Kings and Emperors (39 page)

“No,” Wellesley countered, turning steely-eyed again. “By mid-day, I fully expect. I hope you enjoyed yourself, Captain Lewrie.”

With that, he tapped his riding crop to his hat and kneed his horse away at a trot towards Ventosa, leaving General Burrard behind. Lewrie heard a muffled “Goddamn” as Burrard spurred after him.

Lewrie looked over the battlefield below, suddenly feeling the urge to be away, to be back aboard ship where things made sense, and leave this form of butchery to those more accustomed to it. His right hand felt sticky, and he found that it and his shirt cuff were bloodied with Captain Ford's gore. He would have washed it off, but his canteen, he also discovered, was almost empty, and he wondered where he'd drunk so much of it. His feet complained inside his boots, and he was tired and sore, and wolf-hungry.

He groped for his sausages, bisquit, and cheese, but they were nowhere to be found.
Must've dropped 'em when I flung myself flat,
he told himself, envying the soldier who picked them up.

What was left of the battle was happening far to the East beyond Ventosa. There didn't look to be any French threat on the right round Vimeiro; even the battle smoke had cleared over there, so he ambled to the backside of the ridge, found his borrowed horse, and set off at a slow walk back down to Vimeiro, allowing the horse a drink from the Maceira at the ford. He got down from the saddle to wash his hands, dab at his powder-stained mouth, and re-fill his canteen, then went on into the village.

The army's baggage train had come up near the water, a bit to the North of the village. Lewrie supposed that he could cadge some salt-meat and hard bisquit, but, there were some of the Irish waggoners nearby, round a campfire, cooking something that smelled simply amazing, and he led his horse over to them.

“Dere's me passenger from dis mornin',” his pre-dawn carter said, pointing Lewrie out to his mates. “Have yerself a nice battle, did ye, sor?”

“It was an eye-opener, aye, and God help all soldiers,” Lewrie replied.

“We winnin' it, sor?” another asked.

“It certainly looks like it,” Lewrie told him. “What's cooking, and could you spare me a morsel or two?”

The meat on the spits was not chunks of salt-meat junk; it looked more like rabbit, or chicken. The army had Provosts to prevent looting and foraging, but the civilian carters did not quite fall under their authority, and would have ignored them if they did. Not only did they have rabbit and chicken, but, true to the carter's word, they had baked fresh bread, not the dark army-issue ammunition loaf, but Irish soda bread, and where they had gotten the eggs and milk to make their dough didn't bear thinking about.

Dark meat was most people's preference, but since beggars can't be choosers, Lewrie ended up with a pair of scrawny chicken breasts, and two thumb-thick slices of bread liberally spread with butter for the princely sum of six pence. The carters drove a hard bargain, sniggering in glee to rook an Englishman and an officer, but he paid it gladly, and found himself a low stone wall along the rutted road that ran through Vimeiro for his dining table, washing it all down with canteen water, and not above licking his fingers when he was done, dignity be-damned.

There were rather a lot of flies, though, and Summer swarms of midges or gnats to pester him during his meal. After a long look round, he discovered that there was another field surgery set up in the village, wounded soldiers trickling to it from the last attack by the French on this part of the line; was it his imagination, or did the humming of myriads of flies dominate over the moans and cries of the hurt and dying?

A troop of cavalry came clattering by at the lope, in some urgency, swinging out to the hills to the South. Somewhere, drummers began to beat the Long Roll, bugles blew, and weary soldiers arose from where they rested, armed themselves, and began to form ranks, as if yet another pair of French columns would make a fresh attempt upon the village. Brigadiers and Colonels and their aides left the two-storey house that served as headquarters, quickly saddled up, and loped off to follow the cavalry troop down the road that led to Torres Vedras and Lisbon.

He was tired, yes, but Lewrie's curiosity was piqued, so he mounted his horse and rode South to see what was happening, coming abeam of a clutch of mounted officers busy with their telescopes.

“Bless my soul, it
ain't
an attack,” he heard one Colonel say. “There's no more than one squadron of cavalry, flying a flag of truce!”

