Fortune's Bride Part 16

She clung to him dizzily, rea.s.sured by the strength of his grip. Then, reminding herself that a soldier's wife must not show such faintheartedness, she pulled herself together and straightened up. Still, she could not prevent herself from asking breathlessly, "What happened to you? How badly are you hurt?"

Robert smiled and let her go. "Hardly at all. It's nothing but a crease, and all my own fault, too." Then the smile disappeared, and his clear blue eyes clouded. "Jupiter's dead. I stupidly rode right into the enemy's forward scouting parties instead of going around behind the village. I should have known that Acland was too canny to let the French cut him off from the rest of our army, but I was so-"

He stopped abruptly, realizing that he could not tell Esmeralda it was fear the French would break into Vimeiro and harm her that had sent him, against his better judgment and his military experience, across the face of the oncoming enemy battalions. He did not wish her to feel guilty or frightened by the nearness of the fighting. His decision was correct, but he had made it for the wrong reasons. Esmeralda would, indeed, have been terrified, but only by the risk he had run, for she was far less concerned with her own safety than with his.

"Oh, poor Jupiter," she cried, knowing that Robert felt much worse about the horse than his single statement betrayed.

Before she could say more, however, an orderly came up behind Robert, sidestepped him without looking, although he glanced at the blue coat Robert had dropped on the floor, and said, "Mrs. Moreton, there's a man who'd like you to write to his wife for him."

"But-" Esmeralda began to protest.

Still without a glance at Robert, the orderly continued, "I don't think the man has much time, and I wouldn't bother with a Frenchie-not if he's walking. He can wait."

Robert had to laugh at Esmeralda's affronted expression. He had now recovered from the shock of finding her employed in an activity that he could not imagine his mother or sisters undertaking and which he knew must frighten and disgust her. On second thought, he felt proud rather than horrified that she should be willing to subdue her own feelings in order to help the men who were fighting.

"This is not a Frenchman but my husband, Captain Moreton," Esmeralda had exclaimed.

The orderly turned sharply, looking rather frightened, but Robert laughed again. It was obvious to him, if not to Esmeralda, how the mistake had come about. The rags of his blue coat and stained white breeches could easily be mistaken for the ruins of a French uniform.

"That's all right," he said to the orderly, who was stammering apologies. "Just go and ask one of the surgeons if he'll st.i.tch me up at once. I have to get back to duty."

The fright those words caused Esmeralda paralyzed her momentarily and prevented her from crying out in protest as the orderly hurried away. She felt dizzy again and stiffened to resist the sensation. Robert would not annul their marriage, but he could still insist that she be sent to England if he felt her to be an enc.u.mbrance. She swallowed hard and moistened her dry lips.

"You seem to have lost a lot of blood, Robert," she said, her voice flat and cold with the effort she was making to keep it from quavering into tearfulness. "Is it wise to go back to Sir Arthur?"

"Oh, most of the blood isn't mine," Robert said easily, but he was aware of the rigidity of Esmeralda's stance and the coldness of her tone. It was an odd contrast, both to the words of concern she had spoken and to the soft sympathy her voice had held when she had been talking to the wounded soldier. Robert wondered whether she was angry or simply indifferent, and then dismissed both notions as ridiculous. There was nothing for her to be angry about, and she could not be indifferent to his welfare. He was her pa.s.sport to the social connections she needed in England.

That idea, clearly and suddenly stated in his mind, was so unpleasant, although it had been implicit in their relationship from the beginning, that Robert hastily urged Esmeralda to find the dying man who wanted a letter written at once.

"But I would rather wait until-" Esmeralda began.

"There's no need to wait," Robert said. "There isn't much wrong with me, and the orderly will be back. See, there he is now. Go along, Merry, a dying man's last wish is more important than a scratch on the arm."

