Fortune's Bride Part 15

Robert sighed and shook his head. "I don't know. This has. .h.i.t him hard. He knew, of course. Somerset told us in Figueira that Sir Arthur had been informed he would be superseded. But I know he's been hoping that we would have the French out of Portugal before Sir Harry got his orders."

His voice was now more tired and discouraged than furious. Esmeralda put down the shirt she had unconsciously been clutching. "Come, sit down," she said. "I'll get you a gla.s.s of wine. Would you like something to eat?"

He came across the room and dropped heavily into the chair Esmeralda had pulled out invitingly. "No, nothing to eat." He smiled wryly. "Sir Arthur's d.a.m.ned old boots are still sitting pretty heavily in my stomach, but I'll take that wine. Sometimes he's a devil to serve under. I've never eaten such awful food, and the wine's nearly as bad. We were just talking the other day about how we could convince him to let Burghersh buy his wine." The smile died. "It's so cursed unfair."

"But Sir Arthur did have a victory against Delaborde. Perhaps if Sir Harry doesn't act, Lord Castlereagh can use that to make the Horse Guards put Sir Arthur back in command," Esmeralda suggested hopefully.

Robert sipped the wine. "The trouble is that it would probably be too late. Junot's not going to let us sit here enjoying the lovely countryside. I know Sir Arthur planned to move tomorrow and attack, maybe to clean out Peniche so we'd have a decent landing site or maybe move right on Lisbon while Junot isn't ready for us. But if Burrard waits for the additional division coming with Sir John Moore-which was the only thing he said that had the slightest military significance-the chances are that the French can collect a big enough army to overwhelm us."

He had been staring into nothing as he spoke, and Esmeralda could not think of anything to say that would comfort him. Gently she put a hand on his shoulder, almost expecting him to shrug it off angrily. Instead he tossed off the wine and then looked up at her. "My gracious silence. Come, let's go to bed and seek our comfort there."

It seemed to Esmeralda that she had barely closed her eyes when there was a pounding on the door. Before she had even struggled to a sitting position, pulling up the blanket hastily to cover her bare b.r.e.a.s.t.s, Robert was at the door and had it open a little way. The voice from the other side of the door was too low for Esmeralda to make out the words spoken, but Robert exclaimed, "Good G.o.d, what luck! Yes, I'll be there in five minutes."

He did not bother to turn up the lamp, since the dim light was enough for him to see his clothing-neatly and properly laid out this time. As he dressed, he said to Esmeralda, "Junot's on his way. I told you G.o.d was on our side. Nothing could be better. Burrard can't tell us not to fight if we're attacked, and Sir Arthur will have the troops all set so Sir Harry can't make a mess of that. If Sir Arthur had a grain of sense, he wouldn't even send a message. Like as not, that old dotard will come ash.o.r.e at the last minute and take the credit for winning the battle."

Esmeralda started to get out of the bed, and Robert shook his head at her. "Don't get up," he said. "I have no time for breakfast now-don't want it, anyway. Go back to sleep. Nothing will happen for hours and hours." He shrugged into his coat, grabbed his hat, and strode toward the door, where he stopped suddenly and came back to kiss Esmeralda quickly. "I'll try to stop in around six to have a cup of tea with you if I can. If not, don't let it worry you."

Although she wanted desperately to beg Robert to be careful, Esmeralda knew that if she opened her mouth she would burst into tears. That would never do. She knew how much he disliked wailing women. If he thought she was going to make a scene before every battle, he might change his mind about not sending her to England. He had reached the door again and opened it, but he paused and turned around sharply.

"You may use your d.a.m.ned spygla.s.s," he said severely. "In fact, the church tower would not be a bad place to be while the battle is going on, unless they start to sh.e.l.l the village, in which case you come down out of there at once, understand? But if I discover that you have left the village and gone wandering around the countryside..."

