Fortune's Bride (29 page)

He was only just in time, for he had been wrong about the
distance between him and the French soldiers. Three men were rising out of the
brush hardly more than twenty paces away. Robert did not know whether they had
seen the pistol in his hand and waited for him to fire, thinking he would not
have time to reload and thus would be little threat to them, or whether they
had only delayed to reload their own guns. He grinned, not caring which mistake
they had made. Either was equally fatal.

Aiming carefully, Robert fired and grinned again as one of
the oncoming Frenchmen went down and the others uttered surprised cries. Robert
ducked behind the horse’s body once more to reload, this time with greater
care. The Ellis repeater had a tendency to jam. But a single-shot pistol would
have left him helpless now, and the Ellis was more than accurate enough for his
present purpose, if only the French had not taken fright and hidden themselves
in the brush again.

In ten seconds the gun was safely loaded. Cautiously Robert
raised himself high enough to see and breathed a sigh of relief. The two
remaining men had come on boldly, either simply determined to stop him from
delivering the orders they must know he was carrying or perhaps thinking that
he had had two guns and had now expended both their charges. Another man went
down, the force of the bullet at the close range carrying him backward. The
other man fired as his comrade was hit, and Robert was twisted to the left as a
blow struck his upper arm. He exclaimed, more in anger than in pain, and
dropped down, snarling as he heard a triumphant cry from the remaining French
soldier.

All that bothered Robert was the temporary numbing of his
arm, which was interfering with his ability to reload. He knew pain would come
soon and that the Frenchman was either fixing his bayonet or reloading his
piece, but Robert’s mind was on his own immediate problem. The shadow loomed
over him just as the lever finally went home. Robert flung himself backward,
flat on the ground, raised the pistol, and fired as the bayonet came down. The
power of the striking bullet saved him, deflecting the soldier’s aim so that
the weapon plunged into the body of the horse instead of into Robert, which
permitted Robert to jump to his feet, knock off the man’s shako, and strike him
brutally on the head with the pistol.

It was hardly necessary, but Robert had not realized the
soldier was falling sideways rather than trying to pull his bayonet out of
Jupiter. It was, in fact, the gun fixed into the animal by the bayonet that had
kept the man upright for the few seconds it took Robert to strike the blow.

He went down with his victim but shook loose of the weight
and came to his feet again to dash toward the banks of the stream. Several
shots followed him. Fortunately, however, none of the Frenchmen farther back
had hurried his advance, and no one was close enough to fire at point-blank
range or to interfere personally. Robert could only assume they had been sure
he was finished when his horse went down and three of their own men had
advanced on him.

Once in the brush he was relatively safe from their bullets,
and he ran through it and into the stream as fast as he could, ignoring the
pain in his arm and the way the brambles tore his face and clothing. He was
bitterly aware of
his
stupidity. Instead of saving time, he had lost
double what it would have taken to ride the long way around. He was so
concentrated on his self-blame that he was scarcely aware of the scratches or
the increased pang in his arm when he tripped on the pebbles and stones of the
streambed and fell in the water—he only gasped curses under his breath and
struggled on.

The French had lost track of him in the brush so that he was
halfway through the stream before they began to shoot at him again. His
irregular movements as he slipped and slid on the unstable footing of the
streambed made him too difficult a target, and he stumbled up the far bank and
into the brush and small trees there without being hit again. After that he was
essentially out of danger. It was possible that he would be pursued, but he did
not think they could catch him. He was out of sight of the skirmishers, and
they could not know what direction he would take.

Actually, the skirmishers had abandoned their interest in
him once he disappeared afoot on the opposite bank. Their business was with any
British force coming down the valley to oppose them. They did not know of
Acland’s brigade a short distance to the north. But Robert had no idea they had
given up, and he struggled on northward, keeping within the shelter he had
found until he felt he must be just below Acland’s position. Then he came out
of cover and began to climb the rising ground, but there was no sign of the
troops he had expected to see.

