Simon Scarrow - Fire and Sword

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 following 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.