Still speechless, Esmeralda shook her head emphatically. Robert eyed her for another moment and then went out. She sat perfectly still, fighting fear, afraid to cry lest Robert had forgotten something and returned. But the fear this time was not a panic that threatened to choke her. She remained innocently convinced that Robert would not be personally involved in the fighting. Still, as far as Esmeralda was concerned, it was dangerous enough that he should be out in the open. There might be stray bullets flying about or stragglers like the one who had threatened her.

She could not sleep, of course, but after a time she lay down obediently to wait for the sun to rise. Then it would be time to make tea and sit in the kitchen to wait again until Robert came-if he came. Esmeralda both eagerly desired and dreaded his corning. He might not have thought it odd that she did not speak during the short time it took him to dress. She hoped she had seemed half-asleep. But it would be different later. She would have to speak, to seem cheerful.

This task turned out to be easier than Esmeralda had expected. She went down to the kitchen at half after five, just in case Robert should come early, and was greeted with cries of delight from several of the other ADCs staying in the house. They did like her, of course, but Esmeralda knew that their joy at her presence was owing to the fact that she would slice bread and cheese, brew tea, provide cold meat if there was any, and in general save them from the onerous task of feeding themselves. Despite this casual commandeering of her services, Esmeralda was as delighted to see them as they were to see her. While his friends were there, doubtless Robert would address his remarks to them and she could hide her terrors behind the teapot.

Actually, it was hard to continue to be frightened in the face of the tearing high spirits of the young men. They laughed and joked, and Robert was equally animated when he arrived. No one seemed to doubt that they would be victorious, and all seemed almost tearfully grateful to Junot for attacking them, calling him the best of good fellows to arrive when he was most wanted. Each time a new person came in, everyone jumped up asking eagerly, "Are the French in sight?"

The last arrival was Lord Fitzroy, and as soon as he appeared in the doorway, cups were set down with a clatter, food dropped, and hats and whips were grabbed up. "Sit. Sit," he said, grinning broadly as a groan went up. "Just came by for a handout. Be a while yet before Johnny c.r.a.paud gets here. They're down by the bridge near Villa Facaia having a nice sit down and some breakfast."

"Well, I wish they'd get a move on," Colin Campbell said fretfully. "It's getting late."

"What do you mean, late?" Burghersh asked. "It's true the Beau ordered the troops into position an hour before sunrise, but they aren't standing to attention or anything. Our men are probably having something to eat, too. You don't think the waiting will put them in a pucker, do you?"

"It's nothing to do with the men," Campbell replied. "They're all right. But Burrard's likely to wake up sooner or later and decide to come ash.o.r.e."

There was an appalled silence. In the excitement of delivering orders and seeing the battle lines drawn up, everyone had forgotten Burrard.

"He can't stop the action now," Williams pointed out. "Even if he wanted to retreat, there isn't anywhere to retreat to."

"That's true enough," Robert agreed. "But there's always the chance that he'll take it into his head to run the battle himself. And it would be a shame if Sir Arthur lost the credit."

"He wouldn't do that, would he?" Burghersh asked, looking at the more experienced of the ADCs.

Robert shrugged, but Williams shook his head slowly. "I don't think so," he said. "Sir Harry is really a pleasant and good-natured person."

Nonetheless, the reminder of Burrard's right to interfere put a damper on the breakfast party, and a few minutes later there was a general movement toward departure. Robert lingered just a half step behind as if he intended to say something to Esmeralda in private, but his name was called and he did no more than wave at her gaily as he went out. Esmeralda found that she was having difficulty in believing in the reality of this battle. Was it possible that soon men would be maimed and die, and that what worried Robert and his friends was whether or not Sir Harry Burrard would undeservedly take credit for Sir Arthur's work?

The anxious ADCs were relieved to find no sign or message from Burrard. Nor had any come when Sir Arthur had word that a dust cloud had been sighted coming along the Torres Vedras road. It was nearly nine o'clock by then, and everyone breathed a sigh of relief, having begun to fear that possibly Junot had heard of the landing of four thousand additional troops and had decided not to attack. After a quick personal inspection of the broad front of men, indistinctly visible among the woods and rolling uplands, Sir Arthur rode out to check on his troop dispositions.

