The Fields of Death - Scarrow Simon - Страница 42
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Three days after the enemy began their siege of Almeida, Arthur was in the small square of a village on the road to the town. The Portuguese officer who had been sent to tell the villagers to flee had failed to impress upon them the dangers of remaining in their home, so Arthur had decided to persuade them himself. The peril facing them all had been made clear to the local priest, who had rung the church bell to summon the inhabitants to the square. It was mid-afternoon and Arthur and Somerset sat on a bench in the shade of a dusty tree in front of the church. A short distance from them their translator sat cross-legged on the ground. The people were slow to emerge, disgruntled at the interruption to their siesta, and trickled into the square to squat down in whatever shade they could find as they waited for the priest to address them. They showed little interest in the two British officers, or in the six dragoons of Arthur’s escort, resting in the shade to one side of the square.
Somerset pulled the stopper from his canteen and took a swig as he glanced over the local people. ‘Hope our priest is a good performer, or this lot will be fast asleep before he speaks to them.’
‘Oh, they’ll listen all right,’ Arthur replied evenly. ‘I’ve spared the priest none of the details. I suspect he is more fearful over the fate of the church’s fittings and fixtures than he is for the people.’
Somerset smiled.
They waited a little longer. Somerset stoppered his canteen and eased himself back to rest against the peeling white paint on the wall. Arthur closed his eyes and tried to ignore the stifling heat and the irritating drone of insects as they hovered around his head, occasionally alighting and causing him to twitch or raise a hand to swat them away. After ten minutes he gave up and rose to his feet impatiently. The translator, the son of a Lisbon wine merchant, stirred as he saw Arthur stand up.
‘We’ve waited long enough,’ Arthur snapped, and nodded his head towards the priest sitting in the entrance of his church.‘Tell him that he must begin.’
The translator hurried across to the priest and respectfully bowed his head before he passed on Arthur’s order. The priest looked round the square, where no more than fifty people had gathered, and shrugged. He stood up and strode over to join Arthur, followed by the translator.
‘Tell him to let his people know they are in the path of the French army. They will be advancing right up this road.’ Arthur gestured along the street that led through the heart of the village.‘Tell the villagers that I am the commander of all the Portuguese and British forces in Portugal, and I have seen with my own eyes the fate that the French visit upon those whose lands they pass through. Tell the priest to repeat what I described to him earlier.’ As the priest turned to his people and began to speak, Arthur murmured to Somerset, ‘If that doesn’t persuade them, nothing will, and then God help them.’
The local people listened to the priest in silence, but as he continued some of them began to shake their heads, and Arthur felt his heart sink at the gesture. His gloom was interrupted when he noticed a rider entering the village, an officer, whose red jacket had become dulled by exposure to the elements and a liberal coating of dust. The man reined in beside the dragoons and dismounted, then handed the reins to one of the troopers and strode up the street towards Arthur.
‘Somerset, see that fellow?’ Arthur nodded discreetly.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I don’t want him distracting attention. Intercept him and see what he wants.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Somerset backed away and made his way at an easy pace round the small crowd and down the street towards the approaching officer. While Arthur stood still and listened calmly, but uncomprehendingly, to the priest, he watched as Somerset reached the officer and took him off to one side, out of sight of those in the square. A short time later they reappeared, and the officer hurried back to his mount, swung himself into the saddle and rode back down the road. Somerset came to the edge of the square and gestured to Arthur.
Arthur leaned towards his translator and muttered, ‘Tell the priest to get to the conclusion. Swiftly.’
The translator nodded and then whispered close to the priest’s ear. The latter glanced at Arthur with a frown, then shrugged and raised his voice, spoke quickly, and ended with a brief incantation and the sign of the cross. The local people were still for a moment and then some turned away while a handful clustered together to converse in low voices. Arthur thanked the priest and made his way across the square to Somerset.
‘Well?’
‘Bad news, sir. One of Craufurd’s patrols reported that Almeida has fallen.’
‘Fallen?’Arthur’s eyebrows rose.‘How? Cox should have been able to hold out for weeks. What happened?’
‘The patrol was watching the French guns open their bombardment. Nothing untoward happened for the first few hours, and then there was an explosion.’
‘Explosion?’
‘Yes, sir. Seems that a lucky shot must have found a way into the garrison’s arsenal, and set their powder reserves off. Apparently the blast destroyed much of the town and damaged the fortifications. Can’t have done much for the defenders’ morale either. In any case, they surrendered before the day was out. Our men saw the French flag raised over the fortress.’
Arthur considered the news quickly. Massйna had taken Almeida. Nothing now stood in his way. The road into Portugal was open.
‘By God, the enemy could already be advancing on us,’ he said softly. ‘Somerset, there’s not a moment to waste. Send word to every element of the army. They are to fall back and concentrate on the ridge at Busaco.’
‘Busaco. Yes, sir.’
As Somerset dashed towards his horse,Arthur took a last look around the village. In a matter of days the French would be here. They would devastate this place, and bring hunger and death to its people. Then they would march on Lisbon, and only the outnumbered men of the allied army would stand in their way.
Chapter 16
Busaco Ridge, 27 September 1810
‘Damn this mist,’ Arthur grumbled as he stared down the slope. Even though it was past six in the morning and the sun had risen well above the horizon, a thick mist shrouded the foot of the ridge, concealing the French camp below. The allied army had moved to their appointed positions along the ridge the evening before and had slept in the open. They had stirred and formed before dawn and were now in an extended line that ran just below the crest of the ridge, out of sight of the enemy. The only troops visible to the French were the riflemen of Craufurd’s division, and a battery of six-pounders covering the road that climbed to the ridge and passed along the walls of Busaco convent. Arthur and Somerset had ridden forward to the riflemen who had occupied the village of Sula. Resting his telescope on a crumbling wall, Arthur surveyed the point where the road dissolved into the mist. Only a handful of French soldiers were visible. Pickets most likely, Arthur decided.
‘Can’t see anything of their main force.’ Arthur lowered his telescope and slowly tapped his fingers on the top of the wall.
‘May I?’ Somerset gestured towards the telescope and Arthur passed it to him. ‘If Massйna intends to fight his way over the Mondego, then he will have to take Busaco first, sir.’
‘True enough,’ Arthur conceded. The French army was down there somewhere, in any case. Shortly after the British and Portuguese soldiers had stirred, the enemy drums had beaten the reveille and the bellowed orders of the sergeants had carried clearly up the slope. Since then, the only other sounds had been the rumble of iron-rimmed wheels, and the occasional neigh of a horse and crack of a whip as the French guns were moved forward. Now all was quiet, and it was hard to believe that Massйna’s army was formed up somewhere along the base of the ridge, ready to assault the British line. The latest intelligence put the size of the French forces at over sixty thousand. As Arthur had hoped, the enemy’s initial strength had been eroded by the sieges and the need to leave strong garrisons behind to protect Massйna’s communication lines.
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