It was not, of course, more important to Esmeralda, not if the scratch was on Robert, but she was still too insecure about their relationship to oppose him in anything. She did not realize that Robert would have welcomed her insistence on remaining with him or any other sign of affection. It had not entered Esmeralda's head that Robert could have fallen in love with her. That had not even been a part of her impossible dream. The most she had hoped for was that he would grow accustomed to her company and find it pleasant. And of course, Esmeralda knew that men could enjoy s.e.xual intercourse with women for whom they had not the slightest regard.

In fact, Esmeralda a.s.sociated Robert's urging her to go to the dying soldier with his own stated intention of returning to his duty. She believed Robert felt that, having taken on the task of a.s.sisting the wounded, she must perform it. Thus, she turned away in the direction from which the orderly had originally come without saying anything more. In a sense, it was a relief to go, because her struggle with tears was growing momentarily more difficult. Esmeralda had already become somewhat hardened to the dreadful sights around her, but the wounded men were not Robert. She was not at all sure she would have been able to maintain her composure had she actually seen her husband's torn flesh.

Once Robert could not see her face, Esmeralda allowed the tears she had been withholding to flood her eyes. The rigidity went out of her body, and sobs of fear rose in her throat. Blindly she hurried forward, afraid that by some mischance Robert would hear or notice that she was crying. Unfortunately, although his eyes followed her, all he perceived was the relaxation of her tension and a seeming eagerness to get away, which puzzled him very much and hurt him, too.

Like Esmeralda, Robert did not a.s.sociate mere s.e.xual pleasure with love and thus did not reason that, because she obviously enjoyed their physical relationship, Merry loved him. Actually, he had not yet even a.s.sociated his own eagerness to be with her or his anxiety about her safety with the fact that he loved her. If he had been asked at that moment by someone he trusted implicitly whether he loved his wife, Robert would probably have answered no. He still thought of his marriage as an act of compa.s.sionate duty, although he would have admitted freely that it had turned out far better than he could have expected, and he felt no regret.

The orderly's voice drew Robert's attention from Esmeralda's hasty retreat. "What?" Robert said dully.

"Mr. Neale will attend to you right away if you will come with me, sir," the man repeated.

"Oh, yes," Robert replied, finally taking in what had been said to him, and feeling a sense of relief.

What a fool he was, he thought. Here he was blaming Merry for the unpleasant sinking feeling he was experiencing and thinking she was behaving in an unnatural way, when probably he was just trying to avoid contemplating his visit to the surgeon. This conclusion was so satisfactory that Robert's spirits rose at once. Strangely, he did not notice the contradiction, and by the time Adam Neale had finished sewing him up, Robert had convinced himself that there had not been anything at all unusual in Merry's manner. Nothing could be more reasonable than that she should hurry to write a letter for a dying man, particularly when he had twice told her to go.

Although the surgeon insisted Robert rest for a little while after he had sewn the wound, no time was lost as Mr. Neale permitted his patient to send one of the lightly wounded men to find him a horse. And he smiled when he advised Robert to keep his arm in the sling he had fixed for him, raising his brows at the ruins of coat and shirt the orderly had brought in from the outer room. It appeared the sling would cover almost as much of him as what was left of his clothes.

Of course Robert could have asked for Esmeralda so that she could bring him fresh clothing, but for some reason he refused to define or even think about, he did not mention that his wife was in the building. Instead he simply abandoned the shirt, thinking it too far gone to bother about, and inserted his good arm into the coat, which he had the orderly b.u.t.ton at the waist.

By the time he returned, Sir Harry Burrard, who had finally come ash.o.r.e at Porto Novo late in the morning, had arrived at Sir Arthur's command post and was inquiring of Lord Burghersh where General Wellesley was. Burghersh was unable to answer his question, since he himself had only just ridden up. Under the circ.u.mstances, Robert's appearance was fortunate, as it diverted Sir Harry's attention. That gentleman was at first considerably shocked by Robert's dishabille and then seriously concerned that Captain the Honorable Robert Moreton, son of the Earl of Moreton, should have so little regard for his health and safety as to return to the battlefield after having been wounded.