Vimeiro village lay in a small valley created by the river Maceira, surrounded by a range of hills, particularly steep and formidable toward the south, and it was from the south that Sir Arthur expected to be attacked. He had stationed the brigades of Hill, Bowes, Caitlin Crawfurd, Nightingale, and Acland, with eight of his few guns, on the ridges of the southern range.

Just in front of the village was an isolated hill, partly covered by vineyards and thickets, which would provide excellent cover for defenders. Fane and Anstruther held that as the first line, with six guns. Ferguson and Trant were behind Vimeiro on the lower heights to the north, ready to serve as a reserve to Fane and Anstruther. The tiny cavalry-two hundred and forty English and two hundred and sixty Portuguese-waited on the banks of the river.

Having a.s.sured himself that all was in order, Sir Arthur returned to the hill in front of Vimeiro and watched the approach of the great French column. He expected to see the head of it swerve left and move along the valley of the Maceira, but it did not do so, continuing on north completely past the heavily defended right wing on the southern ridge. He watched quite calmly, waiting to make certain that this was not a feint. Two of Junot's brigades began to deploy just in front of Fane and Anstruther, but away to the north the cavalry advance guard was still riding, and it was obvious that infantry was following them.

"I see that General Junot has decided to leave the southern heights alone," Sir Arthur said. "Well, well, I had been led to believe he had more dash, but it appears he intends to throw most of his weight at us here."

He swept his gla.s.s around the area to be quite sure his right wing was safe, then drew out his notepaper and unstoppered the inkhorn. When he had written his messages, he took another look around. The sound of rifle fire was drifting up toward them, as the small pickets Fane had stationed a mile forward of his position were driven back toward the main lines. The French were forming a line of battle with its southern end opposite Wellesley's center.

"Captain Williams, will you please take this to General Ferguson? Tell him to make all haste to the heights behind Ventosa, avoiding notice if he can. It would be nice to provide the French with a little surprise. Also, please tell General Ferguson that Generals Nightingale and Bowes will follow to support him as quickly as they can, and Colonel Crawfurd will be near Mariquiteira to protect his left."

Sir Arthur then pa.s.sed out notes and messages to the other officers involved in the shifting of the battle line. Robert was sent to General Acland, who was to act as reserve to General Ferguson and the others. "Also," Sir Arthur said smiling, "pa.s.s my apologies to General Hill. He will likely have a very dull time of it, but I cannot leave the right flank completely unprotected, and, after all, he and his men had the liveliest sport during the engagement at Rolica."

By the time Robert returned, the action had started in earnest. The usual thick line of French tirailleurs, or sharpshooters, were advancing up the hill with about four battalion columns close in their rear. But the tirailleurs were not sniping easily at ma.s.sed British troops. The riflemen of the Sixtieth and Ninety-fifth were taking a toll as they retreated. Behind, on the slope of the hill but hidden by a convenient dip of the ground, the Fifty-second and Ninety-seventh waited in line, well covered by the full-leafed vines of the vineyards. As the Riflemen melted in among their comrades, the six guns on the crest roared in a fierce volley.

Robert saw Sir Arthur stiffen to attention, and he did so, too. Those guns were loaded with an experimental type of cannon shot invented by Major Shrapnel. Instead of being solid, this was a sh.e.l.l packed with smaller, individual shot. The theory was that having been fired, the sh.e.l.l would burst and spray the individual shot over a wide area. For once, theory actually worked in practice. Major Shrapnel's sh.e.l.l worked like a charm-or, rather, like a blast out of h.e.l.l.

The advancing troops, already shaken by the murderous cannon volley, were then charged by the British line, the Ninety-seventh meeting them head on and the Fifty-second taking them in the flank. Sure and determined, the British held their fire until they were little more than ten paces from the French, who were somewhat disordered, and then released a smashing discharge that almost literally blew away the front ranks of the opposing regiments. Those still able to move recoiled amid the screams and moans of their comrades.

