The Fields of Death - Scarrow Simon - Страница 54
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The subdued spirits of the men of Beresford’s column were readily apparent. The pickets covering the approaches to the camp made little effort to patrol their ground, but sat in the shade, muskets leaning against the trunks of the nearest tree. Further on, the tents and shelters sprawled across the rolling hills in makeshift clusters, rather than the neat lines that Arthur insisted on. The men, stripped down to shirtsleeves, patched trousers and felt caps, were resting in small groups as they talked quietly or slept. The lively ambience of a normal camp was absent.
As some of the men spied the new arrivals a handful stood up.
‘Why, it’s Nosey!’ a voice cried out.‘It’s Nosey! He’s ’ere! Hurrah for old Nosey!’
Scores more of the men rose to their feet and most of them cheered. Others, Arthur noted sadly, did nothing but stare as their commander in chief and his escort rode through the camp.
Arthur sensed Somerset stiffening by his side. The aide cleared his throat. ‘Er, want me to shut them up, my lord?’
‘No. It’s not necessary. If it pleases them, then it serves my purpose, for the present.’
‘Yes, sir.’
They rode on through the camp, accompanied by a ripple of cheers so that by the time they reached the farmhouse that served as Beresford’s headquarters several officers had stirred to witness his approach. Arthur’s heart sank a little further as he saw that some still wore the bloodied and dirty uniforms they had on the day of the battle. None the less, they made an effort to stand to attention as he rode up and dismounted, handing the reins over to one of Beresford’s grooms.
‘Good day, gentlemen.’ Arthur touched the brim of his hat and the officers saluted in return. There was a brief silence as Arthur glanced round, and then he continued in a neutral tone. ‘It would seem to me that you could use a change of clothes, and in some cases a shave, gentlemen. Please see to it before I have the honour of dining with you tonight.’Arthur nodded towards a face he recognised.‘Major Templeton, where is General Beresford?’
‘Within, my lord.’
‘Then I will see him directly. If you would see to the needs of my escort?’
‘Of course, my lord.’ The major bowed his head.
With a gesture to Somerset to accompany him, Arthur went through the farm gate and crossed the courtyard towards the house. A narrow colonnade ran round the inside of the whitewashed walls and a trellis with a leafy vine offered shelter from the sun. A sentry snapped to attention outside the open doorway, and Arthur paused in front of him, then tapped him gently on the breast with his riding crop.
‘Where is your stock?’ he asked mildly.
‘Dunno, sir,’ the soldier replied, staring straight ahead over Arthur’s shoulder. ‘Must ’ave lorst it in the battle, sir.’
‘I think not. Even so, I would expect a good soldier to find a replacement within a day or so. See to it.’
‘Yes, sir!’ The soldier nodded and started to move off.
‘Not now! You’re bloody well on duty, man! See to it the moment you are relieved. Somerset!’
‘Sir?’
‘Make a note to pass that on to this fellow’s company sergeant. I will not have headquarters sentries stand their duty out of uniform.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Arthur stared hard at the soldier a moment longer and then trotted up the small flight of stairs leading into the house. A large hall was well lit by a series of arched windows running along the rear of the building and a handful of Beresford’s staff were busy compiling casualty lists to be sent back to London. There was a scraping of chairs as they hurriedly rose to their feet.
‘Easy, gentlemen. Pray continue with your work. Where is your general?’
‘In there, sir.’ A corporal indicated a closed door to one side of the hall.
Arthur crossed to the door and rapped on the weathered surface.
‘I left orders not to be disturbed, damn your eyes!’ Beresford’s voice bellowed from within.
Arthur and Somerset exchanged a brief look, then Arthur grasped the handle and opened the door. The room was dimly lit; a single narrow shaft of light entered through a window. Adjusting his eyes to the gloom Arthur saw that they were in the dining room. Beresford sat on a plain wooden chair on the far side of a long, sturdy table. A pile of reports and other papers lay to one side. To the other side were two bottles of claret and a glass. Beresford sat in his shirt and breeches, pen in hand as he leaned over a document on the table. He stared at Arthur for a moment and frowned.
‘I wasn’t expecting you, my lord.’
‘Evidently.’Arthur crossed the room, drew up a chair and sat opposite General Beresford. ‘I was on my way to assess the progress of the siege when we received the first report of the battle. I take it that you have written a full account for me?’
Beresford nodded towards the papers immediately before him. ‘I was just writing the conclusion. Rather, I was rewriting it. It’s been hard to relate precisely what happened. They will not understand back in London. Nor forgive.’
‘That remains to be seen, my dear Beresford.’ Arthur smiled gently. ‘Now then, if I may read your report, while Somerset finds us something to eat. It’s been a long, hard ride and I am famished. See to it, Somerset.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Once the aide had left them, Arthur gestured towards the report. ‘I’ll look at it while I wait.’
Beresford glanced down at the slim sheaf of papers and bit his lip. Then he lowered his pen and slid his report across to Arthur. ‘Yes, of course.’
Arthur turned in his chair to let the light fall across his lap and began to read. It was as he feared. Beresford had been badly shaken by the mauling he and his men had endured. It was evident in the dark tone that pervaded his description of the conflict and Arthur could readily imagine the stir it would cause if the document reached the London papers in its current form. Especially the conclusion, where Beresford dwelt on the heavy losses he had endured, and the large number of men who had been injured, and the savage blow that had been dealt to the men’s spirits.
Somerset returned with a servant carrying a tray of cold chicken, bread and a jug of watered wine which he set down at one end of the table before quitting the presence of his superiors. Arthur finished reading the report as the others waited in silence. He placed the papers on the table and eased himself back in his chair as he stared across at Beresford.
‘You had a hard fight of it, that much is clear. But you won the day, and that is what counts.’
‘Won the day?’ Beresford sniffed. ‘I hardly think that is of any comfort to the families of the dead men, nor those who will have a cripple return home from the war.’
‘We must make up our minds to affairs of this kind sometimes, or give up the game. That is the price of war, my dear Beresford. It is a necessary evil if the world is to be free of bloodthirsty tyrants like Bonaparte. You must accept that, just as you must accept that the army has won a victory. England needs victories. Her people need to believe that we are slowly but surely progressing towards a successful outcome to the war. What England does not need is despondent descriptions of the efforts and sacrifices of her soldiers.’ Arthur tapped the report. ‘This will not do, Beresford. You must write me down a victory.’
‘I have written the truth, my lord. I owe nothing less to the men who fell at Albuera.’
‘You have written a truth, that is all. One of many truths that could be told about the battle. The trick of it is to write the most effective one. Let the English people know that our men fought like heroes and died with the contentment of knowing that they had done their duty. Tell England that we sent the enemy reeling and once again we have proved, before Europe, that our army has no peer.’ Arthur folded his arms. ‘That is the tale you must tell.’
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