Esmeralda and Molly finished washing the dishes and setting
the bedchamber to rights, and then there was nothing else to do. Although
Robert had given her permission to watch the battle, Esmeralda really had no
inclination to do so. Her previous experience had been very disappointing. Nonetheless,
she did go to the church and climb to the tower since she could not bring
herself to sit quietly sewing. This attempt to discover what was going on was
futile because Vimeiro was behind and below the rising ground on which the
troops were stationed. She could see nothing at all but the hillsides upon
which only a few sheep and goats moved.

Exasperated, she returned to her lodging. There was nothing
to do but sew, and Esmeralda decided to embark on an ambitious and difficult
enterprise—a second riding dress. She had got as far as laying out the new
cloth on the table when the first crash of gunfire came. Involuntarily she
gasped and dropped her box of pins all over the floor. Molly, who had been
holding one edge of the cloth, jumped also and turned her head in the direction
of the sound as if she could stare through the walls.

“Whose guns…?” Esmeralda faltered.

“Oors. ‘Tis got t’ be oors. It sounded s’ close. Th’
others’d be fainter, dooller.”

Had Molly’s voice been more certain, Esmeralda might have
been more reassured. Without speaking again, both moved at once toward the door
and out into the garden behind the house. They stood still, straining to hear,
but the sounds had become confused, only a few sharp rifle cracks stood out
from a general roar of musket fire, dulled and distorted by distance and the
hill between them. After what seemed a very long time, the sounds seemed to die
away.

Esmeralda turned eagerly to Molly. “Is it over?”

“No, ma’am. Only th’ first charge. If we beat ‘em bad
enough, ‘ey moight retreat, boot our men’ll have t’ follow.”

This time there was not the uncertainty that Esmeralda had
heard before, and, indeed, she herself was reasonably sure that the British
army had had the best of it, because if the French had advanced, the noise
would have approached them and it had not. They waited, but not for long.
Realizing that their petrified vigil in the garden was useless, they returned
to the task they had abandoned.

Esmeralda had finished picking up and setting her pins as
markers for cutting the front of the skirt when the second phase of the battle
began. She and Molly looked at each other and then toward the door, but there
was no sense in going out into the garden again. They could hear the thunder of
the big guns quite clearly enough from where they were. Esmeralda picked up the
scissors, which she poised over the cloth. After a moment, she put them down
again.

“I’ll only spoil it, Molly,” she said. “My hand is shaking
too much.”

The older woman smiled and held out her own hands, which
were also trembling. “‘Tis a shame,” she said, “thit th’ hoose is decent. Oi’d
be glad o’ some scrubbin’, thit Oi would.”

Esmeralda sighed. “I, too. I feel like running around and
screaming—and much good that would do.”

Molly looked surprised. “Doos it take ye thit way, too,
ma’am? ‘Tisn’t thit Oi’m scared—’cept fer M’Guire a bit—Oi swear it. “‘Tis jist
thit Oi need t’
do
somethin’.”

About to nod agreement, Esmeralda paused. There was a new
sound, closer than the battle noises, and this one was approaching steadily. It
took her a little while to identify it as the screech of cart wheels because
other noises mingled with and obscured the regularity she had come to associate
with the sound. Esmeralda started for the front door, but Molly caught her arm.

“‘Tis no for ye, ma’am. Thit’ll be th’ wounded comin’ in.
Oh, ‘tis too near we are. Had th’ captain toime, he would’ve sint ye away, Oi’m
sure.”

“The wounded,” Esmeralda repeated.

Now that the sounds were identified, she was able to pick
out the groans and occasional screams that mingled with the screech of the cart
wheels. She stood undecided for a time, unable to go back to a task that seemed
so puerile in contrast to what was taking place, but afraid to thrust herself
in where she might not be wanted. She did not think she would be sickened or
made faint by the blood or mutilations. There had been accidents and injuries
in her father’s go-downs and even in the houses, and she had not been overset,
only truly sorry and quite willing to help the doctor. There must be something
she could do that would be more important than cutting out the skirt of a
riding dress.

