Fire and Sword

Chapter 45

The sun was low in the sky and streamed straight into Arthur’s face as he sat in the stern of the small launch. The last of the reinforcements had been landed hours earlier and was marching up to join the rest of the army encamped about Vimeiro. Anchored amidst the transports was the sloop Brazen, carrying Lieutenant-General Sir Harry Burrard. As soon as the sloop had arrived Arthur had ridden down to the shore and ordered the crew of the nearest launch to take him out to the Brazen.With weary obedience the sailors helped him aboard and then heaved the launch back into the surf, battling to get it some distance before clambering over the sides, unshipping the oars and rowing hard to propel the boat clear of the pounding surf and out to sea. The spray had drenched Arthur’s uniform, but he made the best of a bad job by brushing off any sand and shingle that remained on his boots and the salt that had dried on the gold lace and black facings of his jacket.

As the launch approached the side of the sloop a naval lieutenant cupped a hand to his mouth and asked if she was bound for the Brazen.

‘Aye, sir!’ the coxswain called out. ‘General Sir Arthur Wellesley comin’ aboard!’

The launch pulled in towards the side of the sloop and the sailors shipped oars as a man in the bows caught the chains with the boathook. Arthur rose from his bench and worked his way awkwardly forward until he reached the boarding ladder.Two sailors stood by ready to help him up, but Arthur judged his moment and stepped on to the ladder as the launch rose on top of a small wave. He was greeted on deck by the lieutenant.

‘The name’s Swinton, sir. Welcome aboard the Brazen.’

‘Good evening to you, Swinton.Would you be kind enough to take me to General Burrard?’

‘Indeed, if you’d follow me, sir.The general has been given my cabin.’

Swinton led him down a narrow gangway and knocked at the small door at the end.

‘Come!’

Opening the door, the lieutenant ducked inside and briefly announced Arthur before he stepped aside. Arthur ducked through the door frame and stood with his neck bent forward under the low deck overhead.The cabin stretched the full width of the sloop, and was perhaps ten foot in depth, barely enough to accommodate the desk and chairs that seemed to take up most of the available space.The stern windows were hooked open to admit a cooling breeze that stirred the grey locks of the officer seated behind the desk. Sir Harry Burrard had taken part in the Danish expedition and smiled a greeting at Arthur as he dismissed the lieutenant with a curt wave of the hand.

‘Wellesley! Good to see you again! Sit you down.’

Arthur did so, relieved to be able to straighten his neck. ‘It is a pleasure to serve with you again, sir.’

Sir Harry shot him a knowing glance. ‘Though not such a pleasure to be superseded by a superior officer, eh?’

Arthur did not reply and Sir Harry continued in an apologetic tone, ‘That’s the nature of the service, I’m afraid, Wellesley. Still, live long enough and you’ll rise to the top of the pile in good time.’

‘Yes, sir. Are you to take command of the army at once?’

‘No need. Sir Hew is due any day. I shall remain aboard tonight and will probably come ashore tomorrow evening and take command then. Is that satisfactory?’

‘Yes, sir. I will make the necessary arrangements at headquarters.’

‘Thank you.’ Sir Harry nodded, and then took a deep breath. ‘So then, how are things progressing?’

Arthur had brought a report with him and now he placed it on the desk. Sir Harry glanced at it casually.

‘I’ll read that later. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll hear it directly from you.’

Arthur detailed the events since the army had landed, then stopped and drew out a cloth from his pocket to dab at the sweat pricking out on his forehead.

‘Sounds like you gave Frenchy a good thrashing.’

‘Delaborde was outnumbered, sir.’

‘But he had the advantage of holding the high ground,’ Sir Harry countered. ‘Don’t be too modest, Wellesley. It is a positive handicap for a man of ability, and only a saving grace if a man is a complete fool.’

‘I suppose so, sir. In any case, yes, General Delaborde was driven off.’

‘And do you have any idea of the enemy’s intentions?’