Another volley from the second line penetrated deeper into the column, which broke apart and retreated pell-mell down the hill.

This time when the drums beat out the orders, the British halted their pursuit and formed up again, only cheering when the word was pa.s.sed that they had not only beat off the first attack but had captured seven of Junot's guns. Sir Arthur smiled, and there was warmth in his piercing blue eyes.

"They will make good soldiers," he said to General Fane, who had just given the order to send the Fiftieth and the reserve Riflemen down upon another regiment.

There was a breathing s.p.a.ce while the remnants of the shaken French regiments were rallied outside of musket range and two battalions of grenadiers from the reserve were sent ahead of them up the hill for a second a.s.sault. The British guns came into play at once and fired regularly. Changing tactics, the French launched a narrow attack, intended to break through the British line and spread out behind them, but the attempt was a disastrous failure, for the compact formation was blown to pieces by Shrapnel's sh.e.l.ls and the converging fire of the Fifty-second and Ninety-seventh.

With determined courage, the French reserves managed to struggle halfway up the hill, but they could not withstand the intense fire, and they retreated. The British pursued, but with caution, keeping in contact so that they could present an adequate front to any new counterattack, and the battle rolled down into the little pinewood at the base of the hill. It was apparent, even through the screen of the trees and brush that the French could not rally.

At this point, it seemed that Junot decided not to send the remainder of his reserve into this conflict and attempt to push the British back. He had apparently despaired of taking the hill by frontal a.s.sault. He threw in his last reserves in an attempt to turn the flank of Fane's brigade and penetrate to the village of Vimeiro.

When the direction of the third attack became clear, Robert's hands tightened on the reins of his horse so that Jupiter backed and fidgeted. Although he had been in personal danger many times during his army career, Robert had never been frightened. He knew, in an intellectual way, that he could be wounded or killed, but the possibility was never real to him.

Now, for the first time in his life, Robert was terrified. There were no units directly in the path of the French thrust, and he broke into a cold sweat, imagining the infuriated troops charging into Vimeiro, breaking open houses, looting, seizing Merry... He opened his mouth to say he must go to protect his wife, but it seemed as if his throat was frozen shut, his lips and tongue paralyzed. Before he could make a sound, an ADC was already galloping headlong toward General Anstruther's position and Sir Arthur himself had moved away, riding quickly toward an area from which he could observe the action.

Robert threaded his horse through the other officers surrounding the general. "Sir Arthur-" he began.

"Take this to General Acland," Wellesley said, handing him a note, as if he had not heard, and perhaps he had not, for there was still considerable noise. "He is to attack the left flank of the French. Anstruther will be taking them on the right."

Although Robert's heart was still pounding so hard he could feel the vibrations in his throat, he had enough common sense to know that the best way to protect Merry was to prevent the French from getting into Vimeiro at all. The fact that Sir Arthur had immediately planned the most efficient troop movements to accomplish that purpose and was already giving orders to start the counterattack further helped to steady Robert.

The trouble was that he could not believe there was enough time. He was afraid that by the time he got to Acland and the general set his men into action, some of the grenadiers would have been able to pa.s.s around behind the men holding off Anstruther's counterattack and reach the village. He would save half a mile by riding across in front of Vimeiro. Of course, he would be riding right across the front of the oncoming French troops also, and if he were shot down. Sir Arthur's orders would not arrive at all.

Robert was an experienced soldier. Under normal conditions, he would have known that the likelihood of what he was envisioning was nil and that the time saved by cutting half a mile's travel on a fast horse could have no effect. But fear does very odd things to the mind. At the moment, every second seemed like a very long time, a period in which French troops could cover great distances and perpetrate unspeakable crimes. When Robert's mount reached the easy slope of the base of the hill, he did not turn left toward the river to go around behind the sheltering buildings of Vimeiro but charged straight forward.

When he reached the Torres Vedras road he saw the main body of French troops in the distance, coming into the small valley along one tributary of the Maceira. They were too far away to be any danger to him, but Robert knew there must be skirmishers preceding the columns. The first shot rang out simultaneously with his thought as he crossed the road, and then another.