Sir Harry was too much of a gentleman to give orders to another officer's ADC, but he was gently suggesting that Robert report himself unfit and retire, when Sir Arthur rode up. General Wellesley did not at first notice Sir Harry because his eye had been caught by Robert's golden hair and bedraggled condition, and he cried out sharply, "Where the devil have you been, Moreton?"

Burrard's eyes widened slightly at this seemingly unfeeling remark and Sir Arthur's expression of cold disapproval, but Robert grinned. He knew Sir Arthur well enough to recognize the question as a mark of great anxiety. "Doing something stupid, sir," Robert replied, "but General Acland had already gone into action, so it didn't matter. And General Burrard has arrived, sir."

As he spoke, Robert backed his horse so that Sir Arthur's view would be un.o.bscured. Although he was as sorry as all the other ADCs about the fact that General Wellesley had been superseded, he was grateful that Burrard had arrived at this precise moment. He knew that he had been saved a scathing, but deserved, reprimand by Burrard's presence. In the next instant, however, he was punished for the brief, selfish emotion. Instead of turning immediately to his superior, Wellesley took the time to look searchingly at Robert and then to ask, "Are you fit?"

"Yes, sir," Robert replied. "It was only a crease, and Mr. Neale has sewed me up." Now he felt horribly guilty and wished that Burrard were back in England, even if it cost him a hundred of Sir Arthur's painful scolds.

"Good day to you, Sir Harry," Wellesley said courteously, if with no marked enthusiasm. "The situation-"

"No need for any details, Wellesley," Sir Harry said. "You seem to have everything well in hand, and you must finish what you have so ably started."

"Thank you."

A note of warmth appeared in Sir Arthur's voice, a recognition of Burrard's generosity. It was not every general who would allow a subordinate officer to reap the reward of a victory. Usually the superior officer grabbed the credit, even if he arrived after the fighting was over. Although Sir Arthur was not often forthcoming with military information, he understood generosity and responded to it.

"But," he continued, "I should like to tell you, as exactly as I know it myself, just what is happening."

"Very well."

Robert exchanged glances with Sir Arthur's other ADCs. The lack of enthusiasm in Burrard's reply was noticeable. Although each young man had a different interpretation of the cause, all were equally appalled. As Sir Arthur's voice had cooled noticeably again, it was obvious that the general also felt Burrard's lack of interest was not a good sign.

Having summed up the disastrous results of Junot's attempts to dislodge the British from Vimeiro hill, Sir Arthur concluded, "The attack along the valley has also been checked with heavy losses for the French. I have just ordered that the Forty-third be brought in from the east, and that action should begin at any moment. If you would like to ride down with me, sir, we will be able to see the results more clearly."

Sir Arthur told Colin Campbell to remain where he was and direct any messengers down to the small k.n.o.b of high land above the station of the Twentieth Light Dragoons, whereupon he began to ride downhill toward the battle scene. Indeed, he had come up princ.i.p.ally to make certain no extremely urgent messages had come from the left flank. Robert had guessed that and guessed also that the quick turns of Sir Arthur's head and the frequent use of his gla.s.s implied some uneasiness with regard to the silence from that area.

Robert's mind was divided between those thoughts and a new wash of anger and disgust. It was clear that Burrard was surprised by Sir Arthur's intention of surveying the battle at close range. Not that Sir Harry was the least afraid. He was merely astonished at Wellesley's notion that a commanding general should go and see for himself. However, Robert was soon distracted by the action itself. The French were still resisting stubbornly, and by this time both sides were in near chaos because the outlying houses and walls had broken the formation of the regiments. The charge of the Forty-third only added to the confusion. Volleys were exchanged at almost point-blank range, and there was fierce hand-to-hand fighting with very free use of the bayonet.

It was soon apparent that the courageous French grenadiers could not turn the tide. Sullenly the drums rolled the order to retreat. It would have been virtually impossible for the disordered ma.s.ses to pull out and protect themselves, and Junot sent out a regiment of dragoons to cover the retreat.