‘I have heard reports that General Junot has gathered an army and is marching towards us from the south. As far as I can glean from our Portuguese spies, his strength is similar to our own. I have given orders for the army to be positioned along the ridge behind Vimeiro to meet any threat from that direction.’

‘Excellent. It seems that everything is in hand, then.’

‘I imagine that you will wish to continue the advance on Lisbon as swiftly as possible, sir. I understand that Junot is at Torres Vedras. If we marched to Mafra tomorrow, we could turn east and take Junot in the rear.’

Burrard paused a moment before shaking his head. ‘No. I think we have chanced our arm enough for the present. It is my belief that you may have underestimated Junot’s strength.The reports I read in London stated that he had over forty thousand men in Portugal.’

‘I don’t believe it is quite as high as that, sir. Besides, his forces are dispersed and many are tied down in garrisons. His field army cannot be much bigger than our own.’

Sir Harry shrugged. ‘I think you put too much faith in our Portuguese allies’ assessment of the enemy’s strength.’

‘I have learned to be circumspect in considering the information offered to me by the local people, sir. Even allowing for that, I believe my judgement of the strategic situation is sound.We have a good chance of defeating Junot and taking Lisbon in a matter of days, if we act quickly.’

‘Perhaps. But even if you are right, what harm is there in delaying any advance until Sir John Moore arrives with his men? Then we shall outnumber the French beyond any question and should be able to guarantee a crushing victory.’

‘Sir John may not arrive for some days, possibly weeks.That is more than enough time for Junot to receive overwhelming reinforcements from the French army in Spain. It would be far better to defeat the enemy now than to wait and risk a battle against far greater odds.’

Sir Harry clasped his hands together and leaned back in his chair with a weary sigh. ‘I will not make any decisions before I have a full grasp of the facts. I will read your report in the morning and we will discuss the matter further when I take command of the army tomorrow evening. I thank you for taking the trouble to come to see me, and I suggest that you return to shore while there is still light. I bid you a good night,Wellesley.’

Arthur stared at the older man for a moment. Inside he was seething at the waste of the opportunity that Sir Harry was squandering through his caution. But there was no point in trying to persuade him to take action tonight. Best to let him read the report and then make another attempt to cajole him into action when he assumed command tomorrow. Besides,Arthur realised as he stared at the failing light outside the stern windows, Sir Harry had a point - it was getting dark and he did not wish to risk being rowed through the surf in pitch darkness. He stood carefully and bowed his head. ‘Until tomorrow then, sir.’

For the second night running Arthur was roused from his sleep in the early hours by his aide-de-camp. He had established his headquarters in an inn on the edge of Vimeiro and had been looking forward to sleeping in a proper bed. However, the unsatisfactory interview he had endured with Sir Harry preyed on his mind and he had not fallen asleep until close to midnight. Now he glanced at his watch and saw that it was barely an hour into the new day.

‘What now, Somerset?’

‘Sir, I’ve had reports from our scouts in the direction of Torres Vedras. They say that Junot’s army broke camp just after nightfall and started marching on Vimeiro.’

Arthur was out of bed in an instant, and hurrying to the large crudely constructed table he was using as a desk. ‘Bring your lantern over here and show me.’

Somerset leaned over the map and pointed to the town of Torres Vedras. ‘The scouts reported that the enemy were marching up to the right of the road to Vimeiro, sir.’

‘To the right of the road?’ Arthur frowned. ‘Why not on it?’

‘Perhaps they wish to avoid our patrols, sir.’

‘Hm.’

‘In any case, it appears that General Junot means to surprise us at first light.’

‘Yes.’ Arthur nearly laughed at the irony of the situation. Earlier he had been fretting about Sir Harry’s not taking the fight to the French, and here was Junot saving him the trouble. Better still, he would reach the British lines and make his attack several hours before Sir Harry arrived to take command of the army. It seemed that fate had decided to give Arthur a chance to take on General Junot after all. He leaned forward and examined the map closely for a moment before tracing his finger along the line of a ridge that ran west to east behind the village.