“Find out where they are taking the wounded,” she said to
Molly. “I am accustomed to nursing. My father was ill for a long time. I know
how to give a drink or feed a person who cannot help himself. I could write
letters for those who wish to say a last word to their loved ones.”

Molly looked very doubtful, but the truth was that she was
herself eager for an excuse to go to the hospital area, not so much to
help—although she was willing to do what she could—but to see whether there
were men of her husband’s regiment there and whether any of them had seen or
heard of him. She found the buildings that had been selected easily enough, and
almost at once was hailed by a friend of M’Guire’s with a gory but not fatal
hole in his thigh, who told her that her husband had come through the first
attack without a scratch.

Much cheered by this news, she went back for Esmeralda, who
had sensibly wrapped a sheet, apron-style, around her delicate morning dress
and collected paper, a stoppered inkhorn, and several pens, as well as a cup,
bowl, and spoon into a small sack that she fastened around her waist. Thus
armed, she followed Molly, trembling a little because she grew less and less
sure of herself as she approached the hospital area. At first it was harder
than she thought. Wounds made by bullets were far messier than those made by a
misdirected knife or ax, and Esmeralda did feel sick, but there was a young man,
hardly more than a boy, weeping, and she knelt down by him and murmured
soothingly, and soon she was too busy to feel queasy at all.

When Robert came out into the open about halfway up the
flank of the hill, he stared around, feeling that he had been caught in a
nightmare. He had been very sure of Acland’s position, having taken Sir
Arthur’s first order to move to him and carried back General Acland’s reply.
And even if Acland had been some distance off, a brigade of men cannot be
confined to a small area. In any case, Acland would have pickets out, and
Robert now realized that he should have stumbled on one of those as soon as he
came out of the brush. Nor could Acland have been attacked, beaten, and driven
away; not only would the noise have been apparent during the action, but there
would be dead and wounded lying about. But there was no one—no one at all.

Unbelieving, Robert labored higher up the hill, trying to
convince himself that Acland’s troops might be on the reverse side, hidden
behind the crown of the rise. He did not believe it, but he was dazed and in
pain, and it seemed to be his last hope. However, as he reached the summit, he
heard the thud of artillery to the north and a low confused noise which he knew
must be a combination of musket fire and the screams of men. Robert sank down,
panting. He was too late. Acland had been instructed to act as reserve to
Ferguson and those supporting him on the left flank. He must have been needed
and gone off, possibly even before Robert started.

It was little help to know that his own foolishness had not
caused the disaster. The fortunes of war… Robert shuddered. Death or rape might
be the fortunes of war for Merry. He started to rise, again nearly frantic with
the desire to go to Vimeiro to protect her, but his knees gave way and even as
he struggled to get up once more, he remembered his duty. He must get back to
Sir Arthur at once and report Acland’s movement. He gritted his teeth. Both
duty and good sense dictated exactly the same action, return to Sir Arthur, who
could order troops to fill in and play the part Acland was supposed to have
played, possibly Fane’s reserve could—no, they were already in action.

Robert fought back tears and levered himself to his feet. It
would do no good to anyone for him to sit and weep. Sir Arthur would manage
something, he always did. He started down the hill, staggering slightly, aware
now not only of pain but of the fact that blood was running down his arm. That
did not trouble him except for the fear that too much bleeding would weaken
him, and speed was again essential. Yet if he ran, he would lose more blood.
Crazily he thought of a line from Shakespeare. “A horse! A horse! My kingdom
for a horse!”

The moment the idea came into his head, the instinct to
protect Merry personally, which had been suppressed but not extinguished, made
him think of Vimeiro. He could get a horse there, or if not, there was Luisa.
And Vimeiro was not out of his way. The strength of hope flooded him, and he
began to run, but a crash of musket fire made him drop to the ground and look
around wildly. There was no one near him nor any sound of bullets humming or
thudding into the ground. Robert sat up and listened to a second volley and
then to the roar of cannon. A broad smile took the place of anxiety and fear in
his expression, and he began to unwind his sash. There could be no mistaking
those sounds nor the direction from which they came. General Acland had
apparently seen the threat of the French thrust along the valley and had acted
on his own to prevent an attack on Vimeiro.

