Kings and Emperors (38 page)

Lewrie had been taken down below to the cockpit surgery a few times in his life, and could sympathise with the soldiers undergoing the surgeon's ghoulish ministrations. He could appreciate his ship's surgeons' wit and civility … but he had no wish to witness them at work. Already there was a small pile of amputated legs, arms, and hands laid out on a tarpaulin, gruesomely near wounded men who waited to be seen to, a wailing, cursing, praying lot. He heard the rasp of a bone saw, the screams of the soldier losing his right arm, and his ability to work, his regimental home, and most likely his life if his wound festered, and turned away.

There was a row of wounded men laid out on blankets, men who had been seen to, operated on, or given up as lost causes. A kindly looking older Sergeant with white hair was tending them, ladling water or rum to those who were awake and able to swallow, and Lewrie felt drawn to that group, no matter his distaste.

“Yessir?” the old Sergeant asked, looking up from his chores.

“There's a Captain Ford?” Lewrie said in a croak.

“'E's over 'ere, sir, poor fellow,” the Sergeant, said. “Goin' game, unlike some. You should face h'it as brave as th' Captain, you lot,” he gently admonished the dying. “You'll be with th' Lord in Paradise, some o' you, an' there's still time t'ask forgivness fer your sins, th' rest o' you. Want some 'elp prayin' do you, lads?”

Lewrie slowly paced down the row of wounded, unable to hide a grimace 'til he discovered Captain Ford, propped up on a field pack, and nude under a blanket. Some effort had been made to staunch his bleeding, but the bandages and cotton batt were soaked.

“Captain Ford?” Lewrie began, kneeling down beside him. “I
am
sorry, sir.”

“Ah, Captain Lewrie,” Ford said in a weak voice, though his face lit up with joy to have someone visit him. “I'm glad to see that you've come through unscathed, so far. We saw the French off right smartly, did we not?”

“In a panicked rout, sir,” Lewrie tried to assure him, and give him some cheer, “flyin' like flushed quail. That's four of their columns smashed, so far.”

“Ah, good,” Ford said in a sigh. “It appears that the column cannot prevail against the line. My First Leftenant, Acklin. Do you know if he is well?”

“I met him, briefly,” Lewrie told him. “Aye, he's whole, and your regimental Major told him to take command of your company.”

“Good, good,” Ford said, “young Acklin can be a thoughtless fellow, but he's shaping well as an officer. My men will be in good hands, thank the Lord. I'd
dearly
like to see how the battle goes, but—” Ford cut off with a wince and a stifled groan of pain. “I'm done for, you know.” To which Lewrie could only nod. “A belly wound. You don't come back from those. There's nothing the surgeons can do for you, but make you comfortable. God grant me a quick exit, for I fear I might un-man myself does the pain get much worse … Aaahh!”

He stiffened as another wave of pain took him.

“I enjoyed our discussion this morning, Captain Ford,” Lewrie said, knowing full well that men wounded like Ford could linger for days, screaming in agony as their stomachs and bowels went gangrenous. “It was delightful to hear such a fine exposition on the units of the French army.”

“Always was a quick study,” Ford said with what sounded like a deprecating laugh, even as his pain ravaged him. “I knew when I went for a soldier that one must learn all one can about the enemy … unlike some,” he added, making a face, then turned serious and looked Lewrie directly in the eyes. “I am ready, you know, Captain Lewrie. My will is made, and my last letters to my parents written. They might not recoup all the costs of purchasing my commission, not in a fielded regiment, but, today's laurels
may
encourage some young fellow to buy into a successful regiment. If we'd only managed to capture one of their damned eagles … aahh! Damn!” He broke off, groaning and gritting his teeth.

“Is there anything I can do for you, Ford?” Lewrie asked him. “Water, or some rum, or…?”

“Just enough to wet my mouth, I fear,” Ford said with another stoic grin as the pain passed for a moment. “The surgeons say that I'm not to drink anything. The bowels, you see.”

Lewrie offered him his canteen, which Ford used to dab at his dry lips, and swirl round his parched mouth.

“If someone could prevail upon the butchers to allow me a dose of laudanum,” Ford supposed, looking skyward. “I am
trying
to go game, but, Lord, it is hard!”