‘Here.This is where we will form our battle line. Send word to every commanding officer.They are to rouse their men and prepare for battle.’

The scent of myrtle filled the air as Arthur stood on the top of the ridge and waited for there to be enough light to show him the terrain to the south.The air was cool and refreshing and he allowed himself a moment to indulge the sensation. When morning came the heat would soon become oppressive but for now he relished the chill. Behind him, and spread out on either side, stood the eight brigades of his army. His army. He smiled at the phrase. They were his only until Sir Harry took command, but Arthur dismissed the thought. He would deal with that later. He must concentrate on the coming battle. His line extended to the right as far as the coast, to cover the shore where further reinforcements were due to land.The left flank rested on Vimeiro Hill, rising up just to the south of the village. It was a good position, strong enough for the British to repel any direct assaults up the slopes.

To the east the mountainous horizon was rimmed with a faint glow that slowly spread north and south and gained in strength at its centre until, with a sudden spark and distant flare of light, the sun began to rise. Very quickly the dark mantle that covered the landscape began to dissipate, shadow by shadow. Arthur raised his telescope and began to carefully scan the approaches to the ridge. Stunted growths of unused land were interspersed with occasional olive groves and vineyards and their quiet buildings, whose occupants were only just stirring, oblivious of the presence of the two armies preparing to clash over this panorama of tranquillity.

‘I can’t see any sign of movement,’ Arthur said quietly. ‘What about you, Somerset? Your eyes are younger than mine.’

There was a short pause, then: ‘Nothing, sir. Do you suppose the scouts could have been mistaken?’

‘Hardly,’ Arthur replied with a wry smile.‘Either you see an army on the march or you don’t.There’s very little middle ground.’

‘Well, what if they were mistaken about the direction that Junot was taking? Or what if Junot changed direction during the night?’

‘It is possible,’ Arthur conceded. ‘We shall discover the truth soon enough.’

But as the sun climbed into the sky and burned off any lingering mist that hung in pockets of the ground there was still no sign of the French army approaching from the south, and the peasants who lived in the houses dotted across the landscape began to emerge and tend their crops and animals without any sign of alarm.

At length Arthur checked his fob watch. Just after nine o’clock. He turned to Somerset. ‘In all the excitement I seem to have forgotten to inform Sir Harry of the night’s events.Would you be so good as to send a runner to the beachhead to pass the details on?’

‘A runner, sir? Wouldn’t a rider be quicker?’

‘It would, but we are short enough of mounted men as it is. No, I think a runner is all that can be spared at present. Now, don’t delay, Somerset. Mustn’t keep Sir Harry waiting.’

‘Of course not, sir,’ Somerset replied with a knowing expression. ‘I’ll see to it.’

Arthur nodded and returned to his examination of the surrounding landscape for a few more minutes. He was about to lower his telescope when he caught a glimpse of a flash, away to the east, amongst some trees on a ridge running past the British line. Arthur held his breath and steadied his telescope as best he could. There was another glint of reflected sunlight, and a faint tawny haze hanging in the air. Arthur scrutinised the ridge a moment longer before snapping his telescope shut and turning to his staff officers, a nervous flutter in his stomach.

‘Junot has caught me napping, by God! He means to outflank us over there.’ Arthur indicated the tree-covered ridge. ‘He has already stolen a few hours’ march on us so we must move swiftly, gentlemen.’ He turned and indicated the ridge that ran at an angle from the village towards the east. ‘That is our new battle line.Vimeiro Hill will now form our right flank and Acland, Bowes, Fergusson, Nightingall and Trant’s Portuguese are to march on to the east ridge as quickly as possible, in the same order that they were positioned on the west ridge. Is that clear? Then move swiftly, gentlemen. The race is on.’

