“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.”
“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.