Robert used his whip to inspire the last ounce of speed of which Jupiter was capable and then drew his pistol. He did not really expect to be able to use it. He hoped the skirmishers would be too far away for accuracy with a pistol, and he had no intention of wasting shot and powder in a vain effort to discourage their advance. Experienced soldiers would pay no more mind to pistol shots from a galloping horse than to flies. There was a small chance, however, that a few men would be close enough to pop up and try to stop him. The pistol would be useful for that.

Several more single shots rang out. One was close. The bullet buzzed by Robert's head like a bad-tempered bee, and he bent low, close to his horse's body, to present a smaller target. Just then several guns exploded together, very near. Jupiter screamed, gave a huge convulsive leap ahead, and crumpled forward. Robert yelled, too, but with fury and chagrin rather than from pain. Nonetheless, his feet were free of the stirrups as the animal fell-it was not the first time he had had a mount shot under him-and he rolled away as the horse dropped.

There was a moment, as his legs tangled in the scabbard of his saber, when he almost despaired, for one arm was under him and the other hand carefully holding the pistol away so that if it went off, he would not shoot himself. He rolled again, closer to the kicking, screaming horse, working his legs to push the scabbard out of the way and praying that Jupiter would not get him in the head or break any bones. His luck in war held, and he found himself free and unhurt in the next instant.

His first shot was into the head of the horse. Even if the skirmishers were atop him, he could not allow Jupiter to suffer. But actually he was reasonably sure that the French were at least fifty yards away. Now the still body was also a defense, and he knelt up a little, looking out warily as he worked the reload mechanism on the Ellis repeater.

He was only just in time, for he had been wrong about the distance between him and the French soldiers. Three men were rising out of the brush hardly more than twenty paces away. Robert did not know whether they had seen the pistol in his hand and waited for him to fire, thinking he would not have time to reload and thus would be little threat to them, or whether they had only delayed to reload their own guns. He grinned, not caring which mistake they had made. Either was equally fatal.

Aiming carefully, Robert fired and grinned again as one of the oncoming Frenchmen went down and the others uttered surprised cries. Robert ducked behind the horse's body once more to reload, this time with greater care. The Ellis repeater had a tendency to jam. But a single-shot pistol would have left him helpless now, and the Ellis was more than accurate enough for his present purpose, if only the French had not taken fright and hidden themselves in the brush again.

In ten seconds the gun was safely loaded. Cautiously Robert raised himself high enough to see and breathed a sigh of relief. The two remaining men had come on boldly, either simply determined to stop him from delivering the orders they must know he was carrying or perhaps thinking that he had had two guns and had now expended both their charges. Another man went down, the force of the bullet at the close range carrying him backward. The other man fired as his comrade was. .h.i.t, and Robert was twisted to the left as a blow struck his upper arm. He exclaimed, more in anger than in pain, and dropped down, snarling as he heard a triumphant cry from the remaining French soldier.

All that bothered Robert was the temporary numbing of his arm, which was interfering with his ability to reload. He knew pain would come soon and that the Frenchman was either fixing his bayonet or reloading his piece, but Robert's mind was on his own immediate problem. The shadow loomed over him just as the lever finally went home. Robert flung himself backward, flat on the ground, raised the pistol, and fired as the bayonet came down. The power of the striking bullet saved him, deflecting the soldier's aim so that the weapon plunged into the body of the horse instead of into Robert, which permitted Robert to jump to his feet, knock off the man's shako, and strike him brutally on the head with the pistol.

It was hardly necessary, but Robert had not realized the soldier was falling sideways rather than trying to pull his bayonet out of Jupiter. It was, in fact, the gun fixed into the animal by the bayonet that had kept the man upright for the few seconds it took Robert to strike the blow.