As soon as they had received their new orders, the five brigades hurriedly descended from the west ridge, marched past the village of Vimeiro and began to climb the slopes to their new positions. After a last careful examination of the enemy’s dust cloud Arthur calculated that the French would not reach the redeployed redcoats until the latter were in position. Calling for Somerset, he spurred his horse into a trot and rode across to the east ridge. General Acland’s brigade was the first in new line and Arthur touched the brim of his hat as he reined in.

‘Well done, Acland.Your men have made good time.’

Acland was a dour, thin man, somewhat older than his commander, but he was gratified by the comment and smiled.

‘Yes, sir. The lads are keen to have a go at the French.’

‘And I am sure their keenness will be amply rewarded.’They shared a short laugh before Arthur raised his riding crop and pointed down the slope. ‘Now then, I would like your Light Companies at the bottom of the ridge.The rest of your men are to stay up here and lie down.’

‘Lie down?’ Acland frowned. ‘But the day’s barely started, sir.’

‘Easy, Acland. I am not indulging their indolence, merely trying to make them less of a ready target for enemy bullets.’

Acland was from the old school and he shook his head doubtfully. ‘I’m not sure about that, sir. It’s best to make ’em stand up to enemy fire. Last thing we want is to encourage any sense of self-preservation in the beggars.’

‘While I agree with you, it is a fact that soldiers are less easy for his majesty to come by than they are for the Emperor. So let us preserve them as we may. Now, when those fellows of Junot’s advance on the ridge, you must bide your time and wait for them to come well within range.Then have your men rise up and shoot them down.Then, in with the bayonet, when you judge the moment is ripe.’

‘Aye.’ Acland nodded. ‘That’ll please my boys well enough!’

‘Then a good day to you!’ Arthur spurred his horse and galloped on for a final inspection of his other brigades before returning to his command post. By the time he returned to the crest of the small hill south of Vimeiro, the enemy had swung round to the west and was forming columns in readiness to launch their assault. Arthur glanced north and was satisfied that the army was ready to repel any attacks they might face.The two brigades on the right flank were concealed behind the crest of Vimeiro Hill, on which twelve cannon had been positioned to cover the slopes. Down below, in the cover of boulders and folds in the ground, crouched the light infantry and two companies of rifles. Arthur nodded to himself with satisfaction. Now he would put his ideas to the test and see just how formidable the French assault columns really were.

A dull boom echoed up the slope and he saw a puff of smoke some half a mile from the foot of the ridge. Abruptly several more guns opened fire and kicked up small explosions of dirt, rock and small branches as the grapeshot tore up the ground along his skirmish line. After a few more rounds the French guns fell silent and a moment later the enemy skirmishers advanced to duel with their British counterparts. A steady crackle of musket and rifle fire drifted up the slope as the skirmishers of both sides contested the foot of the hill. Then, as weight of numbers began to tell, the British fell back, scurrying from cover to cover as they fired on their pursuers. A deep drum roll and tinny blare of trumpets carried across from the French lines as the assault columns edged forward and began to tramp up the slope behind their skirmishers.

‘And here they come,’ Somerset muttered casually.

There was a low fold in the ground just in front of the British cannon and the riflemen took shelter there as the other skirmishers ran back to their battalions and joined the main battle line. Then, as the first of the French skirmishers came into plain view, closely followed by the heads of the assault columns, the British guns opened fire. Arthur watched with keen interest the effects of the three howitzers he had deployed alongside the other guns. They were firing the newly developed shells designed by an artillery officer named Shrapnel, which were fused to burst over the heads of the enemy, spraying out scores of small iron shards. As Arthur watched, the first of the shells burst in a white puff over the leading ranks of the nearest column and at once a score of men went down.

