most frequent offers of food and more wine were bestowed on Robert. Naturally, it was not long before his fellow officers noticed this favoritism.

  “I think,” Colin Campbell said, “I am going to start a petition to get you sent home, Moreton, or at least to get you quartered in the next town. It was a pleasure at Alcobaça and Caldas when you rode back to Leiria. The girls paid attention to us for once.”

  “It’s damned unfair,” Burghersh complained. “You’ve already got a wife.”

  “Wife,” Robert said. “Good God, Merry will be worried! I’ve got to ride back to Caldas and tell her we won. She’ll be so glad.”

  “Can’t ride back alone.” Campbell shook his head. “There are bound to be French stragglers. Shoot you for your horse.”

  Robert glanced out the window. “Not dark. No more than ten miles altogether.”

  “Horses are all half-dead,” Burghersh pointed out. “You won’t get muc
h speed out of any of them. It will be dark before you pass Roliça.”

  “Got to go back anyway,” Robert insisted. He was just drunk enough to make him stubborn. “God knows what we’ll be doing tomorrow.”

  “Sweet woman, Mrs. Moreton.” Captain Williams’s voice was slightly slurred. “Wouldn’t want her to worry. Some of us can ride back with him. That would be safe enough. No sense staying here anyway. Once a girl’s caught sight of Moreton’s pretty face, the rest of us might just as well not be alive. We’ll do better in Caldas. There was a girl in a wine shop there—”

  “No, that was in Óbidos,” Campbell said. “But you’re right. Let’s ride back, push Moreton in with his wife, and be rid of him. Save him from himself. New-married man, don’t want to see him in the petticoat line—at least, not so soon.”

  Young and active as they all were, their exhaustion had mostly been cleared after dinner and the few hours’ rest they had taken. Moreover, enough excitement remained from the action they had seen and the perils they had personally experienced to make them restless. Thus, the idea of escorting Robert back to Caldas was seized upon with enthusiasm.

  Burghersh had sent his servant to get the least exhausted horses saddled. Not wishing to waste time or permit their high spirits to be dampened by exercise, each young man took along a bottle. Whether Campbell had exaggerated the dangers or the group was just large enough to discourage attack, they saw no one except a few belated carts carrying wounded into Roliça, French and British mixed together with a fine indifference.