He went down with his victim but shook loose of the weight and came to his feet again to dash toward the banks of the stream. Several shots followed him. Fortunately, however, none of the Frenchmen farther back had hurried his advance, and no one was close enough to fire at point-blank range or to interfere personally. Robert could only a.s.sume they had been sure he was finished when his horse went down and three of their own men had advanced on him.

Once in the brush he was relatively safe from their bullets, and he ran through it and into the stream as fast as he could, ignoring the pain in his arm and the way the brambles tore his face and clothing. He was bitterly aware of his stupidity. Instead of saving time, he had lost double what it would have taken to ride the long way around. He was so concentrated on his self-blame that he was scarcely aware of the scratches or the increased pang in his arm when he tripped on the pebbles and stones of the streambed and fell in the water-he only gasped curses under his breath and struggled on.

The French had lost track of him in the brush so that he was halfway through the stream before they began to shoot at him again. His irregular movements as he slipped and slid on the unstable footing of the streambed made him too difficult a target, and he stumbled up the far bank and into the brush and small trees there without being hit again. After that he was essentially out of danger. It was possible that he would be pursued, but he did not think they could catch him. He was out of sight of the skirmishers, and they could not know what direction he would take.

Actually, the skirmishers had abandoned their interest in him once he disappeared afoot on the opposite bank. Their business was with any British force coming down the valley to oppose them. They did not know of Acland's brigade a short distance to the north. But Robert had no idea they had given up, and he struggled on northward, keeping within the shelter he had found until he felt he must be just below Acland's position. Then he came out of cover and began to climb the rising ground, but there was no sign of the troops he had expected to see.

Chapter Twenty-Two.

Esmeralda and Molly finished washing the dishes and setting the bedchamber to rights, and then there was nothing else to do. Although Robert had given her permission to watch the battle, Esmeralda really had no inclination to do so. Her previous experience had been very disappointing. Nonetheless, she did go to the church and climb to the tower since she could not bring herself to sit quietly sewing. This attempt to discover what was going on was futile because Vimeiro was behind and below the rising ground on which the troops were stationed. She could see nothing at all but the hillsides upon which only a few sheep and goats moved.

Exasperated, she returned to her lodging. There was nothing to do but sew, and Esmeralda decided to embark on an ambitious and difficult enterprise-a second riding dress. She had got as far as laying out the new cloth on the table when the first crash of gunfire came. Involuntarily she gasped and dropped her box of pins all over the floor. Molly, who had been holding one edge of the cloth, jumped also and turned her head in the direction of the sound as if she could stare through the walls.

"Whose guns...?" Esmeralda faltered.

"Oors. 'Tis got t' be oors. It sounded s' close. Th' others'd be fainter, dooller."

Had Molly's voice been more certain, Esmeralda might have been more rea.s.sured. Without speaking again, both moved at once toward the door and out into the garden behind the house. They stood still, straining to hear, but the sounds had become confused, only a few sharp rifle cracks stood out from a general roar of musket fire, dulled and distorted by distance and the hill between them. After what seemed a very long time, the sounds seemed to die away.

Esmeralda turned eagerly to Molly. "Is it over?"

"No, ma'am. Only th' first charge. If we beat 'em bad enough, 'ey moight retreat, boot our men'll have t' follow."

This time there was not the uncertainty that Esmeralda had heard before, and, indeed, she herself was reasonably sure that the British army had had the best of it, because if the French had advanced, the noise would have approached them and it had not. They waited, but not for long. Realizing that their petrified vigil in the garden was useless, they returned to the task they had abandoned.

Esmeralda had finished picking up and setting her pins as markers for cutting the front of the skirt when the second phase of the battle began. She and Molly looked at each other and then toward the door, but there was no sense in going out into the garden again. They could hear the thunder of the big guns quite clearly enough from where they were. Esmeralda picked up the scissors, which she poised over the cloth. After a moment, she put them down again.

"I'll only spoil it, Molly," she said. "My hand is shaking too much."

The older woman smiled and held out her own hands, which were also trembling. "'Tis a shame," she said, "thit th' hoose is decent. Oi'd be glad o' some scrubbin', thit Oi would."

