He nodded wearily. ‘Very well. Have their applications approved in my name. Then send a memo to the War Office to notify them of the relevant vacancies in our ranks.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Somerset continued working through the morning’s paperwork and then paused as he came across a small, neatly addressed bundle of letters. He cleared his throat and held the bundle up. ‘Correspondence from Lady Wellesley, sir.’
Arthur glanced up briefly. ‘Put it with the rest. I’ll attend to it when I have the time.’
Somerset was still for an instant, as if considering adding some further comment, and then put the bundle in the wooden tray reserved for low priority papers. Arthur felt a flicker of irritation at the imputed reproach of his aide. After all, he had an army to command, with all the duties that came with the post. His wife was back in London in a comfortable house, surrounded by servants. Yet Kitty contrived to drag him into making decisions about the pettiest issues of domestic management. While he found her news of friends, family and society mildly diverting, his heart began to sink when Kitty turned to the more substantial issues that consumed her thoughts: how to end the service of a difficult or incompetent maid, or whether to redecorate a room, or her latest choice of school for their sons, even though they were little more than infants. Despite his polite efforts to encourage her to take charge of the family’s affairs whilst he was away on campaign, thus far she had proved to have little faith in her ability to do so. Privately, it infuriated Arthur, just as it did when one of his officers failed to show the initiative required of his rank and responsibilities. It occurred to him that a wife and a subordinate might not be quite the same thing, but he dismissed the notion. A wife had duties, just the same as a man, and should be measured by how well she carried them out.
Marrying Kitty had been a mistake, he accepted. Nevertheless, the deed was done, though for all the wrong reasons save one: that he had given his word that he would marry her before he set off for India. She had waited for his return and so Arthur had dutifully married her, though her looks and youthful charms had long since faded. Now, if he were honest, he was glad to be away from her.
As he shook thoughts of Kitty aside, Arthur spied a movement on the far side of the river. A small convoy of wagons was snaking through the olive trees down towards the bridge that crossed the Tagus. A thin gauze of dust hung about the wagons as they rattled along the crude roadway. Two squadrons of cavalry escorted the convoy, one at its head and the other guarding the rear.
‘Somerset.’
‘Sir?’
‘See those wagons down there, on the far bank, approaching the bridge?’
Somerset looked in the direction indicated. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Ride down there and see if it’s Cradock. If it is, send him directly to me.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Somerset lowered the document he was reading, saluted and made his way over to the horse line where several mounts waited in the shade of some cedar trees, their tails flicking at the flies that buzzed round them in a constant cloud. He unhitched the reins and swung himself up on to the saddle of the nearest horse, then spurred it towards the track that led down to the bridge.
While he waited, Arthur pulled a blank sheet of paper towards him and took up a pen. He paused a moment as he composed the arguments necessary to try to squeeze more money and men from the government. Try as he might,Arthur could think of no new way to state the obvious. If the politicians in London were serious about winning the war then they would provide the means to see it through. If they were not serious, then whatever Arthur said would not sway them from the path to defeat. All that he could do was lay the facts in front of his political masters and trust to their good sense. With a deep, weary sigh, he flipped open the cap of the inkwell, dipped his pen and began to write.
‘Cradock!’ Arthur looked up as Somerset returned with another officer. He lowered his pen and rose from his chair, leaving the table to greet the new arrival. Cradock’s short jacket and bicorne hat were covered with dust, which had also settled into the creases of his face, making him look far older than he was. ‘Good to see you!’
Cradock saluted briefly and grinned. ‘And you, sir.’
‘How was the journey?’ Arthur asked, and then shook his head apologetically. ‘By God, where are my manners? You must be hot and thirsty. Somerset, get you to the innkeeper and have some refreshment brought here.’
Somerset nodded and hurried away. Arthur turned his attention back to Cradock and lowered his voice. ‘I’ll ask about the journey later. First, tell me that you have changed the Spanish gold.’
‘Yes, sir. It’s locked away in pay chests in the wagons. Though I’ll admit that a hundred thousand in gold doesn’t buy as much Portuguese currency as one would like.’
Arthur looked sharply at him. ‘Explain yourself.’
‘It’s the money changers, sir. They knew how much we needed the money and charged a somewhat higher commission than we were expecting. I did what I could to get the best deal.’
Arthur frowned. ‘Damn them! The Spanish are fighting to survive, and we’re putting our heads on the block to try to help them, yet those blasted bankers still try to get their claws on every last penny that passes before them. By God, sometimes they forget whose side they’re on.’
‘Alas, sir.’ Cradock shook his head. ‘ ’Tis a well-known fact that bankers are a nation unto themselves and damned be the rest.’
‘Amen to that,’ Arthur said with feeling. ‘Anyway, the greed of bankers notwithstanding, at least the army can move forward again.’ He nodded down towards the river where twenty or thirty men were spraying handfuls of glittering water at each other. ‘It will do the men good to remember that we are here to fight the French, not play like children.’
Cradock gazed longingly down towards the river. ‘I suppose so, sir. But I have to say they’ve earned their pleasure.’