“Think you're right, Bob,” a Brigadier agreed. “Damn my eyes, but I believe there's a General with them. It's Kellermann, by God, the fellow with the white hair? Oh, a clever old fox is Kellermann. Practically saved their revolution in Ninety-Three, when everyone in Europe marched against the French frontiers. Fought them all off with his
levée en masse
.”

“Well, he's come to pull their chestnuts from the fire today, sir!” the Colonel whooped. “We've broken them, bloodied every one of their damned battalions! I wonder if His Nibs will settle for a truce, or demand surrender.”

“Won't be up to Wellesley,” the Brigadier grumbled. “That'll be up to ‘Betty' Burrard, he's senior.”

Good Christ, we've
won
!
Lewrie thought with glee;
They
ain't
invincible!
As hapless as the British Army had behaved in Holland, as disastrous as their efforts had been at Buenos Aires where two armies had been forced to surrender to half-trained, poorly-armed Argentine patriots, no one had given this army, or “Sepoy” General Sir Arthur Wellesley, much of a chance against the French, yet…! The odds had been beaten, the
French
had been beaten, beaten like a
drum,
and Lewrie was suddenly very glad, and proud, to have seen it happen, and take even a minuscule part in it!

I could be dined out on this tale for
years
!
he crowed.

Gallopers were headed along the ridge line to pass the word, and Lewrie identified Lt. Beauchamp coming from the opposite direction, with Wellesley and Burrard just crossing the Maceira to come to the parley.

With a sense of satisfaction and conclusion, Lewrie turned his horse about and headed back to the bay, crossing the shallow Maceira and threading his way through the baggage train to the open plain between the hills. It was a long two miles, but he let the horse pick its own way down to the sea. He worried whether there would be someone to take charge of the beast, or would he have to leave it to graze with dropped reins. It had been a poor prad, but it had served him well enough, and he gave the horse an encouraging pat on its neck.

Fortunately, there were soldiers from the Commissariat loading more waggons and carts to bear fresh supplies from the ships up to the army, and one of their officers swore that he'd look after it.

And there were boats plying 'twixt the supply ships and the shore, and Lewrie managed to flag one down and cadge a ride out to
Sapphire,
out where he belonged, waded out to clamber aboard and take a seat on the stern-most thwart beside a Midshipman.

“How goes the battle, sir?” the young lad asked. “No one can tell us anything.”

“The French are suing for terms,” Lewrie told him, grinning. “We beat the bastards, and broke every one of their battalions.”

“Huzzah, sir! Hear that, lads?” the Mid called to his oarsmen. “We've won the battle!”

Lewrie closed his eyes and slumped in weariness, still with a pleased smile on his face, quite enjoying the rock, pitch, and thrust of the boat's motion as it was stroked out into the bay.

Once aboard, I think I'll have me a sponge-off, and a good, long nap,
he promised himself.

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

The
Phoebe
frigate came into the bay the day after the battle, and a great military show it was to form a grand parade to welcome Lieutenant-General Sir Hew Dalrymple to his new post as Commander-In-Chief of British forces in Portugual. Lewrie watched it from a comfortable sling-chair on
Sapphire
's poop deck, sheltered from the heat under a canvas awning that spanned the length and breadth of that deck.

He thought it odd, even so, that the army had returned to its encampments, with only a few regiments still posted to keep an eye on the French. Those officers he had overheard as they had awaited the arrival of General Kellermann and his truce party had opined that once the French were dis-armed, the army would march on Torres Vedras, nearer to the prize, Lisbon, for there were very good defensive positions to be had there and that they should strike while the iron was hot.

That was up to General Burrard, Lewrie supposed, and none of a sailor's business, but he thought it silly to spruce up and march to band music just to make a show for Sir Hew. Frankly, he, and all his crew were growing tired of idling at anchor off the mouth of the Maceira, watching boats working by day and night to ferry off wounded soldiers to ships that would bear them back to England and proper hospitals. Shouldn't they be going
somewhere
?

*   *   *

It was a couple of days later before orders turned up to sail, and they came mid-morning during cutlass drill.

“Boat ahoy!” Midshipman Ward shouted overside at an approaching rowboat, using a brass speaking-trumpet to augment his thin shrill.

