“We are here,” Lapeña said, placing a bean just north of Vejer, “and the enemy are here,” he put another bean on Chiclana, “and we have three roads by which we may approach the enemy. The first, and longest, is to the east, through Medina Sidonia.” Another bean served to mark the town. “But we know the French have a garrison there. Is that not right, monsieur?” he appealed to Brouard.
“A formidable garrison,” Brouard said, separating the drumstick from the carcass with a surgeon’s skill.
“So we shall find ourselves between Marshal Victor’s army here”—Lapeña touched the bean marking Chiclana—“and the garrison here.” He indicated Medina Sidonia. “We can avoid the garrison, Sir Thomas, by taking the second road. That goes north from here and will approach Chiclana from the south. It is a bad road. It is not direct. It climbs into these hills”—his forefinger tapped some hatch marks—“and the French will have picquets there. Is that not so, monsieur?”
“Many picquets,” Brouard said, easing out the wishbone. “You should inform your chef, mon général, that if he removes the wishbone before cooking the bird, the carving will be made easier.”
“How good to know that,” Lapeña said, then looked back to Sir Thomas. “The picquets will apprise Marshal Victor of our approach so he will be ready for us. He will confront us with numbers superior to our own. In all conscience, Sir Thomas, I cannot use that road, not if we are to gain the victory we both pray for. But fortunately there is a third road, a road that goes along the sea. Here”—Lapeña paused, putting a fourth bean on the shoreline—“is a place called…” He hesitated, unsure what place the bean marked and finding no help from the map.
“Barrosa,” an aide said.
“Barrosa! It is called Barrosa. From there, Sir Thomas, there are tracks across the heath to Chiclana.”
“And the French will know we’re using them,” Sir Thomas said, “and they’ll be ready for us.”
“True!” Lapeña seemed pleased that Sir Thomas had understood such an elementary point. “But here, Sir Thomas”—his finger moved to the mouth of the Sancti Petri—“is General Zayas with a whole corps of men. If we march to…” He paused again.
“Barrosa,” the aide said.
“Barrosa,” Lapeña said energetically, “then we can combine with General Zayas. Together we shall outnumber the French! At Chiclana they have, what? Two divisions?” He put the question to Brouard.
“Three divisions,” the Frenchman confirmed, “the last I heard.”
“Three!” Lapeña sounded alarmed, then waved a hand as if dismissing the news. “Two? Three? What does it matter? We shall assail them from the flank!” Lapeña said. “We shall come at them from the west, we shall destroy them, and we shall gain a great victory. Forgive my enthusiasm, Captain,” he added to Brouard.
“You trust him?” Sir Thomas asked Lapeña, jerking his head at the Frenchman.
“He is a gentleman!”
“So was Pontius Pilate,” Sir Thomas said. He thrust a big finger down onto the shoreline. “Use that road,” he said, “and you place our army between the French and the sea. Marshal Victor is not going to wait at Chiclana. He’s going to come for us. You want to see your men drowning in the surf?”
“So what do you suggest?” Lapeña asked icily.
“March to Medina Sidonia,” Sir Thomas said, “and either crush the garrison”—he paused to eat the bean denoting that town—“or let them rot behind their walls. Attack the siege lines. Force Victor to march to us instead of us marching to him.”
Lapeña looked wonderingly at Sir Thomas. “I admire you,” he said after a pause, “I truly do. Your avidity, Sir Thomas, is an inspiration to us all.” His aides nodded solemn agreement, and even Captain Brouard gave a polite inclination of his head. “But permit me to explain myself,” Lapeña went on. “The French army, you will agree, is here.” He had taken a handful of the beans and now arrayed them in crescent about the Bay of Cádiz, running from Chiclana in the south, around the siege lines, and finishing at the three great forts on the Trocadero marshes. “If we attack from here”—Lapeña tapped the road from Medina Sidonia—“then we assault the center of their lines. We shall doubtless make good progress, but the enemy will converge on us from both flanks. We shall run the risk of encirclement.” He held up a hand to stop Sir Thomas’s imminent protest.
“If we come from here,” Lapeña continued, this time indicating the southern road from Vejer, “we shall, of course, strike at Chiclana, but there will be nothing, Sir Thomas, absolutely nothing, to stop the French marching onto our right flank.” He scooped the beans into a small pile to show how the French might overwhelm his attack. “But from the east, from—” He hesitated.
“Barrosa, señor.”
“From Barrosa,” Lapeña went on, “we strike their flank. We hit them hard!” He smacked a fist into a palm to show the force with which he envisaged making the attack. “They will still try to march against us, of course, but now their men must get through the town! They will find that hard, and we shall be destroying Victor’s forces while his reinforcements still thread the streets. There! Do I convince you?” He smiled, but Sir Thomas said nothing. It was not that the Scotsman had nothing to say, but he was struggling to say it with even a hint of courtesy. “Besides,” Lapeña went on, “I command here, and it is my belief that the victory we both desire is best achieved by marching along the coast. We were not to know that when we embarked on the fleet, but it is the duty of a commander to be flexible, is it not?” He did not wait for a response, but instead tapped the empty chair. “Join us for some chicken, Sir Thomas. Lent starts on Wednesday, and then there’ll be no more chicken till Easter, eh? And Captain Brouard has carved the fowl superbly.”
“Bugger the fowl,” Sir Thomas said in English and turned to his horse.
Lapeña watched the Scotsman ride away. He shook his head but said nothing. Captain Brouard, meanwhile, reached over and crushed the bean at Barrosa with his thumb, then smeared the pulp down the shore so that it looked reddish against the map. Blood in the surf. “How very clumsy of me,” Brouard lamented. “I simply meant to remove it.”
Lapeña was unworried by the small mess. “It is a pity,” he said, “that God in his wisdom decreed that the English should be our allies. They are”—he paused—“so very uncomfortable.”
“They are blunt creatures,” Captain Brouard sympathized. “They lack the subtlety of the French and the Spanish races. Allow me to give Your Excellency some chicken? Does Your Excellency prefer breast?”
“You are right!” General Lapeña was delighted with the Frenchman’s insight. “No subtlety, Captain, no finesse, no”—he paused, seeking the word—“no grace. The breast. How very kind of you. I am obliged.”
And he was also determined. He would take the road that offered the shortest route home to Cádiz. He would march to Conil.
THERE WAS another argument in the afternoon. Lapeña wanted to march that night and Sir Thomas protested that they were close to the enemy now, and that the men should come to any encounter with the enemy fresh, not exhausted from a night groping through unfamiliar country. “Then we march this evening”—Lapeña generously yielded the point—“and bivouac at midnight. In the dawn, Sir Thomas, we shall be rested. We shall be ready.”
Yet midnight passed, as did the rest of the night, and at dawn they were still marching. The column had become lost again. The troops had stopped, rested, been woken, had marched, stopped again, countermarched, turned around, rested for a few uncomfortable minutes, been woken, and then retraced their footsteps. The men were laden with packs, haversacks, cartridge boxes, and weapons and, when they stopped, they dared not unbuckle their equipment for fear they would be hurried on at any moment. None rested properly so that by dawn they were exhausted. Sir Thomas spurred past his men, his horse kicking up small gouts of sandy soil as he looked for General Lapeña. The column had stopped again. The redcoats were sitting by the track and they looked resentfully at the general as though it were his fault that they had been given no rest.