Having heard that action was imminent, she was determined to be near Robert. If he should be hurt, she intended to nurse him. It was her conviction, from stories she had heard, that as many wounded died from neglect and the inadequate medical facilities as died from the effects of the wounds themselves. And actually, Esmeralda was not at all afraid. Her military opinions having been molded by Robert and his friends, she was even more confident than Robert that the British would be victorious in any action Sir Arthur decided to undertake. It was not herself, safe in Alcobaça, for whom she feared.
Fortunately, Robert had taken her frozen rigidity of absolute horror to be indifference. And when he began to tell her of the distance between the armies and that it was likely that the French would retreat for several days longer while they grouped their forces and brought up reinforcements, Esmeralda’s immediate anxiety had melted enough for her to reply to his conversation rationally. Even so, Robert had his doubts as to the wisdom of Esmeralda moving farther south, but the two evenings he had spent alone with her had sharply reinforced his pleasure in her company. As on that first evening in Oporto, they had talked about army affairs, played cards, and laughed a great deal.
By now Robert was growing quite expert in finding excuses to keep Esmeralda close, and she aided and abetted him with the agility of mind developed by years of outwitting her father. Between them, they found reasons enough for her to continue south with Robert to Caldas on the morning of August 15. There had not been even a smell of the French, Robert told himself. There could be no danger in moving her south once more.
His conscience should have stabbed him, because early the next morning four companies of the Sixtieth and of the Ninety-fifth Rifles came upon French pickets established at the windmill of Brilos, just about a mile outside of Caldas. Upon order the English troops drove the French out without the smallest difficulty, but their officers, being more gallant than sensible and lifted to enthusiasm by finally coming upon the enemy, unwisely followed the fleeing French troops, firing as they ran.
When the mill was clear, Sir Arthur dismounted to climb to the top of it to survey the countryside. He examined the terrain minutely while the sound of the firing diminished into the distance. After fifteen or twenty minutes, he dropped his glass from his eye and cocked his head to listen to the intermittent sound of the guns still fading. Then he tchk’d and lifted his glass to his eye. After a few minutes more, he turned his head toward his staff.
“Campbell, Spencer’s division should be well forward to our left. Tell him to send a brigade on to Óbidos with all the speed they can make. Moreton, ride after those idiotic Rifles and tell them to stop at once. They can hold their ground if it is reasonable to do so, but they are to retire to Spencer’s protection without further contact if threatened by a superior force.”
Campbell was already gone down the stairs, and Robert followed him, leapt into the saddle, and kicked Mars into a full gallop. The skirmishers were well in front, however, and it was apparent by the time he came close that it was too late. The sharp cracks of the rifled weapons still came intermittently, but there was a heavy roll of the duller explosions produced by unrifled muskets. Robert could see a thick fog of gun smoke spread over the rising ground, behind which, he presumed, lay the village of Óbidos.
Cursing fluently, he drove Mars even faster. It was clear that the advance skirmishers had run into the rear guard of Delaborde’s division for whom they were no match. Quickly Robert ran over Sir Arthur’s orders in his mind. Sir Arthur expected his orders to be obeyed as they were given, but sometimes there was leeway in how to obey. Robert did not believe it was still possible to retreat without bringing the rear guard after the English troops. If he had been certain just where Spencer was, that might be a clever move because Spencer’s division could then surprise and overwhelm the French, however he did not know how far away Spencer was.
At this point in his ruminations a ball whizzed by so close that Robert flinched automatically. It was nearly spent and could have done little harm even if it had hit him, nonetheless, he began to look for cover. Aside from low bushes, there was none. All Robert could do was ride off the road itself to where bushes and irregular ground might confuse the eye. For all of that, he had scarcely slackened his pace. Mars was sagacious about where he put his feet. A shot plucked at Robert’s sleeve, and he cursed again. Then, off to the right, he saw a Rifleman sitting behind a bush trying to stanch the bleeding from one shoulder.
“Have you come back far, Rifleman?” Robert shouted.
“Haven’t fallen back at all, sir,” the man replied. “I was one of the first hit.”
Seeing as he came closer that the bush was taller than he had first thought, Robert pulled up and dismounted. He ripped off his sash and tied it quickly around the trooper’s shoulder, hoping the pressure would decrease the flow of blood. It was not a gratuitous act of mercy. Robert wanted to use the man.
“Hold my horse in this shelter,” he ordered. “If you go faint, tie him to you or the bush. I don’t wish to walk back to Sir Arthur.”
The Rifleman nodded, and Robert began to run forward. Bullets flew by with more frequency, but they were, he thought, the result of bad aim rather than any attempt to shoot him. Most of the fire was still concentrated ahead of him. Another two minutes brought him to a corpse, then another, then a man doubled forward, breathing hard.
“Where are your officers?” Robert called.
“Lieutenant Bunbury’s dead, sir,” he gasped, and waved vaguely farther to the right.
A dead officer was of no use to Robert, so he veered off to the left, hoping positions had not been so inextricably mixed that another officer would be toward the center of the action at a distance. Robert’s movements were now necessarily erratic as he ducked and darted, using whatever cover he could find.
