The few hundred inhabitants of Villa Nova, caught in the fearladen interval between the withdrawal of an occupying army and the arrival of the liberators, had done as generations before them, seeking refuge behind doors and shutters, and begging protection of the Almighty through the intercessions of the Blessed Virgin and numerous patron saints. They feared the fire of enemy and friend alike, and knew how rapacious a liberator could be in the heated blood of battle. The French had been proper enough occupiers, for the most part paying for rather than taking, and so sudden had been their departure early that morning that they had left without the customary depredations. That was fortunate indeed, but soon would follow their fellow countrymen, and allies; and those citizens of this quiet and unfashionable suburb on the wrong side of the Douro who had not already hidden their valuables now did so. Wives and daughters sought further refuge in cellars or eaves, smearing their clothes, hair and faces with anything that smelled foul – even with excrement – so as to render themselves repulsive to the most determined raptor (it could be a heavy price that a husband or father paid for the ejection of the invader – ironic that liberation bore its cost). Now, the narrow, cobbled streets, running steep and straight to the wide Douro, were peopled only by cats, and scabbed dogs which dug among the refuse of the fleeing army, scavengers which might have found meatier fare had the army decided to contest the streets rather than give them up to a few cavalry patrols.
Hervey’s men dismounted and advanced warily nevertheless, two dragoons at point with carbines ready. Hervey himself scanned the buildings on either side of the street for an open window, to hail someone with his few words of Portuguese and Spanish; but he saw none.
Colonel Shaw glanced about even more, like an owl, surprising Hervey by the sudden change from languor. His eyes kept returning to a large building on a promontory to the right. ‘The convent of Serra, Mr Hervey. It should afford us a clear prospect of the far bank.’ He did not consult his map. The country was imprinted on his mind.
‘Do we take a look there, sir?’
Colonel Shaw shook his head the merest fraction, enough to convey that he was most decided on it. ‘It is very evidently apt for its purpose: the artillery shall have it. I want to get to the water’s edge.’
Hervey was puzzled. If Colonel Shaw wished to slip undetected across the Douro in broad daylight then he could scarcely be choosing a less promising place, for the heights on the southern side of the river were matched by those on the north; what could be seen from the Serra convent could as easily be seen from the other side.
Or so it seemed. But when they came to the water’s edge, they found a wild place of reeds and rushes, unlike the wharves of the far bank. Five minutes’ searching with their telescopes found no sign of the French on the heights opposite.
‘They conceal themselves skilfully, sir,’ said Hervey, sounding surprised.
‘It is curious indeed,’ replied Shaw, in a lowered voice, so that the Douro’s gentle lapping made Hervey strain to hear him.
It was not the colonel’s voice he heard next but Armstrong’s. ‘Boat, sir,’ he whispered almost, gesturing over his shoulder with his thumb. ‘Hidden, I mean. Not very big, mind. Two or three men at most. But it’d serve.’
Colonel Shaw’s ears pricked. ‘Has it oars?’
‘Ay, sir, a pair on ’em.’
‘Careless of Soult, that; very,’ he declared, standing tall now among the reeds, hat off, telescope to his eye once more. ‘Tut, tut; even more careless to leave boats on his own side in such a place. See, Hervey: by that place with the red and white flag yonder.’
Hervey picked up the reference point with his spyglass, searching left and right until he realized that what he had first taken for a wharf was in fact several barges of the type that, until war interrupted the trade, brought barrels of the region’s wine down the Douro to English merchantmen anchored in the estuary. This morning they lay empty, and the possibilities were at once apparent.
Colonel Shaw shook his head as he tutted, taking a second look with his telescope. ‘Why in the name of heaven did he not have them towed to the river mouth if he hadn’t the stomach to fire them?’
Hervey assumed the question was rhetorical. He certainly had no opinion to offer. He was more occupied with what the colonel intended next. Would he take the boat, and cross? He himself thought they should send word to the engineers that there were strong and ready pontoons with which to improvise a bridge: the one stone bridge, from what he could make of it, was now a work of many days’ restoration, even weeks. Perhaps first, though, the infantry might be able to use the boats to get across? Except that the boats were on the wrong side.
Colonel Shaw snapped shut his telescope and reached inside his coat. He took out an oilskin package no bigger than a fist, unwrapped a vellum notebook, squatted with his left leg under him to rest the book on a foreleg, and began writing in a small, neat hand.To Colonel George Murray for immediate attn Sir AW. Convent of Serra affords commanding battery. Opportunity presents for immediate crossing under cover of guns. Company of light troops may be ferried as one. French not at all active.
He tore out the page, folded it and slipped it inside a waxed envelope. ‘Mr Hervey, may I rely on one of your men to take this with all speed to Sir Arthur Wellesley’s headquarters? Do you know how it is to be found?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Hervey checked the impulse to add ‘of course’. It was every cavalry officer’s duty to know how may be found the superior headquarters. ‘I shall take it myself.’
‘No, Mr Hervey. I would have you stay with me. Your corporal here, perhaps.’
But Hervey preferred that Armstrong remained with him, not least for Sir Edward Lankester’s purpose: some opportunity for distinction. There was none to be had galloping, unless with the victory despatch (and that, he knew, was a privilege that would never fall to any of them). ‘I have a lance-corporal who will do it capitally, sir.’
‘A lance-corporal? Great heavens, Mr Hervey, but you have a very high opinion of your men! Yours is the decision, however. I would speak with him, though.’
‘Of course.’ Hervey turned to Armstrong. ‘Collins, please, Corporal.’
Armstrong and two dragoons steadied the skiff as Hervey and then Colonel Shaw clambered in.
‘There’s room for me an’ all, sir.’
Hervey saw there was, just. He glanced at the colonel, taking up the oars as if he were back once more on the river at Shrewsbury.
‘No, Mr Hervey. Two are sufficient to my purpose. There will soon be enough for all your men to do, please God.’
Armstrong pulled a face. He had found the skiff after all.
But another voice intruded, agitated, pleading. ‘Senhor, senhor, se faz favor! ’
Armstrong swung his carbine round.
The voice became frantic. ‘Plees, long leef king!’
Armstrong grabbed hold of a dapper little man with oiled hair and mustachios.
‘Plees, my sheep, my sheep!’
Colonel Shaw turned and gabbled so fast that Hervey could make out but two or three words.
The dapper little man replied, less frightened now, though Hervey could still catch barely a word. There were a few more exchanges, and then Colonel Shaw turned back to him.
‘Mr Hervey, give this fellow five dollars. I have promised him ten more if we don’t return his boat in good fettle. Have your corporal mark that, if you will.’