Sir Arthur, of course, did not want an orderly French withdrawal. He decided at once to use his handful of cavalry, the two hundred and forty light dragoons, supported by two hundred and sixty Portuguese in two squadrons, which were drawn up below the rise. Lifting his already well-known c.o.c.ked hat, Wellesley waved it and cried, "Now, Twentieth, now is the time!"

Colonel Taylor, who had been watching anxiously for some signal from Wellesley, wheeled his regiment from behind the sheltering hill and charged at the retreating French. At first the Portuguese rode even with the British, but when the French paused and began to fire, the Portuguese broke and fled back to the safety of the re-forming lines of Anstruther's brigade, who greeted them with hoots and catcalls.

Sir Harry uttered a shocked exclamation, and smothered groans came from the ADCs of both generals. Sir Arthur alone watched with unmoved expression. Taylor's men rode on, crashed through the lines of French dragoons, and plunged in among the fleeing infantry, sabering right and left and taking prisoner those who threw down their arms. Now Sir Harry was smiling and if he had not been, so to speak, a guest of Sir Arthur's, he would no doubt have waved and cheered them on. However, as the Twentieth continued onward right through the terrified infantry, Wellesley's mouth tightened in furious disapproval.

A short while later the result Sir Arthur had foreseen came about. The overenthusiastic troopers were checked by a stone wall on the hill and simultaneously charged by two fresh regiments of French horse, which had been kept in reserve. Sir Arthur disliked and distrusted cavalry regiments, having said more than once that they were never properly disciplined and got carried away, thereby turning a victory into a defeat.

Robert had to admit that the charge had been carried far beyond reason. The end result, which he learned about the next day, was, however, not quite disastrous, for by some miracle the overexcited troopers were not annihilated.

Actually at the moment the action was taking place, Sir Arthur had essentially lost interest in it. He had mentally given up the Twentieth for lost. Moreover, a muted roar had come down from the slopes north of the Maceira, which could only have been produced by a full regimental volley. That meant the troops Junot had sent north to flank the British had finally come into contact with the forces Wellesley had set up to oppose them. Sir Arthur politely lifted his hat to Sir Harry, who was still contemplating the headlong rush of the Twentieth, and spurred his horse away in the direction of the new fighting, with his staff streaming along behind him.

They splashed through the tributary of the Maceira. The small valley was noisy now and littered with dead and wounded among whom unhurt and lightly wounded moved, some looting the dead bodies and others giving what a.s.sistance they could to those hurt worse than themselves. There was, at least, a fine impartiality about both activities, the French wounded receiving as much a.s.sistance as the British and the British dead being looted about equally with the French.

Despite the noise and confusion in the area, Robert's eye was drawn inexorably to Jupiter's body, and he gave it a long, regretful look as they pa.s.sed. Sir Arthur rode north along the ridge where British troops were pursuing the remnants of some French columns. The troops were moving in good order, pausing periodically to fire another volley into the fleeting French. Then, near three abandoned French guns, the Seventy-first and Eighty-second halted to rest and re-form their ranks. General Nightingale, who was moving forward with the Twenty-ninth, which had been in the second line, saw Sir Arthur and rode back to him.

"There are more French somewhere," he said. "They came to the edge of that ravine just below my position and then went on farther north until we lost sight of them completely."

"Do you have any idea how large the force is?" Sir Arthur asked.

Before Nightingale could reply, the question answered itself. From the summit of the heights above the plateau on which the Thirty-sixth and Fortieth regiments were driving the French northwest, four battalions of infantry and two squadrons of dragoons poured down. The British regiments reeled back in disorder, abandoning the captured guns. With an oath of dismay, General Nightingale charged, calling orders toward the Twenty-ninth, which had paused uncertainly. Tactfully Sir Arthur halted. He was not in the least discomposed by the setback. Bowes's division was at hand and had not yet fired a shot. Caitlin Crawfurd and the Portuguese-for whatever good they would be-were about a mile away, near enough to lend a hand if necessary.

