Fortune's Bride (28 page)

“Well, I wish they’d get a move on,” Colin Campbell said
fretfully. “It’s getting late.”

“What do you mean, late?” Burghersh asked. “It’s true the
Beau ordered the troops into position an hour before sunrise, but they aren’t
standing to attention or anything. Our men are probably having something to
eat, too. You don’t think the waiting will put them in a pucker, do you?”

“It’s nothing to do with the men,” Campbell replied.
“They’re all right. But Burrard’s likely to wake up sooner or later and decide
to come ashore.”

There was an appalled silence. In the excitement of
delivering orders and seeing the battle lines drawn up, everyone had forgotten
Burrard.

“He can’t stop the action now,” Williams pointed out. “Even
if he wanted to retreat, there isn’t anywhere to retreat to.”

“That’s true enough,” Robert agreed. “But there’s always the
chance that he’ll take it into his head to run the battle himself. And it would
be a shame if Sir Arthur lost the credit.”

“He wouldn’t do that, would he?” Burghersh asked, looking at
the more experienced of the ADCs.

Robert shrugged, but Williams shook his head slowly. “I
don’t think so,” he said. “Sir Harry is really a pleasant and good-natured
person.”

Nonetheless, the reminder of Burrard’s right to interfere
put a damper on the breakfast party, and a few minutes later there was a
general movement toward departure. Robert lingered just a half step behind as
if he intended to say something to Esmeralda in private, but his name was
called and he did no more than wave at her gaily as he went out. Esmeralda
found that she was having difficulty in believing in the reality of this
battle. Was it possible that soon men would be maimed and die, and that what
worried Robert and his friends was whether or not Sir Harry Burrard would
undeservedly take credit for Sir Arthur’s work?

The anxious ADCs were relieved to find no sign or message
from Burrard. Nor had any come when Sir Arthur had word that a dust cloud had
been sighted coming along the Tôrres Vedras road. It was nearly nine o’clock by
then, and everyone breathed a sigh of relief, having begun to fear that
possibly Junot had heard of the landing of four thousand additional troops and
had decided not to attack. After a quick personal inspection of the broad front
of men, indistinctly visible among the woods and rolling uplands, Sir Arthur
rode out to check on his troop dispositions.

Vimeiro village lay in a small valley created by the river
Maceira, surrounded by a range of hills, particularly steep and formidable
toward the south, and it was from the south that Sir Arthur expected to be
attacked. He had stationed the brigades of Hill, Bowes, Caitlin Crawfurd,
Nightingale, and Acland, with eight of his few guns, on the ridges of the
southern range.

Just in front of the village was an isolated hill, partly
covered by vineyards and thickets, which would provide excellent cover for
defenders. Fane and Anstruther held that as the first line, with six guns.
Ferguson and Trant were behind Vimeiro on the lower heights to the north, ready
to serve as a reserve to Fane and Anstruther. The tiny cavalry—two hundred and
forty English and two hundred and sixty Portuguese—waited on the banks of the
river.

Having assured himself that all was in order, Sir Arthur
returned to the hill in front of Vimeiro and watched the approach of the great
French column. He expected to see the head of it swerve left and move along the
valley of the Maceira, but it did not do so, continuing on north completely
past the heavily defended right wing on the southern ridge. He watched quite
calmly, waiting to make certain that this was not a feint. Two of Junot’s
brigades began to deploy just in front of Fane and Anstruther, but away to the
north the cavalry advance guard was still riding, and it was obvious that
infantry was following them.

“I see that General Junot has decided to leave the southern
heights alone,” Sir Arthur said. “Well, well, I had been led to believe he had
more dash, but it appears he intends to throw most of his weight at us here.”

He swept his glass around the area to be quite sure his
right wing was safe, then drew out his notepaper and unstoppered the inkhorn.
When he had written his messages, he took another look around. The sound of
rifle fire was drifting up toward them, as the small pickets Fane had stationed
a mile forward of his position were driven back toward the main lines. The
French were forming a line of battle with its southern end opposite Wellesley’s
center.

