On 9th August the British army marched inland. Patrols of the 20th Light Dragoons went first, although the cavalry-men had to nurse their horses carefully, for they were not yet fully recovered from the weeks penned in the makeshift stalls of transport ships. The army’s staff had worked hard to obtain a supply of mounts, but had enjoyed very little success. The dismounted dragoons remained on foot, and so would stay back at the beach. So would a dozen guns, for there were sufficient horses only to pull eighteen of them across the poor tracks of the area.
After the cavalry came outposts provided by the 60th and 95th Rifles, then the brigades marching in their proper place. None of this was obvious to Hanley, struggling along carrying the cased King’s Colour in the centre of the 106th’s column. All he could see was the backs of the men from the company ahead of him through the thick dust which seemed to hang in the still air. Nobody sang, but in spite of the growing heat and the dust there was a sense of optimism and joy that they were at last moving. Everyone wanted to get on, and break the dull monotony of the war so far. Three times in the first hour the column stopped and waited before marching on again. There was never any indication of why this happened. Staff officers rode past periodically, but did not explain – not to him, anyway. He had that familiar sense of everyone else understanding what was going on and failing to let him in on the secret.
The Grenadier Company led the battalion as was proper. Wickham marched ahead of the centre of its formation as was equally proper, and spent most of the time regretting that he had not worn his old boots. This new pair looked smarter, but were still stiff and rubbed unmercifully. He glanced enviously to where Moss and the two majors rode to the right of his company. Once they were passed by Wellesley and his staff, and one of the officers stopped to exchange pleasantries with Moss. Wickham strained to hear, but was too far away and could not leave his position. Later, they would march less formally, but at the moment a rapid pace had been set and everyone had to remain at their posts. He noticed that the ADC had a well-cut pair of overall trousers, the insides reinforced with leather to take the wear of long rides and the outside seams decorated with brass buttons. The captain decided that he would have to get himself a pair as soon as he could. Presumably in time company officers would be permitted to buy and ride horses. Lydia would enjoy seeing him in such a rig.
The thought of his wife brought a momentary pang. The captain knew himself to be a physical, passionate man, and the enforced celibacy since the start of the voyage had been a great struggle. Lydia shared his enthusiasm, and even now, six years after they had eloped and he had first taken her, the desire was still there in both of them. In his case, there was also a desire for other women, but he had taken care to be discreet. Now that they were moving there was a chance that the army would leave this wilderness and so such pleasures might be found in a larger town. Lisbon surely should have many suitable establishments. It would be as well, for his enforced abstinence – the lack even of the company of ladies – had encouraged an even greater recklessness about his gambling. His debts had mounted alarmingly, far beyond his aility to pay without seeking more money from his brother-in-law. His luck needed to change and a few victories at the table would recover – or at least mitigate – his situation. Part of his mind wondered whether French bullets might solve the problem for him by removing Anstey or Brotherton, who between them held most of his promissory notes.
Wickham was jerked from his reverie by a call from Major Toye. He had to step quickly not to block the front rank of his company as he went to the side to join the mounted officers. After listening to the instructions he quickly gave the orders.
Ten minutes later Williams leaned all his weight against the iron-tyred wheel of a cannon and pushed forward. He heard Dobson mutter ‘Move, you bitch’ from the other side of the high wooden spokes. Twenty of the grenadiers had been instructed to help as many artillerymen shift the gun from the narrow ditch into which it had sunk. Together they heaved, as the drivers whipped the horses in their traces to urge them forward. Williams grunted as he strained to shift the heavy wheel. The gun carriage was painted grey like all the other guns, limbers and wagons of the Royal Artillery. The metal of the tyre was hot from the sun.
Finally the wheel began to turn, fractionally at first, and then with a surge it rose up the little slope, cleared the top and then flew forward. Williams was surprised everyone managed to keep their balance as the gun carriage shot forward. He grinned at Dobson.
‘I thought they said this was a light six-pounder!’
‘Aye, then we best be glad it weren’t a heavy one,’ replied the veteran. ‘And be glad we ain’t gunners. All those buggers are deaf.’ He shouted the familiar joke to the blue-jacketed bombardier who stood next to him, rubbing his hands together. The man smiled and put a hand to his ear, pretending not to have heard. Then his face fell and he pointed ahead. Both limber and gun had bogged this time, sinking into a patch of soft sand no more than eighty yards farther on. This was supposed to be a road, but this section at least was badly rutted, broken by channels carved out when the heavy rains at the end of winter had caused a flood, or so dry that the soil was little more than dust. The three six-pounder guns attached to the 3rd Brigade were struggling to make progress, and so twenty men from the 106th’s Grenadier Company had been sent to assist the gunners. It promised to be a morning of back-breaking work, but at least their packs, muskets and equipment were now being carried in an artillery wagon.
