‘Very well, sir,’ the officer responded in a relieved tone.‘I fear that we may see very little of what he promised us when we reach Leiria. Naturally, I may be wrong.’
‘I hope you are. If we cannot rely on our allies this army is going to be largely dependent on lines of communication that stretch from the shores of Britain to the coast of Portugal. Not a happy prospect, and when winter comes we can look forward to severe disruption of our supplies.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Arthur looked at the map of Portugal that lay across his campaign desk. It was sparsely detailed and was all he had been able to obtain from the War Office before they set off.‘We will keep close to the coast as we advance on Lisbon. That way we can be resupplied by sea and can be evacuated if we suffer any serious reverse.’
Somerset glanced at the map. ‘Yes, sir. That makes sense.’
‘Thank you, young man. I know that.’
Somerset stiffened. ‘Sorry, sir. Is that all?’
‘Yes.You’d better go and get some sleep.You’ll need all your strength for the coming campaign.’
‘Yes, sir. Good night, sir.’
Once his aide had left him, Arthur concentrated his attention on the map again. Lisbon was over a hundred miles away. Perhaps seven days’ march. There was every chance that Dalrymple would arrive and take command of the army long before Arthur had had a chance to prove himself. Be that as it may, he would still do everything in his power to prepare the men to march on Lisbon, even if another officer would take the credit for any success they might achieve. Arthur stood up, stretched his shoulders, left the stifling tent and emerged into the sweltering heat of a summer evening. The air had not yet cooled and was heavy with unfamiliar scents. Around the tent the shrill chorus of cicadas rose in intensity and then stopped dead, before beginning again and gradually building up once more. Arthur smiled to himself. He enjoyed this sense of strangeness, of getting away from the landscapes he took for granted in Ireland and England. He had few illusions about the discomforts of the coming campaign, but there was an undeniable sense of liberation in being so far from home, with all its petty and pedantic social demands, not to mention the endlessly shifting currents of the political scene. Arthur felt at home in the field.The goals were clear enough, the stakes were high, and if he and his men did their duty, then they would contribute to the salvation of their country. What greater satisfaction was there than that, Arthur reflected contentedly.
By the time the first week in August came to an end the army was ready to march. On the tenth, Arthur gave the order to break camp and the column set off for Leiria, some twelve miles away. General Freire had already sent word that he and his force had reached the town, but there was no mention of the promised horses and supplies, as Somerset had rightly suspected. As a precaution Arthur had used some of the gold that had accompanied the army to purchase enough horses and mules from the local people to ensure that the army could advance from its beachhead without having to rely on manpower to shift the guns and wagons.
The redcoats were not used to the midsummer heat of Iberia, and had had little chance to exercise in the close confines of the troopships, with the result that they suffered dreadfully on the first day’s march.The rough cart track that passed for a road was baked solid and the dust and sand that had gathered on either side was quickly kicked up into a choking cloud that irritated eyes and caught in throats and added still further to the torments of thirst the men endured as they tramped along. Very soon, even the most spirited of them had fallen silent and the soft scrape and thud of boots was accompanied only by the shrill, grating protests from the axles of the wagons and carts carrying the supplies.
Late in the afternoon Arthur rode ahead with Somerset and a local man Arthur had hired to act as guide and translator. General Freire was waiting for them at Leiria, and had commandeered a fine house on the edge of the town and received his guests in a small courtyard where a fountain splashed invitingly in a tiled pond. As many of his men as possible had been quartered in the town, and sat silently in the shade as the British officers rode by, making no attempt to stand and salute.
‘I apologise for the delay,’ Arthur explained to Freire, pausing as his words were translated. ‘But my army is far from its home, and I needed to ensure that everything my men required was ready before we marched.’
Freire nodded as he listened. He was a short, wiry man with a neatly clipped beard and moustache. His hair was grey and grizzled and cropped close to the skull. His eyes were deep set and dark and seemed to stare accusingly. As the translator finished he shot back a swift series of comments directed at Arthur.
‘The general asks if all British armies are so slow, or is it that their generals are so cautious?’
Arthur drew a sharp breath before replying.‘Tell the general that my army would have advanced more swiftly if we had received the horses and mules he promised me when we met in Oporto.’
Freire shrugged nonchalantly when the comment was relayed to him.
‘The general says that it was not possible to find any draught animals for you. He says the French had taken them all, and the few that remained were needed by his men.’
‘And what of the supplies that he promised?’ Arthur asked. ‘Where are they?’
‘The general says that without mules and horses he could not transport supplies. In any case, there were few supplies to bring after the French had passed like locusts across the land.What supplies he did find are needed by his men.’
‘I see,’ Arthur muttered, keeping his irritation under control. ‘Please tell the general that we can manage without the things he had promised us for the moment. Now we need to discuss how we might best combine our forces to crush the French invaders.’
Freire raised a hand to stop Arthur and spoke again.
‘The general says that his men are short of food and powder, and that you should supply them with both.’
‘Now, just a minute—’ Somerset started.
Arthur shot a look at his aide. ‘Silence, if you please. Let me deal with this.’ He turned back to Freire. ‘Tell the general that I cannot supply his forces in addition to my own. I am not authorised to do it, and in any case we need all that we can carry as it is.’
‘The general says that without supplies he cannot advance any further towards Lisbon.’
‘Damn it, I will not be blackmailed,’ Arthur said bitterly. ‘Tell him that his government has instructed him to co-operate with me.’
Freire laughed.
‘He says that the government’s word means little to him. He says that his first duty is to his men. He will only co-operate with the British if they supply him with what he needs.’
Arthur clenched his jaws tightly together to avoid giving vent to his growing anger. He turned to Somerset. ‘Can we supply his men?’
‘To a degree, sir. But not for long. There might be a way round this impasse, sir.’
‘Then speak plainly, man!’ Arthur snapped.
‘Yes, sir. Since we lack cavalry we are having to make do with light infantry for some of our scouting.’
‘Yes. So?’