‘Not bad,’ he mused, impressed by the effect. He could imagine the moral effect of being struck down from above as well as from the front, and made a mental note to fully endorse Shrapnel’s innovation when he had the opportunity. Meanwhile the columns tramped forward remorselessly, straight into the withering hail of the case shot blasting out from the British guns. As each cone of shot struck home it was as if a giant fist punched into the French columns, knocking men down like skittles. Despite the terrible carnage Arthur could not help admiring the élan of the enemy as the gaps were swiftly filled with fresh men and the columns continued up the slope, urged on by the relentless beating of drums and shouts of encouragement from officers and sergeants.

As the front rank of the enemy came within musket range, the British gun crews fired one last shot and then fell back, running for the cover of the hill crest. At once the French began to jeer and shout their contempt and their pace increased now that they no longer had to fear being cut down by case shot. Ahead of them lay the abandoned guns and a short distance beyond them a small group of British officers on horseback.

Arthur raised his arm, glancing left and right to make sure that he had the attention of the two brigades either side of him, and then swept his arm forward. Orders were bellowed out and the men of the two brigades rose up from the ground, dressed their ranks and then advanced over the crest.To the French it looked as if they had risen up from the earth, and the assault column’s pace faltered even as the slope began to level out beneath the leading ranks.

The British officers barked out the command, ‘Halt! . . . Make ready to fire!’

The long thin line, two men deep, stopped dead, and then over two thousand muskets were lowered so that their muzzles pointed down the slope at the French, no more than fifty paces away.

‘Cock your weapons!’

A ragged clicking rippled along the line, and then there was a pause, and a stillness that reminded Arthur of the tense anticipation between the flash of lightning and the crash of thunder.

‘Fire!’

The roar was like a multitude of hammers striking a sheet of steel, and flame and smoke burst out along the British line. From his position slightly above and behind his men Arthur saw the terrible impact of the first volley as the heads of the French columns collapsed, leaving a crumpled line of blue-coated bodies across the bloodstained ground.

‘Fire by companies!’

The flanks of the British brigades advanced round the heads of the French columns and then a rolling series of volleys crashed out as one company after another fired into the enemy. The French struggled to deploy from column into line amid the chaos of tumbling bodies and the whirr of lead passing through the air all around them. There was only the briefest of delays between the volleys, and the near continuous destruction being wrought on the French ranks shattered their cohesion and broke their spirit. Inevitably, they began to give way. Succeeding companies refused to advance into the place of their fallen comrades, and even began to edge back, down the slope.

As the commanders of the British battalions became aware that the enemy was recoiling, they gave the order to cease fire and fix bayonets.With a rattle and clatter the bayonets were fastened on to the ends of the muskets and then the red lines began to advance again. Arthur was struck by the difference between the two armies. The French, loud, brash and vociferous as they advanced, each man cheering, or singing along to the Marseillaise or another of their patriotic tunes. Facing them, the British soldiers were calm, ordered and quite silent, functioning like an implacable machine, so that when the final order to charge echoed along the crest of the hill, their sudden roar was quite terrifying and Arthur felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise in icy response.

The redcoats burst into a run, rushing down on their enemy, mouths wide open as they bellowed their meaningless roars of aggression. The more fearless of the Frenchmen stood their ground, bayonets lowered and boots braced, while others just froze in terror. Many more fell back then turned and ran as the British infantry burst upon them, stabbing with their bayonets and smashing the butts of their muskets into the heads and bodies of the enemy. It was a sharp, savage fight as Arthur looked on. The French were knocked down and impaled without mercy, adding still more corpses to those strewn along the hillside.

In less than a minute, it was over.The French soldiers were streaming down the hill and the British were left masters of the slope. Now it was their turn to shout their contempt for the enemy, and they bellowed insults and whistled mockingly before the sergeants called them to order and re-formed each company before marching it back over the crest of the hill. Meanwhile the artillery crews ran forward to their guns and recommenced firing after the fleeing mob of French soldiers until they reached the foot of the hill and scattered across the open ground beyond. The guns fell silent and Arthur surveyed the slope in front of his position.The attack had cost Junot as many as five hundred men, he estimated. In amongst the heaps of bodies lay an occasional redcoat, but the British losses had been slight indeed.

