The Iberian Flame

Chapter 64

The town of Vitoria on the Ebro river

Major FitzOwen Inglis eased up the roof tile a little further and, wedging his back against a rafter, trained his telescope carefully on the knot of officers waiting respectfully. He’d been told the identity of the personage who would be arriving by two reliable sources but needed to have it confirmed, for if true it would be a development of catastrophic proportions.

He was hard by the medieval square, and the news that it had been filling with French troops all week had drawn the major from his hideaway in Saragossa.

Inglis was fluent in Spanish through his Galician mother. A careful and intelligent individual, as newly appointed English envoy to the Spanish general Jose de Palafox y Melci, he’d lost a leg in the chaos of the uprising. While recovering he’d lain low behind the lines and relayed such information as he could garner to the coast for passing on to Wellesley.

He’d seen much, but nothing more pleasing than the streaming thousands of French occupation forces retreating from all parts of Spain. After Bailen they’d abandoned their positions to fall back here, behind the Ebro.

Rumours had been heady and many as to what it meant for Spain, but the British command needed solid facts. Inglis had done his best, but without a network of spies he had to make do with what he could glean from the flow of gossip and his own small but valuable observations.

Shortly, though, he would have in his hands a piece of information that threatened to turn everything on its head.

The French officers were in a tight group, watching the road into town, an array of soldiery in lines to one side of the square, their regimental colours aloft.

Then on the air came the near visceral sound of massed cavalry, and a trumpet baying distantly. It drew nearer, and Inglis focused on the highway where it became visible past the wall of a baker’s shop. Suddenly the first horsemen came into view – and he caught his breath. Yes! An escort detachment of the Imperial Mounted Chasseurs, identified by the golden eagle on their ornate saddlecloths, the shabraques, and their bushy cockades in distinctive bearskins. Their horses steamed in the autumn air from hard riding.

It had to be!

He reached for his crutches and made his way down to the alley, pausing only to check his disguise. He was unshaven, with his still-bandaged leg stump, remnants of a shabby uniform and a battered shako that could have come from any one of the many armies at war in Spain. A bedraggled, wounded soldier, one of so many to be seen these days.

Swinging along as fast as he could, he reached the back of the gawping crowd and made ill-tempered jabs with his crutch until, seeing his condition, they let him through to the front.

The cavalry passed close, with an almost deafening jingle of harness, the faces of the riders hard and ruthless, the gold frogging glinting in the wan autumn sunshine, the stink of their horses rich and heavy on the air.

They proceeded out of sight, only to be displaced by troopers of the Gendarmerie d’elite, tall, perfectly matched, each on a black horse and resplendent with a lofty busby and heavy sabre. Their task was to establish an impenetrable security cordon – for a most important person was increasingly likely to descend from the carriage not far behind.

No less than Napoleon Bonaparte, Emperor of France.

Inglis had heard the legends, the stories of this man who had laid low nearly the entire civilised world single-handed, and he knew, too, all details of how he progressed in military cavalcade with his army about his fiefdom. If this was an impostor sent to awe the Spanish he would be detected, but for now the impressive panoply was convincing.

At last a hush fell on the crowd. The gleaming coach was approaching at a brisk trot, a species of four-in-hand landau with the arms of the Emperor emblazoned on its side.

Inglis squinted. At the reins the driver was wearing a fat turban and flowing silk trousers. That must be Roustam, a Mameluke from Egypt, one of two that went everywhere with the Emperor. And under his seat a capacious box was built into the bodywork, which held Bonaparte’s campaign documents.

The carriage swept around in a half-circle and came to a stop before the group of officers.

Inglis could see them clearly in their finery now, marshals of France all. There was the much admired Soult, boyish and round-faced, confident and erect. Next to him, Ney was ruddy-faced and intense and, hanging back slightly, Lefebvre, a thin, nervous figure, his uniform nearly hidden by decorations. Others, he didn’t recognise.