With relief, Robert removed his coat and shirt and leisurely
examined the damage to his upper arm. His shirt sleeve was soaked with blood,
and there was an ugly gash in the flesh of his arm, but the injury obviously
was not serious. His coat sleeve, however, was a total ruin, beyond repair, the
whole back of it shredded apart where the bullet had blasted a path out.

Robert clicked his tongue wryly. His one good coat, aside
from his regimentals, spoiled. Merry would have a fit. Well, perhaps she could
patch it. He wound his sash as tightly as he could around his arm, slung shirt
and coat over his good shoulder, and started for Vimeiro, where he knew he
would find a surgeon to sew him up. As he walked, he laughed softly. His arm
ached, but didn’t hurt nearly as much as it had before he knew how slight the
damage was, and he no longer felt particularly weak, either.

Having forded the little tributary of the Maceira, Robert
paused and listened. He was now too far north to see the battle, which was
around a bend and screened by trees and brush, but it did not seem to be moving
either way. The French, he thought, were stout fellows to withstand the heavy
fire pouring in on them from both flanks. They were good soldiers with great pride,
but they would not break through now, not unless Junot had another brigade or
two to push into the valley and attempt a three-pronged assault. Robert shook
his head. Not after those two bloody attacks on Vimeiro hill and sending all
those regiments north.

He wondered how the battle on the left flank was going and
began to walk again more quickly, despite the discomfort of his wet boots. If
he wanted news, he had better get back to Sir Arthur. Nonetheless, Robert made
no attempt to cut the distance by angling south. In his present condition he
had no intention of coming closer to the action than necessary. His pistol was
wet, and while afoot his saber was a poor weapon to oppose either a gun or
bayonet.

Robert came into Vimeiro by the back lanes, but it was a
small village and he had no difficulty finding the hospital buildings. Stepping
into the nearest, he stopped dead in the doorway and watched as Esmeralda, with
infinite gentleness and patience, dribbled water into the mouth of a man whose
jaw had been half shot away. She was covered with blood, but her voice was
steady as she murmured comfortingly.

Swallowing back a bellow of outrage, which he knew would
make Esmeralda jump and hurt the wounded man, Robert waited until she rose to
her feet and then said sharply, “Merry, what the devil are you doing here? I
can’t turn my back on you for a minute—”

She whirled to face him, her features illuminated by joy,
which changed to terror as she took in his appearance. Her tanned skin turned
pasty gray, her lips parted as if to scream, and her eyes began to roll upward
in their sockets.

“Merry!” Robert exclaimed, startled. He jumped forward,
dropping his coat and shirt, grabbed at her, and held her against him with his
good arm. “It’s all right, my dear. I didn’t mean to sound so angry.”

She clung to him dizzily, reassured by the strength of his
grip. Then, reminding herself that a soldier’s wife must not show such
faintheartedness, she pulled herself together and straightened up. Still, she
could not prevent herself from asking breathlessly, “What happened to you? How
badly are you hurt?”

Robert smiled and let her go. “Hardly at all. It’s nothing
but a crease, and all my own fault, too.” Then the smile disappeared, and his
clear blue eyes clouded. “Jupiter’s dead. I stupidly rode right into the
enemy’s forward scouting parties instead of going around behind the village. I
should have known that Acland was too canny to let the French cut him off from
the rest of our army, but I was so—”

He stopped abruptly, realizing that he could not tell
Esmeralda it was fear the French would break into Vimeiro and harm her that had
sent him, against his better judgment and his military experience, across the
face of the oncoming enemy battalions. He did not wish her to feel guilty or
frightened by the nearness of the fighting. His decision was correct, but he
had made it for the wrong reasons. Esmeralda would, indeed, have been
terrified, but only by the risk he had run, for she was far less concerned with
her own safety than with his.