“Captain Williams, will you please take this to General
Ferguson? Tell him to make all haste to the heights behind Ventosa, avoiding
notice if he can. It would be nice to provide the French with a little
surprise. Also, please tell General Ferguson that Generals Nightingale and
Bowes will follow to support him as quickly as they can, and Colonel Crawfurd
will be near Mariquiteira to protect his left.”

Sir Arthur then passed out notes and messages to the other
officers involved in the shifting of the battle line. Robert was sent to
General Acland, who was to act as reserve to General Ferguson and the others.
“Also,” Sir Arthur said smiling, “pass my apologies to General Hill. He will
likely have a very dull time of it, but I cannot leave the right flank
completely unprotected, and, after all, he and his men had the liveliest sport
during the engagement at Roliça.”

By the time Robert returned, the action had started in
earnest. The usual thick line of French
tirailleurs
, or sharpshooters,
were advancing up the hill with about four battalion columns close in their
rear. But the
tirailleurs
were not sniping easily at massed British
troops. The riflemen of the Sixtieth and Ninety-fifth were taking a toll as
they retreated. Behind, on the slope of the hill but hidden by a convenient dip
of the ground, the Fifty-second and Ninety-seventh waited in line, well covered
by the full-leafed vines of the vineyards. As the Riflemen melted in among
their comrades, the six guns on the crest roared in a fierce volley.

Robert saw Sir Arthur stiffen to attention, and he did so,
too. Those guns were loaded with an experimental type of cannon shot invented
by Major Shrapnel. Instead of being solid, this was a shell packed with
smaller, individual shot. The theory was that having been fired, the shell
would burst and spray the individual shot over a wide area. For once, theory
actually worked in practice. Major Shrapnel’s shell worked like a charm—or,
rather, like a blast out of hell.

The advancing troops, already shaken by the murderous cannon
volley, were then charged by the British line, the Ninety-seventh meeting them
head on and the Fifty-second taking them in the flank. Sure and determined, the
British held their fire until they were little more than ten paces from the
French, who were somewhat disordered, and then released a smashing discharge
that almost literally blew away the front ranks of the opposing regiments.
Those still able to move recoiled amid the screams and moans of their comrades.

Another volley from the second line penetrated deeper into
the column, which broke apart and retreated pell-mell down the hill.

This time when the drums beat out the orders, the British
halted their pursuit and formed up again, only cheering when the word was
passed that they had not only beat off the first attack but had captured seven
of Junot’s guns. Sir Arthur smiled, and there was warmth in his piercing blue
eyes.

“They will make good soldiers,” he said to General Fane, who
had just given the order to send the Fiftieth and the reserve Riflemen down
upon another regiment.

There was a breathing space while the remnants of the shaken
French regiments were rallied outside of musket range and two battalions of
grenadiers from the reserve were sent ahead of them up the hill for a second
assault. The British guns came into play at once and fired regularly. Changing
tactics, the French launched a narrow attack, intended to break through the
British line and spread out behind them, but the attempt was a disastrous
failure, for the compact formation was blown to pieces by Shrapnel’s shells and
the converging fire of the Fifty-second and Ninety-seventh.

With determined courage, the French reserves managed to
struggle halfway up the hill, but they could not withstand the intense fire,
and they retreated. The British pursued, but with caution, keeping in contact
so that they could present an adequate front to any new counterattack, and the
battle rolled down into the little pinewood at the base of the hill. It was apparent,
even through the screen of the trees and brush that the French could not rally.

At this point, it seemed that Junot decided not to send the
remainder of his reserve into this conflict and attempt to push the British
back. He had apparently despaired of taking the hill by frontal assault. He
threw in his last reserves in an attempt to turn the flank of Fane’s brigade
and penetrate to the village of Vimeiro.

When the direction of the third attack became clear,
Robert’s hands tightened on the reins of his horse so that Jupiter backed and
fidgeted. Although he had been in personal danger many times during his army
career, Robert had never been frightened. He knew, in an intellectual way, that
he could be wounded or killed, but the possibility was never real to him.

