Simon Scarrow - Fire and Sword

Mondego Bay itself was covered by a centuries-old fort constructed from a pale yellow stone, and the British fleet was about to move on when a small boat put out from the shore and made directly for the British warships. On board was the excited representative of a group of students from Coimbra University. In broken English he explained that they had seized the fort from the small French garrison that had been posted there by General Junot.

‘How long ago?’

‘Two days.’ The student grinned. ‘Two days before, we kick them out.’

‘Kicked them out? You let them go?’

‘Yes!’ The student nodded. ‘They run like dogs with tails between legs.’

‘Then they will have had time to report the loss of the fort,’ Arthur mused. He turned to Admiral Cotton, the commander of the naval squadron. Cotton was a senior officer of long experience who approached his duty with caution. ‘We have to ensure that the army is ashore before the French can retake the fort.’

Cotton looked surprised and gestured towards the shore, where a wide expanse of rough-looking surf pounded the sand.‘It is not a good place to land your army, Sir Arthur.The conditions are too difficult, too dangerous.’

‘We’ll land here,’ Arthur replied firmly. ‘We have already sailed a hundred miles up the coast from Lisbon searching for a suitable place. We cannot afford to keep looking or we will put too great a distance between us and our goal.We land here. Now, I would be grateful if you would send ashore a hundred of your marines to reinforce our gallant student allies.’ Arthur patted the Portuguese youth on the shoulder and the latter beamed with pride as he puffed out his chest.

Admiral Cotton looked wearily at the student and shrugged his shoulders.‘As you wish. I will have our marines ashore within the hour.’

‘Thank you,Admiral. Let me know the moment we are in possession of the fort. Then we can begin disembarking our troops at once. In the meantime I propose to entertain our young guest in the wardroom, if you don’t mind?’

‘Not at all,’ Cotton grumbled. ‘Be my guest.’

Arthur led the student down the gangway and automatically ducked as they went below deck.There was a bump and a groan behind him as the student learned the first lesson of naval architecture.

‘Mind your head,’ Arthur muttered unhelpfully.

As the student drank eagerly from the decanter placed before him, Arthur questioned him about life under the French. The student’s cheerfulness faded as he told of the arrogance and cruelty of Bonaparte’s soldiers.They stripped the land of food and valuables as they passed and punished any attempt at resistance by the Portuguese people with wanton severity. Five days earlier, so the student said, a French patrol had been set upon by the townspeople of Évora when the French had attempted to take gold and silver plate from the local church. In return, the commander of the nearest French division, General Loison, had marched a column to Évora and killed every man, woman and child in the town. There was nothing left there but bodies and ghosts, the student said with scarcely suppressed rage.

As Arthur listened to him, and shared his anger at the horrors of war, he could not help feeling a measure of satisfaction that the French had, as ever, managed to turn the local population against them. Now Arthur could be sure that the Portuguese would welcome the British soldiers about to descend on their land. Of course, it was essential that every man in the army knew how vital it was to behave in a way that would retain the support and loyalty of the locals. He decided that it was time to issue his first General Order, so that the troops would understand that Portugal was a friendly country and no liberties were to be taken with the property or persons of the Portuguese.

As the student came to the end of his account, there was a knock and a marine entered the wardroom and saluted.

‘General, there’s a brig joining the fleet. They’ve signalled that they have an urgent despatch on board for you.’

‘Thank you.’ Arthur turned back to the student and poured them both a glass before proposing a toast.

‘To Portugal and Britain! Allies and sworn enemies of the Corsican tyrant.’

‘Yes.’The student nodded. ‘Death to the French!’

‘Yes,’ Arthur agreed. ‘Even that. Death to the French.’

Once he had escorted the student back on deck and seen to it that the youth made it safely back aboard his boat, Arthur turned and looked for the brig.The small ship had hove to astern of the admiral’s flagship and a small cutter was being lowered into the water. Four sailors took the oars and a midshipman climbed into the stern clutching a bag of despatches and letters. The small craft bobbed across the waves as the sailors rowed lustily, and a short time later the midshipman was standing on the broad deck of the flagship offering a sealed document to Arthur.

‘From London, sir, War Office.’

Arthur returned the salute and took the despatch below to the wardroom, where he closed the door and broke the seal on the stitched canvas covering. Like most orders that were carried at sea, they had been covered with waterproofed canvas and contained an iron weight to send the message to the bottom of the sea if the vessel carrying them was intercepted. Placing the iron bar to one side, Arthur took out the envelope addressed to him and flipped it over to see that it had been sent directly from the office of Viscount Castlereagh, the Secretary of State for War. Arthur opened the envelope, unfolded the letter and began to read the contents swiftly.

Castlereagh reported that the latest intelligence received from British spies in Portugal was that General Junot’s army might contain over forty thousand men. Accordingly, the War Office had decided to send a further fifteen thousand men to join Arthur’s force in Portugal, and Castlereagh regretted to inform Sir Arthur that the combined force would be of such a size that a more senior officer would be required to command it.

Arthur felt the dead weight of disappointment settle on his soul. Once again fate seemed to have conspired against him. At the very moment when he was on the verge of commencing his first independent command in the European theatre of war, he was about to be trumped by a senior officer.

He read on. The combined force was to be placed under the command of Sir Hew Dalrymple. Arthur tried to recall what he knew of the man. Sir Hew must be nearly twenty years older than Arthur. He had seen very little active service, and even that was over ten years ago. Sir Hew was to be accompanied by Sir Harry Burrard and four other officers who would be above Arthur in the new chain of command. He clenched his fist and took a deep breath to calm his temper and ease the frustration that burned away inside. At length he read the final paragraph. He frowned, and read it again, slowly and deliberately, and then lowered the letter with a faint smile. The Secretary for War had concluded by ordering Arthur not to wait for his superiors to catch up but to continue his operation to seize Lisbon as speedily as possible.

‘God bless you, Castlereagh,’Arthur muttered.There was a chance for him yet, provided he did not waste a moment. Folding the letter, he stood up swiftly and promptly whacked his head on the low ceiling. He emerged on deck, rubbing his crown, then jammed his hat on his head and strode across to join Admiral Cotton.

‘I have just received orders from London.’

‘So?’

‘We are to land the army immediately.’

‘Immediately? Why, half the day is gone already, Sir Arthur. My marines have only just taken charge of the fort. It would be best to wait until the morrow.’

Arthur shook his head.‘There is no time to waste.The army must be landed at once.’