It was not necessary. In a very short time the new French attack was broken. The three guns were again in British hands, together with three more that the new French battalions had carried with them. Sir Arthur did not stay to see the end of the action. He instructed Lord Burghersh to give his compliments to Generals Ferguson and Nightingale upon their handling of the situation and the behavior of their men, and rode hastily back in the direction from which he had come.

The battle of Vimeiro was won, and Robert realized Sir Arthur believed that the French army of Portugal could be utterly destroyed if action were taken quickly, before Junot could reorganize or call in reserves. Unfortunately, Robert knew that Sir Arthur did not have the authority to initiate that action. Burrard had given his permission for Wellesley to complete the battle he had started, but that could not be stretched to include the pursuit of Junot's broken force.

But Sir Arthur hoped that in the first heat of real victory over the "undefeatable" French army, Sir Harry's supine nature might be roused to action-or, at least, to permitting Sir Arthur to take action. Sir Arthur rode up to Burrard, waving his hat and crying, "Sir Harry, now is your time to advance. The enemy is completely beaten, and we shall be in Lisbon in three days."

Chapter Twenty-Three.

Esmeralda had written the letter to the dying soldier's wife, with tears streaming down her face. It was mostly of her own composition, for the man could barely summon strength to whisper the name and address. He was pathetically grateful for what he believed to be her sympathy, and poor Esmeralda was racked with guilt although, in truth, her fear for Robert gave her a poignant understanding of the sorrow of an unknown woman. She even made a note of the name and address, thinking she might be able some day to a.s.sist the widow if she were worthy and needed help. She felt futile and angry, knowing there was no way, even with the wealth that would be at her command, that she could help the womenfolk of all those who died, but the small gesture toward this one person soothed her a little.

Soon after the letter was finished, the man lapsed into unconsciousness. Esmeralda looked about vaguely, wondering if it would be very wrong and cowardly to abandon her self-imposed duty. Before she could decide, however, she heard her name and saw a familiar face, one of the young officers of the line who had often stopped to speak to her on the march. She hurried over, anxiety making her almost forget the danger to which Robert had returned.

Fortunately, in this case the anxiety was largely unnecessary. The young man had had a ball in the shoulder, but it had been extracted without difficulty, and his chances for recovery were excellent. In fact, he intended to return to his company in a day or two. His purpose in summoning Esmeralda had not been out of a need for a.s.sistance but to soothe her, since he had seen how distressed she was while she wrote.

Half an hour of pleasant talk restored Esmeralda considerably, particularly since she could not resist mentioning that her husband had also been wounded but had insisted on returning to Sir Arthur. She had been a.s.sured that he would not be sent out again and that, more likely still, Sir Arthur would send him home. Thus cheered, Esmeralda went back to the less pleasant aspects of the task she had undertaken. It was disheartening, for there was so little she, or even the doctors, could do. Nonetheless, she persisted, as she a.s.sumed Robert would wish her to do, but not for long. She had barely attended to the wants of two men whose limbs had been amputated when Carlos's voice, high and frightened, interrupted her.

Esmeralda rose so abruptly and was so terrified by the fear Carlos was displaying that she had to catch at the wall for support. Nor could she call out to the boy, but her movement had caught his eye, and he hurried over, crying, "Come home, senhora, come home."

"Oh my G.o.d," Esmeralda whispered, "is it your master?"

"He has gone mad," Carlos breathed, his big, black eyes wide with fright. "He shouted at me and tried to hit me, and his face was all red."

Esmeralda's breath caught as she was torn between relief and a new fear. At least he was not dead, but... Fever, she thought. It was bad, but not the worst. He was young and strong, and cinchona was quite effective against fever. She tore off the bloodied sheet that had partially protected her gown and ran toward the house in which they had quarters. She could hear Robert's voice, hoa.r.s.e and angry, all the way down in the street. Just outside the door she hesitated. If he was really out of his head, she would not be strong enough to control him, and Carlos, frightened out of his wits, poor child, could be no help.