Williams walked beside Dobson as the group headed over to extricate the gun once again. The volunteer was nervous, wondering whether or not he should say something to the old soldier. Two days before, he had been sent back from the outpost line with a message from Pringle to Wickham. He had cut through one of the olive groves clinging to the hillside, scrambling over the dry-stone walls. It was just chance, and at least he had been fortunate not to fall on top of them, but as he lifted himself on to one wall, he had found himself looking down on a couple making love. The man was on top and so intent that he did not notice the Welshman, but Williams could see that it was Redman. Jenny Dobson – well, Hanks now – stared him straight in the eye, and even winked as she kept moaning.
Williams had just turned and jumped down the way he had come, taking a longer route around the grove. He was still not sure whether he should have challenged Redman. The man was clearly no gentleman and could only have been insincere in his previous apology. Yet he did not want to fight a duel. It was not that he was frightened, simply that the advice of his friends had sunk in. He was so close now to his oppornity to win distinction that it was difficult to think of anything else. He must fight well and risk all to become an officer and then continue to excel until he was promoted to a high enough rank to support his mother and ask for the hand of Miss MacAndrews. Such aims could not be jeopardised by an affair of honour with a man who clearly had none himself. Williams thought himself selfish and hated the fact, but it still did not alter his resolution.
The question remained of whether or not he should tell the girl’s father. It was hard enough to talk to the taciturn Hanks at the best of times, so he had already discarded the idea of speaking to the girl’s husband. In truth it was none of his business. At the moment, there were too many others within earshot for him to think of broaching the subject. Even this made him feel a little craven. He wished that he simply had not chanced upon the scene of adultery. Better not to have known about it at all.
‘Come on, Pug, here we go again.’ Dobson patted him cheerfully on the shoulder as they took position around the bogged limber.
‘Jackets off, lads,’ ordered Sergeant Darrowfield with a nod at the bombardier whose own men similarly were stripping down to shirtsleeves. ‘Think of good ale, and heave for England.’ The men grimaced at any talk of liquid. Several had already more than half drained their canteens. Williams had drunk only a little – making use of yet another lesson he had learned from Dobson. He shook his head and leaned into the wheel.
The army made steady progress. The roads were not good, but Sir Arthur Wellesley had seen far worse in India. Throughout the day he was constantly on the move, riding ahead to inspect the terrain, going to meet Portuguese officers and civil officials, and always checking in person that everything that needed to be done was being done. He had long ago learnt to see the detail as well as the wider picture. He did not know all of his senior officers well, so he cast an eye over the appearance of their brigades. On the whole he was pleased.
Leaving the guns had been hard. In India guns mattered, and he did not want to experience another battle like Assaye five years before, where the enemy artillery had been far more numerous and larger-calibre than his own. As the day wore on he had been amazed that any of his men survived the deluge of heavy shot. Many did not, but the rest had kept on advancing and chased the enemy away.
Eighteen cannon was not many, especially since only one of the three batteries was equipped with the heavier nine-pounders. The French would doubtless have more guns and they would be well served. Portuguese allies were due to join his army the next day, but it seemed unlikely they would bring more than a handful of guns, if any at all. They lacked so much, although the thousands of muskets brought from England would help.
He would have to be content. There were no more horses, and so eighteen guns was all that he had. At least they were well served and fully crewed, even if the carriages were taking a hammering on the bad roads. He had already seen one gun’s wheel shattered, but had been impressed by the speed with which his gunners had replaced it and continued. It would also have been better to have more cavalrymen. At Assaye he had personally led an entire brigade in a charge. Now he had only one weak regiment, and they were hard put to meet all his needs as scouts, patrols, escorts and couriers. Still, at least he now had his own horses ashore, and was able to change from one thoroughbred to another as they became worn out.
His infantry was good, and in the end that mattered more than anything else. The country he had seen so far was scarcely ideal fo massed horsemen anyway. It was a drab landscape, lacking the intensity of colour and smell he remembered from India. He also missed the East India Company’s own soldiers, the sepoys and sowars who looked so cheerful and fought so well. Yet his was a good little army, and he was keen to press on and confront the enemy.
