All in Scarlet Uniform (Napoleonic War 4) (43 page)

Jean-Baptiste Dalmas raised his sword high.

‘
Vive l’empereur!
’ he shouted. The men took up the cry and the drummers began to beat. Above them on the valley sides, voltigeurs fired at the far bank and a moment later the battery of horse artillery vomited smoke and noise.

Dalmas walked forward, not looking back now and trusting the infantrymen to follow. He went down the curving road, and then turned sharply. Now he could see the bridge ahead of him, its three big arches curving over the steep and rocky ravine. The road turned to the right as it joined the bridge, and there were dozens of corpses stretched out on the stones.

‘
En avant!
’ he called, and began to jog forward in his clumsy boots. Behind him the drummers hammered their drums and the sound of steady marching turned into a pounding of feet as the men followed him. The cuirassier ran on, jumping one corpse, but then landing on another man’s hand, and the grenadier yelled out in pain even as he clutched at the wound in his stomach.

‘
Vive l’empereur!
’ The noise of the battalion raising the shout bounced up off the valley sides.

Then the enemy opened fire and for a moment the great roar of cannon, volleys of musketry and individual shots drowned out everything else. Pieces of canister and bullets smacked into the walls and surface of the bridge. Men fell in the column, and sometimes they tripped the men behind. Other infantrymen toppled when they slipped on the blood and entrails of those killed in the first attack.

The column kept going. With a reverberating clang, Dalmas’ head was jerked back as a ball punched through the brass of his helmet’s crest holder. He staggered, reached out to steady himself on the top of the wall, and was narrowly missed by a bullet which flicked the stonework. Some of the infantrymen were passing him, and that was no good, so he made himself run on again, his skin cut where the brass chin-scales had driven into it with the force of the strike. The black horsehair crest was badly torn, and flapped against the back of his helmet as he went.

A six-pound round shot skimmed over the parapet and took the heads off two of his men, smashing them to pieces like overripe pumpkins. He could hear the screams of other men being hit behind him. There was red-hot pain in his side as a bullet grazed him, breaking a rib so that his breathing became painful.

Dalmas ran on. The bridge seemed far longer than it had looked from up above, but he was nearing the end now, where it turned sharply on to the bank. A sergeant running beside him dropped face forward, one moment a vigorous, charging soldier, and the next falling with all the life of a sack of turnips.

There were no more cheers, and he could not hear the drums, but the cuirassier officer staggered on. At the end of the bridge he looked behind him and saw that his men were almost all corpses or had fallen back to the west bank. Only four were still with him, and then it was three as one soldier’s head was flung back, his forehead bright with blood. Someone called to him, and he led them down off the road and into the big rocks beside it. The survivors of the first attack were there, not daring even to fire up the slopes.

Dalmas flung himself down and leaned his back against a rock, each breath painful. His right wrist hurt and when he looked at his sword he could see that the blade was bent from the strike of a bullet that must have wrenched the hilt in his hand, but he could not remember it.

‘Bridges,’ he said softly as balls pinged off the rock behind him. He did not have good luck with bridges.

Williams and the others trudged up the hill. They passed a group of four greenjackets carrying young Simmons. The boy was obviously in great pain, and the soldiers carried him in a blanket, moving as gently as possible to spare him.

Brigadier General Craufurd and his staff rode past, going back down towards the fighting. A third French attack had been repulsed, but the two sides still fired at each other across the valley.

‘Leave him!’ Black Bob called to the 95th. ‘Let him lie here until later. You are needed in the fight.’

One of the greenjackets was a corporal and he looked up. ‘This is an officer of ours,’ he said, ‘and we must see him in safety before we leave him.’ The group walked on, ignoring the divisional commander.

Williams expected a burst of outrage, and was surprised when the general simply nudged with his heels and went on his way down the hill with his staff. He nodded to MacAndrews, but said no more.

‘I would never have believed it,’ Williams said once the senior officers were out of earshot.

Hanley had stayed behind. ‘It is a strange day. Ten minutes ago I watched the general ask General Picton to march his Third Division up to support us here. He refused, and the two of them glared at each other for a few minutes, and then bade farewell as if nothing had happened.’