“I will ask them for you,” Lewrie promised, feeling a cowardly urge to get away from Ford, as if dying was catching. Men who'd died aboard his ships passed away out of sight on the orlop, unseen if not unheard, mourned later, after they'd been committed to the sea. He had never sat with one of them, not for long.

“I'd admire if you did, Captain Lewrie,” Ford said, extending his right hand. Lewrie took it, and felt him squeeze as his pains gnawed harder for a moment. “Buzzards, or kites? Or are there vultures in Portugal, do you know?”

“What?” Lewrie gawped.

“Those foul birds circling up there,” Ford said, jutting his chin skyward, and Lewrie looked up to see a whole flock of scavenger birds gyring about. “Wish they were larks, or something else. Just waiting for their feast, the horrid things. I wonder if you could tuck me up, Captain Lewrie. I'm feeling a bit of a chill.”

Lewrie lifted the rough army blanket up to pull it higher to cover Ford's chest, noting that his thick pad of bandages were soaked red and dripping. He drew the blood-wet blanket up under Ford's chin. “That better?”

“Yes, don't know why … such a warm morning…,” Ford dreamily said. “If you'd hold my hand awhile longer, sir?”

Lewrie took hands with him, waving his left to atract the old Sergeant's attention, who came over with his ladle and pail.

“'E ain't t'have no water, sir.”

“His wound's bleeding heavily, and he says he's cold,” Lewrie told him. “One of the surgeons—”

“Won't do no good, sir,” the old Sergeant said, shaking his head and whispering. “'At's a blessin', an' God's mercy 'at 'e's bleedin' out. 'E'll go quick, all fer th' best, 'at is.”

Lewrie could feel Ford's hand go slack in his, and lowered it to the blanket, then stood up. “A brave fellow.”

“'E was, sir,” the Sergeant agreed. “A friend o' yours?”

“Only met him this morning,” Lewrie said, feeling bleak.

“You did a kindly thing fer 'im, sir, God bless you, an' sure when h'it's your time, you'll be rewarded,” the Sergeant said with a pious bob of his head. “You run along, now, sir, an' we'll see 'im inta th' ground proper. Wot was 'is name?”

“Captain Samuel Ford, of your regiment's Light Company,” Lewrie told him. “You said you knew him by name.”

“Make a note of h'it, I will.”

Lewrie took off his hat and laid it on his chest for a moment, then clapped it back on as the sounds of battle swelled. Cannonfire, bursting shrapnel shells, French drums and
“Vive l'Empereur!”
, and the long crackling of rolling volley fire from thousands of muskets.

He went back to the crest of the ridge to look both East and West to see French columns sway-marching into battle, unwilling to admit that they had met their match, and that their vaunted tactics no longer prevailed.

Horses neighed, drawing his attention down the line where Sir Arthur Wellesley and an older, stouter General in a red coat dripping with gold-lace sat their mounts in discussion.

“Captain Lewrie?” someone called out.

“Hey?” he called back, swivelling round to see who spoke.

“You came up to see the battle,
too
, sir?” Lt. Beauchamp, who had been his guide the day before, said in delight as he reined his horse over from the generals.

“Still an aide, Lieutenant Beauchamp?” Lewrie asked with a grin.

“A galloper today, sir, one end of the ridge to the other,” the young fellow breezily boasted.

“Who's the stout fellow yonder with Wellesley?” Lewrie said, pointing.

“Oh Lord, that's General Sir Henry Burrard, sir,” Beauchamp said in a lower voice, pulling a face, “come to see how our General's running the battle.”

“Hope he leaves well enough alone,” Lewrie commented, not liking the look of the newcomer, and his skeptical scowling.

“Amen, sir, we seem to have the French well in hand, so far,” Beauchamp agreed quickly. “Unless they come up with a new tactic, it looks as if they'll throw their army away trying to batter against us. We're reaping a wondrous slaughter!”

“So it seems, sir,” Lewrie agreed. “You know, Burrard is known as ‘Betty' Burrard?” he added with a sly grin.

“Well, he's in a bad position, Captain Lewrie, sir,” Beauchamp said, idly flicking his reins. “If Sir Arthur wins, he'll get no credit for it, and I hear that Lieutenant-General Sir Hew Dalrymple will be coming from Gibraltar to take charge in the field, and Burrard'll have to play second to him, and if something goes wrong after that, Burrard might end up with the blame for it.”