‘Maybe.’ Arthur pursed his lips. ‘But there’s a long road ahead of us, Cradock.’
Somerset emerged from the inn, followed by a teenage boy carrying a tray with some old chipped glasses and a bottle of white wine. He set it down on the table, bowed his head and withdrew.
Arthur nodded to Somerset. ‘You do the honours.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Somerset pulled out the cork stopper and half filled each glass before handing one to Arthur and Cradock. Arthur raised his and smiled. ‘Gentlemen, the toast is death to the French, and an end to tyranny!’
‘Aye!’ Cradock agreed and the three officers downed the wine. It was cooler than Arthur anticipated and he guessed that the owner of the inn kept a deep cellar beneath his house. He set his glass down with a sharp tap on the table and turned to Somerset.
‘Right then, pass the word to all the senior officers. The army is to prepare to march.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Somerset smiled. ‘In case I am asked, might I enquire in which direction the army will advance?’
‘Why, towards Spain, of course. Towards Spain, and glory.’
Chapter 4
The early days of June brought renewed heat that beat down on the columns of the British army as it tramped along the dusty road towards Madrid. The hearty spirit that had upheld the men as they crossed the Portuguese border had soon faded as they settled into the exhausting routine of rising before dawn to break camp and begin the day’s marching in the coolest hours of the morning. The infantry trudged forward, bent under the load they carried in their wooden-framed backpacks. The cavalry rode half a mile out on each flank, their kit hung behind the saddle, tightly stuffed forage nets slung across the pommel. A screen of light horse fanned out some distance ahead of the army, watching for signs of the enemy, and the outriders of General Cuesta.
As the sun rose across the barren Spanish landscape it washed a warm ruddy glow over the British soldiers and suffused the choking dust kicked up by boots, wheels and hooves with a fiery hue. As Arthur and his small staff rode to the side of the main column, far enough away not to be bo
thered by the dust, he was amused to think that any Englishman at home who might suddenly be transported to Spain would hardly recognise these soldiers as his compatriots. Most of the men had sprouted beards and their uniforms were worn and patched, their shakos battered and badly misshapen. The red woollen cloth in which British soldiers were normally dressed was almost unknown in Portugal and the men had to make do with the cheap local material, which seemed to be available in brown only. After the first months of campaigning the makeshift repairs to uniforms and the accumulation of dust meant that the British army appeared to be predominantly clothed in a murky brown.
By late morning the sun was overhead and its harsh glare seemed to bleach the colour out of the landscape and send a silvery shimmer squirming along the horizon of the flat plain ahead of the army. Now the men began to suffer most from thirst as the dust dried out their throats and parched their lips. Their sergeants and officers, mindful of the need to conserve water in this dry land, watched their men closely to make sure that they did not consume too much from their canteens during the day’s march.
Once noon had come the army had usually advanced fifteen or so miles and was ready to halt and make camp. After the battalions had been dismissed, the men set up their makeshift tents and shelters and rested in the shade until late in the afternoon, when they ventured out to find wood for the cooking fires, and see if the local people had any food or drink to sell. Arthur had made sure that every soldier was aware that he would not countenance any looting. The least a man could expect was a public flogging if he was caught in the act.
At dusk the first fires were lit and the men cooked a stew of their pooled rations, and any game or fresh meat they had been able to buy, all added into the large pot suspended over the flames. After they had eaten, they would sit and talk. Some broke into song, accompanied by a fiddle or a flute as darkness gathered over the camp. Then the fires were built up and the men turned to their bedrolls and settled down to sleep. Those on sentry duty would be roused when their turn came during the night, while their comrades slumbered, resting before being roused to begin the whole process all over again - the timeless routine of an army on the march.
As the British advanced along the banks of the Tagus towards Madrid, Arthur began to be concerned over the lack of news from General Cuesta. Then one evening, as the army settled for the night some ten miles from the foothills of the Sierra de Gredos, Somerset brought a Spanish officer to Arthur’s tent. Stepping through the flaps, the aide saluted.
‘Sir, beg to report, there’s a messenger from General Cuesta outside.’
‘Ah, at last!’ Arthur nodded. ‘Please, bring him in.’
Somerset drew the flap aside and beckoned to the waiting officer. A moment later a short, swarthy man entered and stood in the glow of the lamp hanging from the central tent post. Arthur and the Spaniard regarded each other briefly in silence. Arthur took in the other’s dark eyes and thin moustache, and the elaborate braiding that all but covered his green coat and tasselled hat.
‘I bid you welcome, sir.’ Arthur bowed his head. ‘I am Lieutenant-General Sir Arthur Wellesley. I have the honour to command his majesty’s forces in the Peninsula.’ He gestured towards Somerset. ‘I take it you have already been introduced to my aide.’
The Spaniard nodded curtly and then presented his right leg and bowed deeply before he rose again and spoke in fluent English. ‘I am General Juan O’Donoju, of the army of Andalusia.’
Arthur cocked an eyebrow. ‘Did you say O’Donohue?’
The other man smiled faintly. ‘That was the name of my forefathers, sir. When the family was obliged to leave Ireland we took on a Spanish form of the name.’