Even so, the French recovered quickly, and already a fresh column, preceded by the usual screen of skirmishers, was advancing up through the stunted trees that dotted the approaches to the hill. This time, though, Arthur could see that they were accompanied by light artillery pieces to provide close support for the attacking column. Clearly Junot had learned to respect his enemy.

The second attack suffered the same fate as the first, and most of the French guns were knocked out long before they could be deployed on the slopes. Once more the French battalions were badly cut up by British artillery before being stopped dead by a continuous fusillade of musket fire and then breaking as a wave of bayonets swept down the slope towards them, though this time they had exchanged a series of volleys with the redcoats and caused over a hundred casualties amongst Arthur’s two brigades. Satisfied that there was no immediate threat to his position, Arthur trained his telescope on the east ridge and was pleased to observe that the French were being repelled there as well. So far, the British infantry had held their nerve and fought the enemy in fine style, as Arthur had always been confident they would. He lowered his telescope with a satisfied nod and returned his attention to the fight on Vimeiro Hill.

The British soldiers were returning to their protected position on the reverse slope of the hill when Arthur spied a party of horsemen riding up the hill from the west. As they drew closer he made out the gold braid and sash of a senior officer amongst them and realised, with a sinking feeling, that Sir Harry Burrard must have landed before the runner had reached the coast.Wheeling his horse about, Arthur turned towards Sir Harry and waited.

‘Good morning to you, Wellesley!’ Sir Harry called out as he rode up. ‘It seems you have your battle after all.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘So how is it proceeding?’ Sir Harry surveyed the bodies littering the slope and the French below, massing for yet another attack, this time to the north of the hill, in the direction of the village of Vimeiro. Arthur quickly made his report and then hesitated before asking the obvious question.

‘Do you intend to assume command here, sir?’

Sir Harry shook his head. ‘I see no need.You have the situation in hand, Wellesley. Please continue your domination of the enemy.’

Arthur could not help smiling. ‘Thank you, sir.’

Even though he could not but be conscious of his superior’s silent attention, Arthur did his best to ignore Sir Harry as he watched for developments amid the scattered trees that covered the approaches to the ridge. He did not have to wait long. Once again, a thin screen of skirmishers emerged and warily began to make their way up the slope, to be met by the waiting light infantry and men of the Rifles. But this was no more than a feint. As soon as the musket fire had intensified on Vimeiro Hill a fresh column of French infantry suddenly marched into view, making straight for the village of Vimeiro, at the centre of the British line.

‘Damn Junot,’ Arthur muttered to himself. ‘He means to cut my army in two.’

If the French general succeeded, then he would threaten to destroy each wing of the British army in turn. With a quick glance to the east to reassure himself that there was no sign of any further attempt to be made on the hill, Arthur called to Somerset and set off for Vimeiro at a gallop.The sturdy houses on the edge of the village had been occupied by light infantry and two companies of grenadiers. Behind it stood the survivors of the Twenty-Ninth Foot and the two hundred and fifty men of the Light Dragoons, the only cavalry available to Arthur since he had landed in Portugal. The two officers galloped into the main street of Vimeiro and the pounding of their mounts’ hooves echoed off the whitewashed walls on either side of the empty street. The village’s inhabitants had barricaded themselves in and were praying for a swift end to the battle.

When Arthur and Somerset reached the far side, they drew up behind a shoulder-high wall lined with British skirmishers who were already firing on the head of the French column. Rising in his stirrups Arthur squinted through the rolling haze of gunpowder smoke and saw that the leading enemy troops were no more than a hundred paces away. The crackle of muskets was underscored by the deep rhythmic rumble and rattle of drums. A handful of the enemy had been struck down, and as Arthur watched there was a white puff in the air above the column as one of the British howitzers on the hill found the range. Despite the losses the column came on at a quick step, and within a minute they had halted not more than thirty paces from the village to deliver one volley before charging.