Esmeralda sighed. "I, too. I feel like running around and screaming-and much good that would do."

Molly looked surprised. "Doos it take ye thit way, too, ma'am? 'Tisn't thit Oi'm scared-'cept fer M'Guire a bit-Oi swear it. "'Tis jist thit Oi need t' do somethin'."

About to nod agreement, Esmeralda paused. There was a new sound, closer than the battle noises, and this one was approaching steadily. It took her a little while to identify it as the screech of cart wheels because other noises mingled with and obscured the regularity she had come to a.s.sociate with the sound. Esmeralda started for the front door, but Molly caught her arm.

"'Tis no for ye, ma'am. Thit'll be th' wounded comin' in. Oh, 'tis too near we are. Had th' captain toime, he would've sint ye away, Oi'm sure."

"The wounded," Esmeralda repeated.

Now that the sounds were identified, she was able to pick out the groans and occasional screams that mingled with the screech of the cart wheels. She stood undecided for a time, unable to go back to a task that seemed so puerile in contrast to what was taking place, but afraid to thrust herself in where she might not be wanted. She did not think she would be sickened or made faint by the blood or mutilations. There had been accidents and injuries in her father's go-downs and even in the houses, and she had not been overset, only truly sorry and quite willing to help the doctor. There must be something she could do that would be more important than cutting out the skirt of a riding dress.

"Find out where they are taking the wounded," she said to Molly. "I am accustomed to nursing. My father was ill for a long time. I know how to give a drink or feed a person who cannot help himself. I could write letters for those who wish to say a last word to their loved ones."

Molly looked very doubtful, but the truth was that she was herself eager for an excuse to go to the hospital area, not so much to help-although she was willing to do what she could-but to see whether there were men of her husband's regiment there and whether any of them had seen or heard of him. She found the buildings that had been selected easily enough, and almost at once was hailed by a friend of M'Guire's with a gory but not fatal hole in his thigh, who told her that her husband had come through the first attack without a scratch.

Much cheered by this news, she went back for Esmeralda, who had sensibly wrapped a sheet, ap.r.o.n-style, around her delicate morning dress and collected paper, a stoppered inkhorn, and several pens, as well as a cup, bowl, and spoon into a small sack that she fastened around her waist. Thus armed, she followed Molly, trembling a little because she grew less and less sure of herself as she approached the hospital area. At first it was harder than she thought. Wounds made by bullets were far messier than those made by a misdirected knife or ax, and Esmeralda did feel sick, but there was a young man, hardly more than a boy, weeping, and she knelt down by him and murmured soothingly, and soon she was too busy to feel queasy at all.

When Robert came out into the open about halfway up the flank of the hill, he stared around, feeling that he had been caught in a nightmare. He had been very sure of Acland's position, having taken Sir Arthur's first order to move to him and carried back General Acland's reply. And even if Acland had been some distance off, a brigade of men cannot be confined to a small area. In any case, Acland would have pickets out, and Robert now realized that he should have stumbled on one of those as soon as he came out of the brush. Nor could Acland have been attacked, beaten, and driven away; not only would the noise have been apparent during the action, but there would be dead and wounded lying about. But there was no one-no one at all.

Unbelieving, Robert labored higher up the hill, trying to convince himself that Acland's troops might be on the reverse side, hidden behind the crown of the rise. He did not believe it, but he was dazed and in pain, and it seemed to be his last hope. However, as he reached the summit, he heard the thud of artillery to the north and a low confused noise which he knew must be a combination of musket fire and the screams of men. Robert sank down, panting. He was too late. Acland had been instructed to act as reserve to Ferguson and those supporting him on the left flank. He must have been needed and gone off, possibly even before Robert started.

It was little help to know that his own foolishness had not caused the disaster. The fortunes of war... Robert shuddered. Death or rape might be the fortunes of war for Merry. He started to rise, again nearly frantic with the desire to go to Vimeiro to protect her, but his knees gave way and even as he struggled to get up once more, he remembered his duty. He must get back to Sir Arthur at once and report Acland's movement. He gritted his teeth. Both duty and good sense dictated exactly the same action, return to Sir Arthur, who could order troops to fill in and play the part Acland was supposed to have played, possibly Fane's reserve could-no, they were already in action.