Now, for the first time in his life, Robert was terrified.
There were no units directly in the path of the French thrust, and he broke
into a cold sweat, imagining the infuriated troops charging into Vimeiro,
breaking open houses, looting, seizing Merry… He opened his mouth to say he
must go to protect his wife, but it seemed as if his throat was frozen shut,
his lips and tongue paralyzed. Before he could make a sound, an ADC was already
galloping headlong toward General Anstruther’s position and Sir Arthur himself
had moved away, riding quickly toward an area from which he could observe the
action.

Robert threaded his horse through the other officers
surrounding the general. “Sir Arthur—” he began.

“Take this to General Acland,” Wellesley said, handing him a
note, as if he had not heard, and perhaps he had not, for there was still
considerable noise. “He is to attack the left flank of the French. Anstruther
will be taking them on the right.”

Although Robert’s heart was still pounding so hard he could
feel the vibrations in his throat, he had enough common sense to know that the
best way to protect Merry was to prevent the French from getting into Vimeiro
at all. The fact that Sir Arthur had immediately planned the most efficient
troop movements to accomplish that purpose and was already giving orders to
start the counterattack further helped to steady Robert.

The trouble was that he could not believe there was enough
time. He was afraid that by the time he got to Acland and the general set his
men into action, some of the grenadiers would have been able to pass around
behind the men holding off Anstruther’s counterattack and reach the village. He
would save half a mile by riding across in front of Vimeiro. Of course, he
would be riding right across the front of the oncoming French troops also, and
if he were shot down. Sir Arthur’s orders would not arrive at all.

Robert was an experienced soldier. Under normal conditions,
he would have known that the likelihood of what he was envisioning was nil and
that the time saved by cutting half a mile’s travel on a fast horse could have
no effect. But fear does very odd things to the mind. At the moment, every
second seemed like a very long time, a period in which French troops could
cover great distances and perpetrate unspeakable crimes. When Robert’s mount
reached the easy slope of the base of the hill, he did not turn left toward the
river to go around behind the sheltering buildings of Vimeiro but charged
straight forward.

When he reached the Tôrres Vedras road he saw the main body
of French troops in the distance, coming into the small valley along one
tributary of the Maceira. They were too far away to be any danger to him, but
Robert knew there must be skirmishers preceding the columns. The first shot
rang out simultaneously with his thought as he crossed the road, and then
another.

Robert used his whip to inspire the last ounce of speed of
which Jupiter was capable and then drew his pistol. He did not really expect to
be able to use it. He hoped the skirmishers would be too far away for accuracy
with a pistol, and he had no intention of wasting shot and powder in a vain
effort to discourage their advance. Experienced soldiers would pay no more mind
to pistol shots from a galloping horse than to flies. There was a small chance,
however, that a few men would be close enough to pop up and try to stop him.
The pistol would be useful for that.

Several more single shots rang out. One was close. The
bullet buzzed by Robert’s head like a bad-tempered bee, and he bent low, close
to his horse’s body, to present a smaller target. Just then several guns
exploded together, very near. Jupiter screamed, gave a huge convulsive leap
ahead, and crumpled forward. Robert yelled, too, but with fury and chagrin
rather than from pain. Nonetheless, his feet were free of the stirrups as the
animal fell—it was not the first time he had had a mount shot under him—and he
rolled away as the horse dropped.

There was a moment, as his legs tangled in the scabbard of
his saber, when he almost despaired, for one arm was under him and the other
hand carefully holding the pistol away so that if it went off, he would not
shoot himself. He rolled again, closer to the kicking, screaming horse, working
his legs to push the scabbard out of the way and praying that Jupiter would not
get him in the head or break any bones. His luck in war held, and he found
himself free and unhurt in the next instant.

His first shot was into the head of the horse. Even if the
skirmishers were atop him, he could not allow Jupiter to suffer. But actually
he was reasonably sure that the French were at least fifty yards away. Now the
still body was also a defense, and he knelt up a little, looking out warily as
he worked the reload mechanism on the Ellis repeater.