Arthur thrust his arm out towards the retreating French soldiers. ‘But, sir, we already dominate them.You have but to give the word and we can run them to ground and compel Junot to surrender.’ He paused as he swiftly considered the best way to change Sir Harry’s mind.‘Think of the glory, sir. The man who forces Junot to surrender will be the hero of the hour.’
‘And the man who throws caution to the wind and leads the army to disaster will be the villain in perpetuity, Wellesley. I will not be that man. Besides, we should wait and see what Sir Hew Dalrymple decides.’
‘With respect, sir, Sir Hew is not here. If he was, then I am sure he would seize such a fine opportunity to destroy the enemy.’
‘Enough, Wellesley,’ Sir Harry said curtly. ‘I have made my decision. There will be no pursuit. We will wait for General Dalrymple and the rest of the reinforcements.’
Arthur stared at his superior for a moment. His heart was crying out with frustration and despair, but there was nothing he could do. Sir Harry was the ranking officer, and his word was final. Trying hard to hide his feelings, Arthur turned away and gazed towards the escaping French. All around him he heard the cheers of his men, but there was no joy in his heart.
Chapter 46
The following afternoon Arthur visited the wounded in the makeshift hospital in Vimeiro. Even though the hard-pressed medical orderlies were doing their best to treat the men’s wounds and find them shelter from the sun’s searing heat, the cries and groans of the soldiers were pitiful and there were constant demands for water. All the while more casualties were being brought in from the battlefield, men who had been lying in the sun the previous day, left through the night and into the following morning. Many were suffering from sunstroke and were delirious, their cracked lips trembling as they babbled incoherently. As he moved from one room to the next in the small monastery Arthur was assailed by evidence of the true horrors of war. And it was not just the sight of the shattered limbs and bloodied dressings that caused him distress, it was the stench of urine, faeces, vomit and corrupted wounds that assaulted him.
As he emerged into the courtyard of the monastery Arthur breathed deeply to expel the foul vapours that had filled his lungs. He turned to Somerset. ‘See to it that those men are fed and watered properly. They are to be made as comfortable as possible while they recover.’ He paused. ‘If they don’t recover, at least they shall be comforted as far as possible in the time left to them.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Somerset replied.
Arthur noted the tremor in his young aide’s voice and turned to look at him directly. ‘The face of battle is grimmer than you had ever imagined, eh?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Somerset nodded, and Arthur saw that his face was quite drained of colour. ‘It is my first real battle,’ Somerset admitted. I had thought that the fight at Roliça was bad enough. But this . . .’ He gestured towards the rooms lining the courtyard.
‘This is the reality of war,’ said Arthur. ‘You had best grow used to it. Or try to.’
Somerset regarded his commander closely. ‘Have you grown used to it, sir?’
For a moment Arthur was tempted to lie to make it easier for his subordinate, but then decided there was no point in hiding the truth. If Somerset lived long enough he was certain to see far worse than the battlefield at Vimeiro. He shook his head. ‘I have never lost a battle, Somerset, yet every victory has left a sour taste in my mouth when I contemplate the price that has been paid. Perhaps it is a good thing that war is so terrible. It would be dangerous if men got used to it.’ He reflected for an instant before continuing. ‘That is the real evil we are fighting. It is not France, nor the soldiers that are sent against us. It is the taste for war that Bonaparte and his followers have acquired. That is what we must defeat.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘See to these men as best you can. I must report to Burrard.’
They exchanged a salute and Somerset strode off to find the officers of the supply commissariat and ensure they provided adequate food and water for the injured. Arthur waited a moment, drinking in the sweet smell of the herbs that grew in the flower beds running along the walls of the monastery. Then he sighed and made his way outside to where his mount was tethered. Unhitching the reins and climbing into the saddle, he turned the horse towards the cluster of tents on the crest of the hill and dug his spurs in.
As he dismounted and handed the reins to an orderly, Arthur heard a burst of laughter from inside the army commander’s tent. The sentries on either side of the open flaps presented arms as Arthur passed through. The shade inside was welcome, as was the faint breeze that entered through the panels that had been removed on two sides. A group of officers stood about the large campaign table that dominated the centre of the tent.
‘Ah, Wellesley!’ A voice boomed from behind the table and Arthur saw that Sir Hew Dalrymple had arrived to take command. The third commander in less than a day, Arthur reflected wryly. Like Burrard, Dalrymple was a man with meagre experience of campaigning. Arthur saluted as he strode up to the table and then leaned across to shake his superior’s hand.
Dalrymple pretended to look offended as he continued, ‘It seems that you have done my job for me. Couldn’t wait, eh?’
‘I was attacked by Junot, sir. I did not seek to pre-empt your involvement.’
‘Tsh! Don’t be touchy, Wellesley. I am jesting. In truth you have won a fine victory and I shall be sure to give you full credit for it in my report to London.’
Arthur was momentarily tempted to mention that it might have been a far more complete victory had the army pursued Junot to destruction once the battle was won. But with Burrard standing at Dalrymple’s shoulder and the evident bonhomie that filled the tent, now was not the time, Arthur told himself. Instead he nodded.
‘That is most kind of you, sir.’
Dalrymple bowed his head graciously and then cleared his throat. ‘Gentlemen, the task that faces us now is to complete the good work that General Wellesley has begun. Though we have bested Junot and sent him running off towards Torres Vedras, he still has more men under arms in Portugal than I have, at least until General Moore arrives. Therefore, having consulted with Sir Harry, I am of a mind to wait here and gather our strength before we continue the advance towards Lisbon.’
Arthur let out a faint groan before he could stop himself. At once, Dalrymple’s eyes fixed on him.
‘Do you wish to comment, General Wellesley?’
‘Sir, I think we should push forward before Junot recovers from yesterday’s defeat. We outnumber him at present, and he cannot concentrate his other forces quickly enough to save himself. If you pursue him, sir, I am sure that you can force him to surrender without conditions. If we delay then we simply hand the initiative to the enemy. And what if Junot is sent reinforcements from Spain? The enemy’s strength in the Peninsula is such that they will always outnumber us. Our best chance is to defeat the French piecemeal. Sir, if you would end this campaign swiftly, then I urge you to move against Junot immediately.’