There was an electric tension in the air. Then the carriage door opened and none other than the Emperor himself was stepping down. Tired, pale and drawn, he stood for a moment in an imperial pose, gravely acknowledging the bows of the marshals, some of whom went to their knees. Then he raised his gaze to the crowd that began an awe-struck chanting, ‘Vive l’Empereur!’

Bonaparte turned and went to the officers, chatting amiably, the slapping of his gloves against his thigh the only sign of impatience. Inglis watched like a hawk: the Emperor spent most time with Soult, exchanged a jest or two with Ney but ignored Lefebvre.

It was difficult to throw off the thrall of the scene, the almost mystical reverence that held them all in a compelling embrace. Inglis pulled himself together, his thoughts racing as the Emperor walked across to chat amiably with individuals in the rigid lines of the Imperial Guard.

It was one thing that Bonaparte had visited Spain, presumably to stiffen spines, but another to know just how far this went. Rumour had it that he was being followed by an army on the march but what did that mean? Reinforcements, or the usual host around an emperor?

Whatever it was, Inglis was at its epicentre and he couldn’t waste time speculating. As soon as he decently could, he returned to his eyrie and continued his discreet observations.

By the time the parade had dispersed he had compiled a list of notables he’d seen. At least half of the top military talent of the empire had been present. The overriding question was, were they accompanied by troops? He knew that corps commanders didn’t leave their men leaderless while they paraded themselves on the other side of the country, so this could be much more than a defiant show.

That night he laid his plans to discover the true situation.

He hobbled down the main street of the town, ignored by the excited, milling crowds. He sought out a tapas parlour and found the proprietor, who regarded him distastefully. He made his play: he was an old soldier down on his luck and all he wanted was a few silver reales to tide him over for which he’d industriously sweep the floors of the olive stones, cheese rind and other litter customarily discarded there by diners. The patron grudgingly handed him a scraggy broom.

Inglis started at the back, eyeing the customers. French, almost to a man. In full flow of bonhomie, and with copious draughts of Spanish wine, they were loud and uninhibited.

They joked and laughed at him, one tripping him as he balanced on his crutch to get into a corner and he fell, near blinded by pain. They taunted him in French but, being an ignorant Spaniard, he couldn’t possibly understand them. He shouted back, ‘Species of a goat!’ in coarse Galician, which brought puzzled looks and ensured his unhindered access to the rest of the diners – and the riches of revelation they provided.

Soon he had established the main elements and it chilled him to the core. The marshals of France were not there by coincidence or for show. There were at this hour no fewer than five armies marching to the Ebro at the legendary speed for which Bonaparte’s veterans were known. Adding together the strength of each division and corps mentioned, he came up with an appalling figure, which at first his stunned mind could not accept.

Against Moore’s twenty thousand the truly horrifying total of a quarter of a million were now massing behind the Ebro, ready for their lunge into the vitals of Spain.

As he mechanically continued sweeping, he heard what lay behind the careless euphoria he’d seen. None other than Emperor Bonaparte himself would lead this gigantic punishing crusade. He would personally take charge and set about the vengeful reoccupation and subjugation of Spain.

In a lightning dash across Europe from a last-minute humbling of the Austrians, he’d reached the Ebro to take up his command. A full imperial headquarters was being prepared; a field-train with all the appurtenances of a campaign in depth was on its way, and each divisional headquarters laboured under his eye to have their artillery, baggage and communications assembled, their men in readiness to take the road at a moment’s notice.

Just as he’d done all across the Continent, the Emperor would bring his ragged and mismatched foes to battle and, with his overwhelming numbers, wipe them from the face of the earth.

Somewhere on the other side of Spain, Moore was marching blindly towards him, his last information that the French were scrambling to get away. Was he, and the only army of size England possessed, headed for annihilation?

Sick at heart Inglis returned to his wretched hiding place, while raucous noise spilled out from the streets all around him. Without delay, he pulled out pen and paper and began to write.