Esmeralda had turned to send Carlos back to the hospital area to get Molly, when another voice she recognized-just as furious as Robert's-struck her ear, and then a third. She promptly dismissed the notion of fever. It was rage she heard in all three voices. Could the battle have been lost? That notion was cast aside with her original idea about delirium. Had the battle been lost, the French would have been flooding into Vimeiro.

Still Esmeralda hesitated. Although she was no longer worried about needing to control Robert while he was out of his head, she had never seen her husband really angry and had no idea how he might react toward her. In general, Robert had a sunny disposition. He had occasionally displayed irritation, but it had not lasted long. If he had really tried to strike Carlos, would he relieve his feelings by beating her? Not, she decided, in the presence of his friends, and she quickly entered the house and ran up the stairs.

"...have to do it all over again, and G.o.d knows whether it will be possible now that Junot will be better prepared."

Esmeralda made out the words, but they were uttered in so fury-choked a voice that she was not sure who was speaking until she was far enough up the stairs to see that it was Captain Williams. "What has happened?" she asked, but either no one heard her or all the men were too taken up with their subject to heed her interruption.

"We won't be able to do it again with that incompetent, lazy numbskull in charge," Robert roared. "He'll have us out in a flat plain all lined up like a parade to be shot to pieces."

"Maybe he could have an accident," Colin Campbell snarled.

Esmeralda shuddered. It was not unheard of for really bad officers to have "accidents" on the field, and there was a vicious, uncontrolled note in Campbell's voice that showed he was not joking.

"I'd help you if I thought he'd ever get close enough to any action to make it possible," Williams said bitterly.

"What has Sir Arthur done?" Esmeralda cried.

This time her voice was quite loud. The three men seemed to be working themselves up to commit an atrocity, and although frightened, she knew that an interruption and the presence of a witness might induce second thoughts. For a moment she was afraid that all she had accomplished was to draw the rage onto herself, for all three turned and glared at her. Instinctively her hands came up, and she backed away. Meantime, Campbell's eyes had fallen on her bloodstained gown, for the sheet she had used as an ap.r.o.n had not protected her fully, and he jumped forward with a hand out to support her. To Esmeralda the gesture seemed so threatening that she shrank back still farther, stifling a cry of fear and wavering on her feet.

"Good G.o.d, Mrs. Moreton's hurt," Campbell exclaimed.

"How could that happen?" Williams asked simultaneously.

"Merry, what's the matter?" Robert cried, getting an arm around her.

The realization that she had completely misunderstood Colin Campbell's movement and at the same time accomplished her purpose restored Esmeralda immediately, however, she did not reject Robert's support nor disclaim faintness at once. Quick-witted as she was, she recognized that it would be best to keep the men's attention on her for a minute or two until their tempers cooled.

"I am all right," she murmured. "The blood is not mine. I was in the hospital area..."

"G.o.d d.a.m.n it, Merry," Robert said, "you haven't the sense of a three-day-old kitten. It's one thing to help out but quite another to get so exhausted you are ready to faint. Come and lie down."

But Esmeralda had no intention of leaving the three men alone. She knew that in minutes the discussion they were having would resume and there was a good possibility that they would work themselves into a rage all over again. She had no expectation of keeping them off the subject but hoped that her presence would have an ameliorating effect.

"No," she protested. "I'm better now, and I am dying for a cup of tea. Come downstairs with me and tell me what Sir Arthur has done to make you all so angry."

Actually Esmeralda now realized that it could not be Sir Arthur about whom they had been speaking. He did, quite often, infuriate his ADCs, but even in a blind rage Esmeralda could not imagine one of his staff calling him lazy, incompetent, or a numbskull. She had introduced his name as another calming red herring.