“Damn your bloody ass!” a voice bellowed at him suddenly. “Get down and use your gun.”
Robert sighed with relief as he bent double and crawled in the direction from which that enraged and authoritative voice had come. “Staff!” he shouted, not wanting his blue coat to be taken for a Frenchman’s uniform.
“I suppose if I don’t get shot here,” the young officer said bitterly as Robert flopped beside him, “the Beau will have us all shot when we get back.”
Robert laughed. “You deserve it, but no, I don’t think it will be as bad as that. He’s likely to peel off your ears, though.” As he spoke he had pulled out his Ellis and cocked it. “What he said,” Robert went on as he peered intently through the fog created by the repeated powder explosions for a target within pistol range, “was to tell those idiots to stop at once. You are to hold the ground if you can but retreat to Spencer’s protection without further contact before a superior force.”
The officer groaned. Robert started to laugh again, but an errant breeze pulled the smoke apart, and ahead of him just barely within pistol range a blue-coated figure rose and leveled a musket. Robert fired. The figure cried out and fell backward. The fog closed in again.
“How the devil can we retreat?” the officer snarled. “They’ll be down on us like hounds on a fox.”
“You might not need to,” Robert offered, working the cocking mechanism on his pistol. “A brigade of Spencer’s is coming to the rescue. It depends on how far forward his division is, how fast he can move them, and how long you can hold out here.”
“The French will run over us if they charge.”
Robert shrugged. He knew it. He knew, too, that technically a staff officer should be able to offer advice within the bounds of the orders he carried. The theory was that, owing to experience in the field and a wider view of the battle situation, a staff officer could provide information a field officer would not have. Robert was in a better position to offer help than most of the ADCs since he had nearly ten years of military service and had seen considerable action. However, he had never served in the field, and in this case the possibilities were so limite
d that advice was useless. Obviously the lieutenant with whom he was speaking could not make any major decision, either.
“Where is your captain?” Robert asked.
“Ahead, if he’s still alive. Bunbury’s had it.”
“Yes, I know,” Robert said, rising to a crouch and starting off in the direction pointed.
Because the troops were pinned down, Robert thought he could find the captain of the company in the same position, but he had moved. Robert hunted for another fifteen or twenty minutes before he found Captain Leach, with whom he was acquainted, worrying all the time he searched about what he could say aside from the orders he had been given. Fortunately, just as he squatted down to speak, the sound of Spencer’s drums came, very faint and distant, but nonetheless unmistakable.
The crisis was not over, in fact the indication that a supporting force was close might induce the French officers to order an immediate attack to do as much damage as they could before they retreated. However, with help coming, the solution was obvious. Robert delivered his orders, identified the oncoming rescuers, and when Captain Leach snapped orders to the buglers for the men to fall in to close defensive formation—which was what Robert himself would have suggested—he relaxed. Sometimes a field officer resented suggestions from staff that were not direct orders from a commanding officer.
Robert did not, however, leave at once. It was his duty not only to pass along orders but to report accurately concerning the situation, and there was little he could say about it until he knew whether the beleaguered troops would be rushed and, if so, whether they could hold out. Essentially, however, the action had ended. The men successfully formed three deep around the summit of a little hill, and although there was enough firing to keep them pinned down, the rush they expected never came. When the light began to fail, Robert made his way back to his horse, assured the Rifleman, who was still conscious, that help was on its way, mounted up, and galloped back to make his report to Sir Arthur.
Robert was too wise after years of service with Sir Arthur to advance any personal opinion unless asked for it or to offer any excuses for the action of men and officers as he might have done had he been serving with Sir John Moore. He reported exactly what he had seen and done—no more, no less.
“Casualties?” Sir Arthur asked.
“Lieutenant Bunbury dead, sir. That was reported by one of the men and one of the officers. I saw about a dozen wounded, three dead, aside from Bunbury.”
Sir Arthur made a small sound of irritation, but his expression held none of the rigidity that appeared when he was reining in his temper. “Ah, well,” he said, his voice sounding indulgent, “it was very foolish, but it shows an excellent spirit. They behaved very well, after all, if not with great prudence.”
The army advanced into Óbidos with due caution, but the French were gone. Small detachments of cavalry were sent out with strict orders not to engage, but they found nothing as far as three miles south of the town. Pickets were set up within the perimeter that the cavalry had covered, and Sir Arthur settled into quarters. His genial behavior that evening showed he was well satisfied with the march of events, and Robert was so exhilarated by his first taste of action since the affair at Copenhagen that he forgot Esmeralda’s existence entirely.
Even when the ADCs left the mess, the talk was all of the coming action. It was not until Robert began to strip off his clothing to go to sleep that he remembered Esmeralda would be expecting him and he had not even sent a message. He paused in his undressing to consider whether he should ride back to Caldas, but he was a little the worse for wine. Burghersh had laid his hands on a very tolerable vintage. After a moment Robert continued with his disrobing. After all, Merry had told him that he was not to worry himself if it was inconvenient to send a message. If she did not care, why should he? It did not take much more effort for Robert to decide that he was not fit to present himself to a lady, and he tumbled into bed.