Arthur felt a chill of terror as the enemy muskets foreshortened.The possibility that he could be shot at any moment filled him with a perverse excitement. Only good fortune could save him now, but if he lived he would have the satisfaction of having stood up to the enemy’s fire. The French fired and the air was filled with the clatter of musket balls striking the walls. When the moment had passed Arthur looked round and was relieved to see that the only damage done was that one of his men’s shakos had been shot off its owner’s head.The soldier was now swearing bloody revenge at the French as he reloaded his musket, fired, and swiftly prepared the next round.

With a roar the French rushed forward.

‘Sir,’ Somerset called out.‘I think we should withdraw to somewhere less dangerous.’

He was right, Arthur knew. Commanding generals had no right to put themselves at risk when their men needed them.Yet this situation was different. If anything happened to Arthur, Sir Harry could take over the moment he heard the news.

‘Just a moment,’ he said.

The French had reached the wall and were locked in a desperate bayonet fight with the British soldiers defending the village. Badly outnumbered as they were, Arthur’s men would have to give way eventually, he realised, and with a quick gesture to Somerset to follow him he wheeled his horse round and rode back through the village to where the Twenty-Ninth and the Light Dragoons were waiting. Arthur rode up to the colonel commanding the dragoons.

‘Taylor, I aim to break the French attack once their formation is held up by the village. The moment I give the order I want you to charge them. Go in hard and fast and make as much of a show of it as you can.’

‘Yes, sir!’ Colonel Taylor’s eyes glinted with excitement at the prospect. ‘My boys will carve them up nicely.’

‘No doubt. But listen here,Taylor, we have too few mounted men to waste. Don’t let your men pursue the enemy too far. Rein ’em in once the enemy are making a run for it. Understand?’

‘Yes, sir.You can rely on me.’

‘Very well then.’

Arthur left the dragoons and trotted forward to the men of the Twenty-Ninth. There were barely more than a hundred and fifty survivors formed up in front of the colours, yet the battalion must suffer still more grievously if the centre of the British line was to hold. Clearing his throat, Arthur addressed them.

‘Men, I know you have tasted rather more of battle than you might like, but there is one last duty I would ask of you.’ He paused and glanced along the lines of sombre faces. ‘The French desire possession of Vimeiro. I will not have it, I tell you. So then, Twenty-Ninth, it is up to you to clear those rascals away!’

Someone in the rear rank laughed and piped up,‘We’ll do it for you, Nosey!’

Arthur glared in the direction of the shout and feigned umbrage as he walked his horse to one side.

‘By God, they lack manners,’ he muttered to Somerset, and the latter smiled.

‘That is so, sir. But I think they do not lack a degree of affection for you.’

‘Indeed?’ Arthur raised his eyebrows. ‘Even as I send some of them to their deaths? A peculiar thing, is it not?’

The acting commander of the battalion, a captain, drew a breath and swept his sword out of its scabbard with a flourish. ‘The Twenty-Ninth will advance! At the double!’

The small band of men surged forward, boots pounding along the dry lane that led into the village, towards the sound of firing. Some more of the howitzers had added their fire and the clear sky beyond Vimeiro was punctuated by the deadly puffs as the shells burst over the heads of the oncoming French, scything men down. Arthur turned his mount to one side and trotted up to the top of a nearby knoll, with a solitary tree upon its crest. From there he could see that the head of the French column had penetrated the village. The enemy had already suffered grievously and the ground in front of Vimeiro was dotted with bodies. A moment later there was a roar as the Twenty-Ninth charged into the fray. The musket fire intensified briefly and then the French began to fall back from the village. The men behind them stalled and the column ground to a halt in confusion as the men fleeing from the village ran into their comrades.

Arthur turned towards the dragoons and waved his hand to attract Taylor’s attention. ‘Now’s your time, Taylor!’ he yelled. ‘Charge ’em!’