‘Nothing he could do,’ Pringle said, all but winking at them as he screwed the eye closed behind his broken lens. ‘The French won’t get across the river.’

Hanley pursed his lips. ‘The general seems less certain.’

‘The bridge is piled high with their dead,’ Williams said, fighting the urge to wink back at his short-sighted friend. ‘No point turning his men out and marching them here for the sake of it. The river will hold the enemy back until the level drops. Almeida is cut off, though.’

‘Well, another siege for the French. That should hold them for a while.’

‘I don’t know what else will,’ Pringle said gloomily.

The sky had grown darker and darker as they climbed up out of the valley, MacAndrews’ little command united again. As they came to the top, lightning flashed its harsh white light to crack on a hilltop to the north. The rain came in heavy drops before the thunder rolled towards them. In moments it slammed into the ground, as heavy as the storm the night before, drenching them quickly. MacAndrews kept patting his horse to calm the frightened animal.

In the valley behind them, the power of nature quickly blotted out the violence of man, and the guns, muskets and rifles fell silent.

‘
C
olonel Murray tells me that Wellington cannot bring himself to blame Craufurd,’ Baynes said, his face a mask that made it unclear whether or not he agreed. ‘He believes he meant well, and that the error was one of judgement, not intention.’

Hanley said nothing. Instead he looked at the people walking beside the road. They were from the villages all around, and they trudged south towards Lisbon, their heads down and great bundles of possessions on their backs.

‘As it turns out it rather looks as if Marshal Ney was not supposed to have attacked either. The French high command do not appear to be the happiest of families.’ The merchant looked at the long lines of refugees, all of them weary and dirty from travel.

‘This is an ancient defence in this country.’ Baynes smiled at a young woman carrying a bird in a cage and wearing a silk dress that was probably her finest and so the one she would save. The hem was several inches above the ankle in the local style, but was still spattered with mud. She must have removed shoes and stockings for her feet were bare and dirty. ‘They are to leave nothing for the invader to use. No food, no stores, and not even firewood to burn.

‘It is humbling, don’t you think? They abandon their homes, and sacrifice everything to save their country.’

‘But will they?’ Hanley asked.

‘Lord Wellington believes they will.’ Once again the merchant’s tone was hard to read. ‘And so he invokes the old laws. Those who do not wish to go are made to leave.’

‘Not so willing a sacrifice, then.’ Hanley tried to ignore the plaintive looks of the people they passed. The two Englishmen were on horseback, not tramping on with what was left of their lives and homes on their backs. The corpulent Baynes scarcely looked as if he ever did without his comforts.

‘A sacrifice none the less. Marshal Masséna is about to learn what it is to see a whole army starve.’

‘There is food in Lisbon no doubt,’ Hanley said.

‘Oh aye, warehouses full to the brim.’

‘Then they will not starve for long. So perhaps the sacrifice is too high a price to pay for giving the French a few lean weeks? Is that all that the people of Ciudad Rodrigo achieved?’

Baynes smiled. ‘Leaving them to their fate has won us few friends in Spain.’

‘Except Don Julián Sánchez.’

‘Yes, and he is a friend worth having. He understands the war better than many. Perhaps one day they will all understand.’ Baynes winked at a little boy being carried by an old man. The child covered its face in fright, but then peeked through his fingers at the beaming merchant.

‘I wish I did.’

‘Time, William, time. That is what it has all been about. I told you that months ago. Ciudad Rodrigo bought us five precious weeks, perhaps more.’

‘And Almeida?’

‘That was unfortunate.’ Early in the siege, a lucky French shell had landed and ignited a trail of loose powder left behind by a leaking cask. The gunpowder flared and led straight back into the vaults of the cathedral that served as the garrison’s magazine. When that vast store exploded, a great swathe of the city was reduced to rubble in the blink of an eye. Hanley and the others had felt a tremor and shortly after heard the dull rumble of the blast even though they were almost forty miles away.

‘Unfortunate!’ Hundreds had died instantly, and many more been left scorched and maimed. Without powder for their guns and muskets the fortress was defenceless and had surrendered. ‘Are we sure it was an accident?’ he added after a moment.

Baynes chuckled with delight. ‘It is always a joy talking to you, my friend. Yes, there is no hint of anything else. If Velarde was alive, then perhaps I should wonder … You are sure that he is dead?’