‘Bless my soul,’ Arthur muttered before he recovered his equanimity. ‘I apologise, sir. I had not expected to find an Irishman serving as a general in the army of Spain.’
‘I hardly consider myself to be Irish, Sir Arthur. I was born in Seville and have never set foot in Ireland. So you may rest assured that I harbour no ill will towards you on account of the shameful manner in which the British have treated my ancestors.’
‘What?’ Arthur glared at him.‘Oh, I see. That’s just as well then, since we are allies.’
‘As the fortunes of war would have it, sir.’ O’Donoju flashed his teeth again. ‘For the present.’
‘Er, yes.’ Arthur cleared his throat. ‘Now then, General. I take it you have a message for me from Cuesta.’
‘From his excellency, General Gregorio García de la Cuesta, yes,’ O’Donoju corrected Arthur with heavy emphasis. He paused briefly before he continued. ‘He told me to convey to you his great joy that his brave soldiers will be fighting at the side of our British allies. He is certain that together we will soon put an end to the French cowards skulking in Madrid. Before the summer is out we will have won a glorious victory that will be an everlasting tribute to the alliance between Spain and Britain.’ The Spanish officer paused briefly before he concluded, ‘His excellency is most gratified to hear that Spain’s new ally has sent you and your men to reinforce our army in this endeavour.’
Arthur exchanged a quick look with Somerset before he responded, ‘I fear that his excellency is misinformed concerning my purpose here. I am under orders to co-operate with Spanish forces, not to reinforce them as such.’
O’Donoju shrugged his shoulders. ‘It is merely a form of words, sir. His excellency is the senior officer and has sent me to offer greetings to his new subordinate.’
Arthur saw Somerset stiffen out of the corner of his eye, but nevertheless managed to keep his expression neutral as he responded in a reasonable tone. ‘And I, of course, send greetings to him and look forward to working with him to defeat our common enemy. Before we can achieve that it is necessary that I confer with his excellency to determine our common strategy. May I enquire as to his present location?’
O’Donoju nodded. ‘His excellency has informed me that he will meet you at the fort of Miravete, near Almaraz, on the tenth of July. Do you know the fort, sir?’
Arthur thought a moment. ‘I can’t recall seeing it on our maps.’
‘It is some sixty miles from here,’ O’Donoju explained. ‘I will send you a guide when I report back to his excellency.’
‘The tenth of July?’ Somerset intervened. ‘That’s three days from now. The army can’t possibly march so far in that time.’
O’Donoju shrugged. ‘That is his excellency’s order.’
Arthur cleared his throat with a quick warning glance at Somerset to hold his tongue. ‘Tell General Cuesta that I will be there. I shall take a small escort and ride ahead of my army. Your guide can meet me on the road and take me to this fort of yours. In the meantime, I would be grateful if you would inform the general—’
‘His excellency,’ O’Donoju intervened. ‘That is his correct title, sir.’
‘Of course. Please inform his excellency that my men will require supplies of food and ammunition, which the junta in Cadiz has promised us. I take it that his excellency has made the necessary arrangements in that regard?’
‘Naturally. A Spanish gentleman’s word is his bond, sir.’
‘I am delighted to hear it. Now then.’Arthur adopted a friendly tone. ‘I take it that you will be remaining with us tonight. Somerset can escort you to the officers’ mess and find you a bed for the night.’
‘Alas, I will not be able to enjoy your hospitality, sir. I must return at once.’
‘In the dark?’
‘I know the road well, sir. If there are any enemy patrols, I can avoid them easily enough.’
‘As you wish. I will see you again on the tenth.’
They exchanged a bow and then O’Donoju left the tent, to be shown back to his horse by Somerset. Arthur eased himself forward in his seat and folded his hands together as a rest for his chin as he stared at the canvas wall of the tent opposite his campaign desk. He was under orders to co-operate with the Spanish yet he could not help a degree of anxiety at the prospect o
f relying on their promise to supply his army. When Somerset returned to the tent, Arthur sat up and sighed wearily.
‘What do you make of our Spanish friend?’
Somerset hurriedly composed a tactful response. ‘He seemed keen enough to take the fight to the enemy, sir.’
‘That may be so.’ Arthur rubbed his forehead. ‘The fact is that our Spanish allies have won all too few victories over the French. Cuesta himself was badly beaten at Medellin back in April. Still, if we combine our strengths we should be able to give a decent account of ourselves when we meet the enemy. The latest intelligence reports say that Marshal Victor’s corps is defending the approaches to Madrid. I am told he has little more than twenty thousand men. If that’s true, then if we combine with Cuesta we should outnumber Victor two to one. That should be enough to guarantee us a victory.’
Somerset tilted his head to one side. ‘I hope so, sir. Provided General Cuesta knows his business.’
Arthur shrugged. ‘Well, I shall only be in a position to judge that once I have had the chance to meet the man.’ He paused. ‘Pardon me. I meant to say his excellency.’
Somerset chuckled for a moment before he asked,‘Do you intend to accept Cuesta’s claim to overall command of our combined forces?’
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