“Despatches for your Captain!” came the reply, and a side-party was hastily assembled. Lewrie broke off his own sword practise with Marine Lieutenant Roe and went to the bulwarks in his shirtsleeves.

“Oh, Goddamn,” he groaned, “it's that damned fool, Hughes.”

“It seems he's rejoined Sir Hew's staff, sir,” Lt. Roe said, making a sour face. “Better there than in command of troops, I suppose. At least he won't stumble about and get himself captured again, on staff.”

“Well, there are proper soldiers, and then there are
clerks,
Mister Roe,” Lewrie quipped. “I'm sure he has all his paperwork just tiddly.”

Lewrie sheathed his hanger and trotted down to the quarterdeck to welcome Hughes aboard, loath as he was to clap “top lights” on him again. He even plastered on a grin.

“Ah, Captain Hughes! Welcome aboard,” he said in greeting as Hughes completed his climb up the battens to the deck.

“Good morning, Captain Lewrie,” Hughes purred back, in kind, “though, there was a sudden vacancy and I was able to purchase a promotion. It's Major Hughes, now. Substantive, not brevet.”

“Congratulations, Major Hughes,” Lewrie amended. “Care for a ‘wet' in my cabins? Cool tea, or cool wine?”

“Thank you, sir, I'd much appreciate it,” Hughes said with an
harumph.
“Sir Hew has need of you and your ship to bear despatches to Admiral Cotton, off Lisbon, and another set for General Drummond at Gibraltar.”

“This way, if you please, Major Hughes,” Lewrie bade, waving an arm towards the coolness of his great-cabins.

*   *   *

Once seated on the starboard-side settee, and with a glass of wine in his hand, Hughes gave him a quizzical look. “I heard tell that you were ashore the day of the battle, sir, potting the odd Frenchman alongside the soldiers, what?”

“Curiosity, aye, and I was,” Lewrie said agreeably. “Quite the sight to see, Frogs dyin' in droves, and runnin' like rabbits.”

Left unsaid was “You should have been there,” and Hughes was aware of it. He
harumphed
again and took a deeper sip of his wine.

“Yayss,” Hughes drawled, “young Wellesley did well, for his first encounter with the French. His victory convinced them to offer terms, with their fellow, Kellermann, speaking for Marshal Junot, of even greater import. We refer to it as the Convention of Cintra, the largest town nearby. Junot is offering to evacuate all of Portugal.”

“Well, just damn my eyes!” Lewrie exclaimed, wishing he had something stronger than his cool tea to toast that. “But, doesn't Junot have the bulk of his hundred thousand troops still whole, and grouped round Lisbon? Why should he just give it all up?”

“Well, he's
surrounded,
Captain Lewrie,” Hughes boasted. “He is blockaded by sea, bound in by the Tagus River at Lisbon, and has nowhere to go but to straggle back cross the rough mountains into Spain. Here,” he offered, handing over two thick packets of reports and letters. “There is a letter for you, a summary of the terms of the treaty, so you may answer any of Admiral Cotton's, or General Drummond's, questions on the broader points. Yes, it's best that the French evacuate Lisbon, and their other enclaves, before they run out of provisions and Sir Hew's troop positions prevent them from foraging the countryside.”

Lewrie opened his letter and scanned down the terms, quickly scowling in dis-belief.

“Mine arse on a
band-box
!” he barked. “Ship 'em home to France, on
British
ships, with all their arms, flags, and personal possessions? They'll be on parole, won't they? Unable to serve against us 'til exchanged for an equal number of British prisoners?”

“Ah, no,” Major Hughes carefully corrected. “That would require the existence of an hundred thousand or so British soldiers held by the French, already, and we know
that
ain't so. Equally, there would be no way to enforce that rule once Junot's army is back on French soil, so that demand was not made.”

“Good Christ, Hughes, we'll just hand Napoleon a whole bloody army back? ‘Sorry 'bout that, just dust 'em off and they'll be good as new, and better luck the next time'?” Lewrie fumed. “Mine arse on a band-box, has Sir Hew addled his brains? If it was up to me, the whole lot'd be stripped naked and sent back over the Pyrenees with their thumbs up their arseholes, and marchin' on their heels and elbows!”