The bugler sounded the advance and the horsemen surged forward, riding round the flank of the village in squadron lines. As the smoke-shrouded French column came into view the bugle’s strident notes sounded the charge and the dragoons spurred on, swords raised and flashing in the morning sun as they thundered over the dry ground towards the enemy. Only a few shots were fired as they charged home, and Arthur saw one of his men topple from his saddle and disappear into the swirling dust. Then the dragoons were in amongst the enemy, hacking to left and right. Within moments the column had ceased to exist as a formation and the French had turned and were fleeing across the open ground.

Arthur watched without expression. The effect of the dragoons’ sudden appearance was all he had hoped.Taylor’s men had smashed the column. Arthur trusted the man had sufficient presence of mind not to get carried away by the charge, and to call his men back in good time. But the bugler kept sounding the charge and the notes became more and more distant as the cavalry fanned out across the plain, running down isolated victims and avoiding those pockets of Frenchmen who had held together and were now retreating in good order.

‘Damn the man,’ Arthur growled.‘He should call his men back now, before it is too late.’

‘I fear that it is already too late,’ said Somerset, as he watched one of the clusters of infantry fire a ragged volley that carried three of the dragoons off their saddles.

Taylor’s men were so scattered by that time that the French were turning on them, and now the disparity in numbers began to tell.At last, the bugler sounded the recall and the troopers broke off their pursuit and trotted back towards Vimeiro, singly and in small groups. The French continued to fire on them, causing more casualties, until they were out of range.

Arthur sighed.‘It seems we have a deal of work to do in disciplining our cavalry.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I don’t know what it is about cavalry, that makes them stuff their heads with straw.’

Somerset smiled. ‘You know how it is, sir. The brightest fellows join the engineers, and, failing that, the infantry. As for the rest . . .’ He gestured towards the dragoons who had returned to Vimeiro and were slowly re-forming their companies.

‘Quite.’ Arthur nodded. ‘At least they have repulsed the enemy. The field is ours. All that remains is to pursue Junot to his destruction.’ Arthur paused and glanced up the hill.‘But that is an order for Sir Harry to give. Come on!’

He spurred his horse and galloped back up the slope to the crest of the hill. Sir Harry Burrard was where Arthur had left him. He smiled broadly as Arthur came pounding towards him.

‘Damned fine work, Wellesley! The frogs are on the run.’

‘Yes, sir!’ Arthur panted.‘Now we must seize the fruits of victory, sir. Give the order to advance and Junot is finished. Lisbon will be in our hands within three days.’

Sir Harry smiled again, and shook his head. ‘Fortune has smiled on us today, Sir Arthur. It would be rash to tempt providence. Let us wait until General Moore arrives with his men.Then we shall dominate the enemy.’

Arthur thrust his arm out towards the retreating French soldiers. ‘But, sir, we already dominate them.You have but to give the word and we can run them to ground and compel Junot to surrender.’ He paused as he swiftly considered the best way to change Sir Harry’s mind.‘Think of the glory, sir. The man who forces Junot to surrender will be the hero of the hour.’

‘And the man who throws caution to the wind and leads the army to disaster will be the villain in perpetuity, Wellesley. I will not be that man. Besides, we should wait and see what Sir Hew Dalrymple decides.’

‘With respect, sir, Sir Hew is not here. If he was, then I am sure he would seize such a fine opportunity to destroy the enemy.’

‘Enough, Wellesley,’ Sir Harry said curtly. ‘I have made my decision. There will be no pursuit. We will wait for General Dalrymple and the rest of the reinforcements.’

Arthur stared at his superior for a moment. His heart was crying out with frustration and despair, but there was nothing he could do. Sir Harry was the ranking officer, and his word was final. Trying hard to hide his feelings, Arthur turned away and gazed towards the escaping French. All around him he heard the cheers of his men, but there was no joy in his heart.