Chapter Fourteen
The next day it was discovered that the French had retreated only a few miles farther than Sir Arthur’s scouting parties had gone, to a village at the meeting of the roads leading to Tôrres Vedras, Montachique, and Alcoentre, called Roliça. Sir Arthur decided to ride out to examine the land himself, as was his habit, and his staff would naturally accompany him. Fortunately, Robert had expected this and had made arrangements to warn Esmeralda that he might be absent for several days.
Since more action was imminent, Robert could not detach M’Guire from his unit, but he managed to locate one of the men of the Sixtieth who had been hit in the upper arm and could not fire a gun but whose wound was slight enough to permit him to walk the three and a half miles to Caldas. Robert scribbled a note to Esmeralda to be delivered by this man. Having relieved his conscience, he went buoyantly about his duties.
The position at Roliça taken up by the French commander Delaborde was a good one. The sandy plain that stretched south of Óbidos became enclosed on either flank by bold hills in the region of Roliça, and behind the village lay a connecting cross ridge, broken by a sort of gorge through which the road passed southward. To the right of the defile of the road just below the heights of the ridge was another village called Columbeira. On the other side, but some distance behind, was Zambugeira. However, Delaborde had placed his men on an isolated rise of ground some distance ahead of the cross ridge. On the eastern slope of the isolated rise was the village of Roliça.
The names of the villages beyond Roliça and the lay of the land were determined by a combination of observation and information obtained from the local people. Robert was detailed to the duty of questioning the inhabitants of Óbidos, since he had become reasonably fluent in Portuguese. Often when he missed a word and had to ask for repetition or explanation, he found himself wishing for Esmeralda. Once or twice he found himself wondering whether it would be possible for him to get back to Caldas—and he was rather shocked at having such an idea when it was plain Sir Arthur was waiting only for the whole army to be assembled and given a night’s rest before they attacked in earnest.
Nonetheless, once the idea got into Robert’s head it kept recurring, and with each recurrence it seemed more reasonable. It was less than four miles to Caldas. He would not stay the night, he told himself. He would only ride over for an hour or two to tell Merry what was going on. She was always so eager for news.
Now and again common sense reared its ugly head to point out that visiting with Merry, even for an hour or two, was an invitation to sexual discomfort, if not actually to a sleepless night then to very restless dreams. That, Robert told himself as he finished the written report of the information he had gathered, was not Merry’s fault. Merry never flirted with him or made suggestive remarks. Robert paused with the report in hand. How odd that was. All the young women he knew flirted and made suggestive remarks to him if he gave them half a chance. Yet he had spent hours alone with Merry and she had acted just like his sisters, except of course a hundred times more sensibly. Why? It had been pleasant at first because he was able to be relaxed with her. Why was it no longer pleasant?
The questions were not to be answered immediately. Somerset came out of the room Sir Arthur was using as an office and said, “Oh, there you are. Sir Arthur’s ready for you.”
But at that moment Sir Arthur himself came out and said, “Come along, Moreton. We’re going to compare all the information we’ve picked up, and there are likely to be questions that can’t be answered by a report.”
Robert followed Sir Arthur into a larger chamber, in which most of the general officers were already sitting and talking. Lord Fitzroy Somerset and Lord Burghersh had preceded him and Sir Arthur. Burghersh was refilling glasses as they emptied, and Somerset remained seated inconspicuously at a small table with writing implements and paper for taking notes. Sir Arthur greeted his officers genially. Nothing could have pleased him more than a chance for action. With the immediate threat of supersession hanging over him, he was very eager
to make some mark.
“Well, Taylor,” he said to the commander of the Twentieth Light Dragoons, which had been scouting the area, “what have your men to tell us?”
He listened to that report and to other fragmentary information, to the details Robert had extracted from the local Portuguese, and at last turned to Somerset and asked, “What have we, then?”
“General Delaborde seems to have four to five thousand men and about five or six guns,” Lord Fitzroy summarized. “All reports agree that he has taken up a position on the hill behind Roliça. The Portuguese believe that General Loison was recently as close as Alcoentre and is marching to support Delaborde with as many as ten thousand troops and twenty guns.”
“How reliable is the last rumor?” General Henry Fane asked.
Sir Arthur looked to Robert, who replied, “I should say the numbers are exaggerated. I got wild variations in estimates of troops. Those who are afraid we will run immediately give ridiculously low numbers. I have been told over and over that Delaborde has no more than fifteen hundred or two thousand men. Then there are those locals who fear that if we fight and then run, the French will punish them. They give much higher numbers, six or eight thousand for Delaborde and ten or fifteen guns, to discourage us from fighting. I’ve heard as many as twenty thousand for Loison and that he is hiding just over the hills at Zambugeira until we launch an attack.”
“What I like,” Caitlin Crawfurd said sardonically, “is the universal opinion that we will be beaten. The only doubt seems to be whether we will run away before the fight or after it.”
Fane laughed. “There seems to be considerable surprise among the locals that we dared challenge the pickets at Brilos.”
“The less said about that the better,” Sir Arthur remarked, but not with any great severity. “I like to see dash in the men, but a little prudence would have accomplished the same result without any loss at all.”
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