‘Oh yes,’ Hanley said, remembering the shell exploding on the walls of the fortress and the man’s head shattering.

‘Splendid, splendid. He was a dangerous fellow, and if he were still up to no good I would wonder whether he had been at work. Cox did not want to surrender, but his Portuguese officers decided for him and sent out a white flag. Hard to blame them. They had no hope, and after Ciudad Rodrigo they knew the army would not come to save them. A fair few soldiers volunteered to join Napoleon’s Portuguese regiment, but many are already back with us, having deserted at the first opportunity. With commanders and soldiers alike, I believe there was more pragmatism than hatred of their ally.’

‘What about Lander?’ Hanley had told the merchant of Velarde’s claim that the Swiss was in his pay. ‘How pragmatic was he?’

‘The question is now purely academic,’ Baynes said, showing not the slightest trace of discomfort. ‘I have no good reason to believe that he planned to disobey my instructions. Apart from that, I had no doubt that you would cope.’ The merchant’s smile was broad. ‘You should never underestimate yourself, William.’

Hanley realised that he would get nothing more on that subject and so asked about something else. ‘Have you had any luck deciphering the code? Velarde spoke of French sympathisers in Lisbon as well as Spain.’

‘Nothing so far, I am afraid.’ Baynes seemed genuinely disappointed. ‘I know the trouble you went through to get that to us.’ He chuckled again. ‘Might have helped if you had not dunked it in water so often, but we have a clever fellow working on it and I am sure he will find the key eventually. In the meantime the Regency Council in Lisbon has been persuaded to give Lord Wellington their full support. They do not have a lot of choice if they are to pay all their bills and keep the army in being.’

‘More sacrifice?’

‘More prudent politics, and that is a murkier and less noble business all around. Much like ours.’ The merchant gave another beaming smile.

‘To what end?’ Hanley was still unconvinced. ‘The French have wasted time, although not very much at Almeida. They still have a larger army and there is nothing to stop them marching all the way to Lisbon.’

Baynes looked at him for a while. ‘Maybe,’ he said, ‘maybe. But they will find it less easy than everyone seems to think. Do you recollect those forts we saw being built in the heights beyond Lisbon?’

Hanley nodded, but was not impressed. ‘Small works compared to Ciudad Rodrigo and Almeida, and Masséna’s men now hold both of those.’

‘They do indeed, but those towns did not have all of Lord Wellington’s army to wait behind them and attack any force breaking through. Soldiers like Murray assure me these lines of forts will be the toughest of nuts to crack and nothing like them has ever been seen before. By the time he gets there Masséna will be a long way from home, in a country stripped of resources. He may not find a siege too easy.

‘Napoleon may have made a great mistake in not coming himself, and in not insisting on more urgency for the campaign. Every week that passes consumes their food supplies and makes us grow stronger. By the sound of it Wellington may risk a battle to slow them down a little more.

‘And now I understand that you will be leaving us, William.’ It was a statement rather than a question.

‘I am ordered to go with Major MacAndrews and the others to join the regiment in Gibraltar.’ Hanley had no doubt that Baynes already knew every detail.

‘Call on me in Lisbon before you sail.’ Baynes spoke lightly. ‘I may have some little tasks for you down south. Indeed, for all of you.’ Hanley felt the usual mix of fear and excitement at the prospect of playing a role in another of the merchant’s schemes.

‘
Adiós
for the moment, William. Your friends are at an inn in the village over yonder and I suggest you join them for the night.’ It was getting dark and once again the rain was starting to fall. Hanley doubted many of the refugees would find a dry bed or a warm fire tonight.

‘And you?’

‘Still have a long way to go. So do we all, Hanley.’ Baynes set off briskly on the road that led eventually to Lisbon. ‘Come to see me, William,’ he called back over his shoulder.

Hanley was not surprised that MacAndrews, Pringle, Williams and the others were at the inn as Baynes had said. The merchant always seemed to know. He decided not to mention to the others any talk of ‘little tasks’. He knew that Williams did not trust the merchant and suspected that all of them were bitter for being brought here. Their mission had proved a failure, and if MacAndrews’ charge at the Côa had won him a name in the army, that was unlikely to bring more tangible reward.