Robert fought back tears and levered himself to his feet. It would do no good to anyone for him to sit and weep. Sir Arthur would manage something, he always did. He started down the hill, staggering slightly, aware now not only of pain but of the fact that blood was running down his arm. That did not trouble him except for the fear that too much bleeding would weaken him, and speed was again essential. Yet if he ran, he would lose more blood. Crazily he thought of a line from Shakespeare. "A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse!"

The moment the idea came into his head, the instinct to protect Merry personally, which had been suppressed but not extinguished, made him think of Vimeiro. He could get a horse there, or if not, there was Luisa. And Vimeiro was not out of his way. The strength of hope flooded him, and he began to run, but a crash of musket fire made him drop to the ground and look around wildly. There was no one near him nor any sound of bullets humming or thudding into the ground. Robert sat up and listened to a second volley and then to the roar of cannon. A broad smile took the place of anxiety and fear in his expression, and he began to unwind his sash. There could be no mistaking those sounds nor the direction from which they came. General Acland had apparently seen the threat of the French thrust along the valley and had acted on his own to prevent an attack on Vimeiro.

With relief, Robert removed his coat and shirt and leisurely examined the damage to his upper arm. His shirt sleeve was soaked with blood, and there was an ugly gash in the flesh of his arm, but the injury obviously was not serious. His coat sleeve, however, was a total ruin, beyond repair, the whole back of it shredded apart where the bullet had blasted a path out.

Robert clicked his tongue wryly. His one good coat, aside from his regimentals, spoiled. Merry would have a fit. Well, perhaps she could patch it. He wound his sash as tightly as he could around his arm, slung shirt and coat over his good shoulder, and started for Vimeiro, where he knew he would find a surgeon to sew him up. As he walked, he laughed softly. His arm ached, but didn't hurt nearly as much as it had before he knew how slight the damage was, and he no longer felt particularly weak, either.

Having forded the little tributary of the Maceira, Robert paused and listened. He was now too far north to see the battle, which was around a bend and screened by trees and brush, but it did not seem to be moving either way. The French, he thought, were stout fellows to withstand the heavy fire pouring in on them from both flanks. They were good soldiers with great pride, but they would not break through now, not unless Junot had another brigade or two to push into the valley and attempt a three-p.r.o.nged a.s.sault. Robert shook his head. Not after those two b.l.o.o.d.y attacks on Vimeiro hill and sending all those regiments north.

He wondered how the battle on the left flank was going and began to walk again more quickly, despite the discomfort of his wet boots. If he wanted news, he had better get back to Sir Arthur. Nonetheless, Robert made no attempt to cut the distance by angling south. In his present condition he had no intention of coming closer to the action than necessary. His pistol was wet, and while afoot his saber was a poor weapon to oppose either a gun or bayonet.

Robert came into Vimeiro by the back lanes, but it was a small village and he had no difficulty finding the hospital buildings. Stepping into the nearest, he stopped dead in the doorway and watched as Esmeralda, with infinite gentleness and patience, dribbled water into the mouth of a man whose jaw had been half shot away. She was covered with blood, but her voice was steady as she murmured comfortingly.

Swallowing back a bellow of outrage, which he knew would make Esmeralda jump and hurt the wounded man, Robert waited until she rose to her feet and then said sharply, "Merry, what the devil are you doing here? I can't turn my back on you for a minute-"

She whirled to face him, her features illuminated by joy, which changed to terror as she took in his appearance. Her tanned skin turned pasty gray, her lips parted as if to scream, and her eyes began to roll upward in their sockets.

"Merry!" Robert exclaimed, startled. He jumped forward, dropping his coat and shirt, grabbed at her, and held her against him with his good arm. "It's all right, my dear. I didn't mean to sound so angry."