It would not be his army for very long, and he freely admitted – at least to himself – that this added to his eagerness. He had studied the French carefully, had understood how the Emperor’s men fought and how they had dazzled the world, smashing army after army. He also knew he could beat them and craved the opportunity to demonstrate this. It was ambition – victories in India could be dismissed, but success in Europe could not – for he was an ambitious man, but it was not merely that. Since he had decided to dedicate himself to a military life he had realised that his talents in this direction were prodigious. He had served under poor commanders in ill-judged and mismanaged campaigns and the experience had offended him. The waste and incompetence were repellent. He was not confident that similar failures would not occur if he ceased to hold command. Service to his country was central to his very being, the sense of duty as natural as breathing, and in his own mind anything done as part of state policy must be done well. Therefore it was better that he play the key role.
At most he had a matter of weeks, and perhaps less. Sir John Moore was on his way to reinforce the army in Portugal, returning from the fiasco of the expedition to Sweden. Muddled plans in London, and understandable suspicion of Britain’s intentions on the part of the Swedes, had meant his army never disembarked. The whole thing had been a waste of time and effort, although Wellesley suspected little of this was Moore’s fault. His reputation was high, but he was also disliked by powerful members of the government. Therefore, two even more senior lieutenant generals had been appointed as first- and second-in-command of the forces in Portugal. That was not all. More lieutenant generals were arriving and soon Wellesley would be the eighth-in-command of the army.
Sir Harry Burrard could arrive in less than a week; a letter had already come from him. Its content did not suggest any particular perception, let alone a clear sense of purpose. Fortunately another letter had arrived from Castlereagh, the Secretary of State and a friend. Wellesley’s spirits had sunk as he read the details of the new appointments, but it had also instructed him to proceed with the campaign on his own initiative, and that was all that he needed. So now he would advance and seek out a rapid confrontation with the French. The previous night he had written to his old friend the Duke of Richmond, whose young son was serving as one of his ADCs. ‘I hope that I shall have beat Junot before any of them arrive, then they may do as they please with me.’
So he had advanced. It was a risk, but a calculated one, and risk had never frightened him. He would find the French and beat them, opening the road to Lisbon. The job would be done properly before anyone else could make a mess of it. He would show them that he could beat disciplined Frenchmen as readily as the vast and colourful armies of Indian princes.
Wellesley and his staff rode back along the column. He was pleased to see that there were not too many stragglers. Some soldiers had fallen out from their battalions, struggling with the heat and the weight of their equipment. A soldier’s pack was large and wooden framed and its straps cut into a man’s chest, making it hard to breathe. It was said the French had a better design, and it would be worth taking a look at that when the opportunity was offered. Not that the British Army was likely to change its equipment simply becauseit was badly designed.
‘George, see that anyone who can’t walk is taken forward by cart. No one is to leave the column.’ The ADC sped away to arrange things. Wellesley did not want to lose any men unnecessarily. Some would genuinely not have recovered from the inactivity of the voyage. More importantly men away from their units for any reason were liable to misbehave. They would wander off and molest the population, stealing food and valuables, even raping and murdering. An army whose recruitment was aided by magistrates contained many dangerous and bad characters. Some of his meagre force of cavalry were patrolling the flanks of the column to prevent any redcoat from straying. He had some provosts – the army’s policemen – but not enough.
In the last weeks the French army had marauded through Portugal, committing every sort of atrocity. Napoleon’s men routinely foraged and plundered, but now they were massacring men, women and children alike. They hoped to terrify the Portuguese, but had spread as much hatred as fear, and now the hand of every peasant was against them. Lone Frenchmen were apt to have their throats cut. Wellesley was determined that his own men would not provoke similar hatred and reprisals.
Wellesley waved a greeting to General Bowes as he passed. The red-faced Bowes was yelling as he supervised a group of men trying to free an ammunition wagon sunk into the mud. A string of Irish oaths almost drowned out the brigadier’s encouragement. It had taken massive and persistent effort to persuade the authorities to give him two companies of the Irish Wagon Train to carry the expedition’s supplies, but the men and their vehicles were already proving to be worth their weight in gold.
The general and his staff continued their ride, and soon a harsh cacophony of metallic screeches announced the approach of the main baggage train. For some reason the drivers of the local ox carts never greased the axles. The contrast with the regimented efficiency and uniform vehicles of the wagon train was stark, but these hundreds of carts made the campaign possible. Behind them came thousands of mules, driven by some of the most villainous men he had ever seen in his life. They could have gone faster, but it was necessary to keep together, and so they kept to the steady two-mile-an-hour plod of the oxen.
Slowly, the long column snaked forward to find General Junot and to smash him.