The Fields of Death - Scarrow Simon - Страница 47
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‘Correspondence from London, official and personal - unopened; the latest reports from our cavalry patrols, weekly strength returns from each brigade, and more requests for payment from Portuguese suppliers. Will that be all?’
‘For now.’ Arthur nodded towards the door. Once his aide had left and quietly closed the door behind him Arthur briefly glanced over the bills presented by the Portuguese. There was sufficient gold in the army’s war chest to pay a proportion of the bills, enough to keep the suppliers happy for another month. He dipped his pen into the inkwell and made a note at the bottom of the first bill, then placed them to one side. The strength returns offered some good news. Despite the winter, many of the sick and injured from the last season’s campaign had recovered and re-joined the ranks, bringing his army up to thirty thousand effectives. With his Portuguese units, Arthur had over fifty thousand men ready to take the fight to the enemy the moment the opportunity arose.
He turned his attention to the correspondence, opening those letters marked official first. These were from the various departments dealing with the provision of engineers, supplies and artillery, all of whom claimed to be doing their utmost to meet his requisitions. While they recognised the urgency of his situation, they reminded the general that his was not the only call on their resources and his needs would have to be weighed against those of other commanders. Arthur shook his head irritably. It should be clear to the dunderheads in England that his army was the vanguard of the entire nation’s effort against the Corsican Tyrant. Resources should flow to the very tip of the sword that was lodged in Bonaparte’s side, not languish in warehouses far from the field of battle. He made a note to Somerset to send more requests, couched in far more robust language, and then turned his attention to the last letter.
As he picked it up he felt his heart sink. It was from Kitty. On the eve of Busaco he had written her a terse note detailing his finances back in England. He had come to have little faith in her ability to manage the family’s affairs and had spelled out what she must do if he was killed. Since then he had received a steady flow of letters asking his advice on all manner of minutiae. This time, she wanted to know if she could buy new curtains for their house in London.
‘Curtains?’ Arthur muttered. ‘Bloody curtains be damned!’
His hand spasmed momentarily as he clutched the letter, threatening to crumple the paper with its spidery writing into a tight ball. He took a deep breath, smoothed the paper out and laid it down on the table. Thoughts of Kitty and her inability to cope with the household in his absence weighed on his heart with the dull mass of a lead ingot. Their marriage was the gravest mistake he had ever made, Arthur accepted. But it had been his choice, and he could not reverse the decision, nor indeed was he prepared to admit to his error in public. Therefore he was bound to her while they both lived, for better or worse. He sighed. Then he reached for a fresh sheet of paper, dipped his pen in the ink, and composed his reply.
Through the rest of the month, and on into February, the officers of both armies met frequently, enjoying their social and sporting events. Arthur kept his distance from such activities as he deemed it inappropriate for the commander of the British army to become involved. It took little imagination to picture the scandal that would result in London if it was reported that Arthur and Massйna had met socially. Accordingly, Arthur limited himself to offering an exchange of newspapers with the enemy general. The pages of the Paris press were filled with accounts of the activities of the imperial court as Bonaparte showed off his new bride to his people and to dignitaries from across Europe. At first Arthur had been surprised by the news of the marriage. Then he realised that the Austrians had little choice in the matter, following their humiliating defeat by Bonaparte at Wagram. Now it was rumoured that Bonaparte might be expecting an heir in the spring. That was ill news, Arthur reflected. If Bonaparte could establish a dynasty then there was no knowing how long his poisonous influence would endure on the continent.
The temperature rose in the first days of March and thick fog and mists lingered over the Portuguese landscape. Arthur rode to the front line to inspect the forts and lost his way several times as he struggled to follow the crude communication roads prepared by the engineers to link them. Most of the forts were garrisoned by Portuguese troops commanded by British officers. The British infantry were in camp a few miles behind the first line, ready to respond to any attack the enemy made. A short distance to the east of Torres Vedras he stopped at a post commanded by an officer in his forties. Colonel Cameron was typical of those who had transferred to the Portuguese army. Previously, he had been a British captain without any useful connections or enough income to buy promotion. By taking the transfer he had rank and a higher income, as long as the war lasted. He saluted as Arthur entered the fort, and Arthur touched the brim of his hat in response. ‘Good day to you. Colonel Cameron, isn’t it?’
‘Aye, sir. My apologies for the lack of protocol, sir.’
‘It is no matter,’ Arthur replied as he dismounted. ‘The visit is informal. How many men have you here, Colonel?’
‘A battalion, sir. Almost at full strength. The lads are in good spirits, though they’d be happier if the Frogs had some fight in ’em and tested our defences.’
‘That decision is down to Marshal Massйna, alas. After Busaco I suspect that he is in no hurry to be repulsed again.’
Colonel Cameron grinned. ‘If he comes, the lads will send him on his way soon enough, sir. They’re game all right.’
He gestured proudly round the interior of the fort and Arthur noted that his men were well turned out and their wooden shelters were neatly set out by companies. Most were clustered around their camp fires quietly talking or cleaning their kit. Up on the ramparts and in the towers those on duty were keeping watch on the dense banks of fog below for any sign of the enemy.
‘Your battalion looks like a fine body of men, Colonel.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Cameron smiled proudly.
‘Anything to report?’
‘Sir?’
‘Have you noticed any sign of any unusual activity by the enemy?’
‘No, sir. In fact they’ve been quiet today. Usually, our pickets exchange greetings in the morning, but there was no sign of them this morning. Either they’ve been ordered to keep silent, or they have been posted further back.’
Arthur felt a vague twinge of anxiety at the colonel’s words. Cameron’s explanations might be sound enough, but the failure to contact the enemy’s pickets could equally well indicate something else.
‘Colonel, I want you to send a patrol towards the French lines. They are not to engage anyone, but keep going until they see some sign of the enemy, then report back.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Somerset!’ Arthur turned round and strode towards his aide. ‘What’s the nearest cavalry unit to here?’
Somerset thought briefly. ‘The Light Dragoons, sir. At Mafra.’
‘Ride to them. I want them out across the lines as soon as possible. They are to confirm the location of the French and report back here at once. And send a messenger to headquarters. I want the order to go out to the army to be ready to concentrate and advance directly.’
‘Yes, sir. But in this fog we’re going to find it hard to manoeuvre.’
‘That may be,’ Arthur conceded. ‘However, if Massйna has stolen a march on us then the army will need to move swiftly to close up on him. Let’s hope that it’s a false alarm and that the French have merely fallen back a short distance. My concern is that Massйna may elude us and retreat to Spain.’
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