Whether it was her presence or the soothing effect of fresh, strong, hot tea, relative rationality was maintained while Esmeralda learned how Sir Harry Burrard had managed to s.n.a.t.c.h defeat right out of the tight claws of victory. The tale was rather disjointed, since several more of the staff joined them, and the tellers periodically flew into rages and shouted at her and each other. However, no one reintroduced the subject of Sir Harry having an "accident", so Esmeralda was satisfied.

Actually, it was fortunate that she was not called upon to voice any opinion because emotionally she was far more in sympathy with Sir Harry than with the furious young men who castigated him for refusing, despite Sir Arthur's lucid reasoning and clear, practical plans, to pursue Junot's broken army. Intellectually Esmeralda knew Sir Harry was wrong. Robert said the French could have been destroyed in Portugal and the war in that country ended if Junot had been pursued, whereas letting him retreat unmolested would permit him to rearm, reorganize, and call up reinforcements. Moreover, with the inept Sir Harry at the helm, the British might be defeated in the next battle. Thus, in the long run, Sir Harry's orders to wait until Sir John Moore arrived with another ten thousand men were stupid and dangerous to the British cause.

Nonetheless, Esmeralda's heart would not listen to her head. Her heart only knew that Robert was sitting safe and almost sound beside her instead of riding off to G.o.d knew where on the heels of fleeing men who would fight desperately to save their lives. In addition, there was some hope that Sir Arthur would take offense and return to England, in which case his staff would no doubt go with him and Robert would be safe.

As this thought crossed her mind, Esmeralda sighed deeply. She knew she was deluding herself. Although he admired Sir Arthur greatly, it was the army and, to a certain extent, war itself that Robert loved. He might, indeed, go back to England with Sir Arthur, but he would stay only long enough to find a way to get back into the action-and then another thought, so horrifying that Esmeralda shuddered at it, came into her mind. If they went to England, Robert would almost certainly leave her there when he returned to the front.

At this point Lord Burghersh came in. He was late because he had been ordered to remain on the northern slopes until the end of the action there. Although calm now, he at first had been as furious and disgusted as the others. He had seen the Thirty-sixth and Fortieth regiments of Ferguson's command pin one of the French brigades into an angle of the hills from which there was no easy escape. Burghersh had ridden back to Sir Arthur with Ferguson's ADC, who carried his general's request to advance, and had seen Sir Harry absolutely forbid any further action. The ADC had been stunned speechless, and Sir Arthur had made one more attempt to convince Sir Harry that the French could not stand another attack. He pointed out that one good push would send them in a rout into the rugged spurs of the Sierra da Baragueda where starvation, hardship, and the Portuguese peasants would likely finish off those who had not yielded as prisoners.

"Oh, I think the men have done enough for one day," Sir Harry had replied.

"But Hill's division and those of Bowes and Crawfurd have not even been in action. They are quite fresh," Sir Arthur countered, his voice even although it trembled just a little with anger.

But Sir Harry had stuck stubbornly to his decision that there would be no further advance that day, whereupon Sir Arthur had turned his horse and said bitterly to those of his staff who were present that they all might as well go and shoot red-legged partridges.

This report had led to a renewed discussion of the disaster that would undoubtedly follow Sir Harry's a.s.sumption of command, at which point Esmeralda, who had hardly listened, consumed as she was by her terror at the idea of being left in England, sighed and shuddered at her own thoughts.

"We are distressing Mrs. Moreton," Lord Burghersh said.

"Oh, no," she protested, "I am not frightened, only sorry that so many men have been killed and wounded to no purpose."

However, the worst prognostications of Sir Arthur's angry staff were not fulfilled, though this was not immediately apparent as matters seemed to worsen the next day when Burrard was in turn superseded by Sir Hew Dalrymple. Sir Arthur had immediately approached Sir Hew with a plan to advance to Mafra, which would cut Junot off from Lisbon and the heights of Torres Vedras, but Sir Hew was even less accommodating than Sir Harry. Not only would he not listen to any plan for prosecuting the war, he was less polite about it.