“Not exactly Admiral Nelson's ‘band of brothers,' is it, sir?” Lewrie commented with a guffaw. “Though it makes me wonder if those gentlemen in my Service ever
really
eschewed playin' personal politics all that long. No one's
that
un-ambitious.”

“Our officer's mess in the Ninth has made
me
more cynical,” Lt. Beauchamp replied with frank honesty. “God help our army do some of my fellows gain high rank.”

“Galloper, here!” General Wellesley barked out. “Beauchamp! Quit that prittle-prattle with the
naval
person. I've a directive for Ferguson, out beyond Ventosa. He's to shift positions Eastward and prepare to receive a fresh attack.”

“Very good, sir!” Lt. Beauchamp loudly replied, stiffly formal and tossing off a quick salute as he took the folded-over despatch and reined his mount about to gallop off.

The naval person, am I?
Lewrie thought, grinning over that description. He ambled back up to the crest of the ridge, near where the two generals sat their horses, noting that Wellesley and Burrard were observing the battle below, without saying a single word to each other, studiously avoiding even looking at each other.

Lewrie pulled out his pocket watch to note the time; just 11
A.M.
The French had been shoving their massive columns forward for nigh two hours, now, with nothing to show for it. He traded his watch for his telescope and looked West to the latest attack near Vimeiro.

Good God, are they fightin' hand-to-hand?
he gawped. Red coats and blue coats looked mingled, with a lot less musket smoke than before. Even as he realised the fierceness of the fight, though, blue-uniformed soldiers began to fall back, to turn and run, far enough for a brace of British guns to open upon them again, and the wide defile into which the French had attacked was now lined with green-coated Riflemen on either side, sniping at the confused mass and making a rich harvest.

“Rifles,” he heard Wellesley grump. “Damned useful.”

“Primadonnas,” Burrard commented, squirming in his saddle but not looking at Wellesley, and ignoring that fight as well, looking to the far distance to the South. “Too slow to fire, too.”

Lewrie swivelled about to look East to where three French columns had launched their attack, but that looked to be pretty-much over, too, shelled then shot to pieces at close range and thrown back in confusion. The two fresh columns forming to make yet another attack beyond the little village of Ventosa had yet to move forward.

“You, there,” Lewrie heard from his right side as the soft clops of an approaching horse pricked his senses. “Whatever are you
doing
here, sir?”

“Trying t'make sense of how the French fight, sir,” Lewrie re-joined, lowering his telescope and turning to face Wellesley, looking up a considerable distance, for the General was a rather tall man on a tall horse. He doffed his hat in salute. “Captain Sir Alan Lewrie, of HMS
Sapphire,
at your service, sir.”

Wellesley's salute was a riding crop tapped on his plain, and unadorned bicorne. “You have powder round your mouth, Sir Alan. Done some shooting, have you?”

“As the attack came up the ridge just yonder, a few minutes ago, Sir Arthur,” Lewrie told him. “Seemed a good idea to contribute.”

“With a Sea Pattern musket?” Wellesley sniffed, sounding dubious.

“A breech-loading rifled Ferguson, sir,” Lewrie informed him, un-slinging the weapon and holding it out for Sir Arthur to inspect. “Good for at least one hundred fifty to two hundred yards.”

“Formed any opinions of the French, have you, Captain Lewrie?” Wellesley asked after looking the rifled musket over and handing it back. His eyes had lit up in enthusiasm to see such a rarity; perhaps that was why he seemed less stiff. That thin-lipped, imperious mouth of his almost showed a faint smile.

“Well, it strikes me that the column is all they know,” Lewrie commented, removing his hat to ruffle his sweaty hair. “Once stopped, they just keep on doin' the same old thing, hopin' for the best. At Trafalgar—I wasn't there, but my son was, and wrote me of it—Nelson attacked with
two
columns, took horrid punishment to punch through the enemy line of battle, and turned it into a melee, throwin' all he had at 'em at once. Here, though…,” he said, tossing in a shrug of bewilderment, “four or five columns, closer together, attackin' at once
might
prevail, but … I'm just a sailor, so what do I know of it? Land fighting? You're welcome to it, sir. They keep this up, they'll ruin themselves by dark.”