* * *
He’d picked up some Portuguese from Maddalena, but he doubted his ability to converse with any of the hired waggoners, so he went to the Irishmen hired on by General Wellesley, moments before they began to creak and rumble off.
“Could I get a ride?” he called to a burly, beet-faced fellow with a shock of red hair. “I wish to go up to the army.”
“Iff’n ye do, yer outta yer fackin’ mind,” the waggoner shot back with a dis-believing scowl, “but so was I when I signed on fer dis mess. Aye, climb aboard, an’ hang on.”
That took some doing, for the box was high off the ground and hand- and foot-holds took some figuring out before he was seated alongside the waggoner, who pulled a pipe from a coat pocket and lit it off the candle lanthorn hung ahead of him. Satisfied that his pipe was drawing well, he lifted his reins and gave them a shake, calling out to his four-horse team. At once, there came an appalling screeching from un-greased axles and several sideways lurches as the waggon got a way on.
“Told ye t’hang on, sor,” the waggoner grumbled. “It ain’t no coach-an’-four. Iff’n ye wish t’say somethin’, ye’ll haveta shout, for it’s a noisy bashtit, t’boot, har har!”
The whole column of waggons and carts was extremely noisy, loud enough to be heard coming for miles. Oxen bellowed in protest, mules brayed now and then, long whips cracked so often that they sounded like sporadic musket fire, and the carters and waggoners continually cursed their beasts, loud, foul, and inventively.
“Royal Artillery, air ye?” the waggoner asked after the first mile, mistaking Lewrie’s blue coat. “Late t’th’ party if ye air.”
“Navy,” Lewrie told him.
“Den yer daft as bats,” the man said with a sniff, leaning over to larboard to hawk up a load of phlegm, then took time to re-light his pipe. “Ye won’t git me on a ship, again. Sailin’ here was th’ worst time o’ me life. Mind yer fingers,” he cautioned as the waggon gave some more, alarming lurches which made the whole assembly groan as if it would come apart, turning hand-holds into mousetraps as boards worked against each other.
“Rough road,” Lewrie commented.
“What ye say? Rough, de man says! Dey ain’t no roads in dis bloody country, at all. Half de time, we been in dry creek beds when we couldn’t even find th’ roads, e’en when de maps say they’re there!”
“What are you carrying?” Lewrie asked.
“Half a ton o’ bisquit, wot passes fer bread fer the bloody fools who went for soldiers,” the man griped, “an’ dey’re welcome to it. Me an’ me mates, we bake real bread fer ourselves each night. Breast to, ye fackin’ four-legged hoors!” he howled of a sudden and cracked his long whip at his team.
So passed the second mile.
The sun slowly rose, and the landscape round the column became visible, as did the dust stirred up by thousands of hooves and wheels. The broad valley of the Maceira narrowed as the waggons neared hills, the hills that Lt. Beauchamp had pointed out to Lewrie the day before. The shallow river turned into a creek off to the right where it issued from between the hills, and just ahead sat a lop-angled wood signpost announcing that the village of Vimeiro was ahead on their right.
“Caught up with de bloody army,” the waggoner said, spitting.
Atop the nearest hill, and strung along the others that rose to the East and Northeast, there were soldiers in black shakoes, red coats, and grey trousers, some assembled in formal rank and file near their Regimental and King’s Colours, but most of them on the back slopes of the hills were sprawled or seated at their ease, doing what any soldiers did since Roman times; waiting.
There were more troops in the village of Vimeiro, and what little cavalry was with the army was posted round the village, and Lewrie could spot several dozen horses watering along the northern bank of the Maceira.
“Think I’ll get down here,” Lewrie told the waggoner, “and get a horse from them,” he said, pointing at the remounts.
“Man, ye iver see a battle?” the waggoner gawped, leaning back in astonishment. “Man on a horse, he’s the finest target in de world! Ah, on yer head be it,” he said, drawing rein.
Lewrie clumsily clambered down from the box and headed for the town. He spotted a face he recognised from the remount station, and cajoled the soldier to give him a mount, another of those non-descript locally commandeered Portuguese horses, a dull brown one with black mane and tail, equipped with what looked to be cast-off reins and saddlery, and stirrup straps that looked as if they’d come apart if too much pressure was put upon them.
Leery and cautious, Lewrie swung himself aboard, reined the horse around, and clucked his tongue to get it moving, but no; it took the heels of his boots to encourage it to move, and that only at a sedate walk into the village proper and past a plain two-storey house that, by the presence of so many officers, he took for Wellesley’s headquarters.
Mounted messengers, that the army termed gallopers, were coming and going, young fellows of spirit who could not resist the urge to make a great show of their duties and their temporary importance.
Lewrie drew rein a bit beyond the headquarters house to watch, and turned in the saddle to look astern as bugles and whistles blew, and some troops to the West left their positions and began to march through the village to the East.
“What’s happening?” he asked of a passing mounted officer.
“Change of position,” the officer replied, giving Lewrie a dis-believing look. “French columns have been spotted more to the Southeast, so we’re going up to the next ridge over. What the Devil are you doing here, sir? The ocean’s back that way, hah hah!”
“Curiosity,” Lewrie replied with a grin.
“That killed the cat, don’t ye know,” the fellow cast over his shoulder as he paced along beside his troops.
Lewrie decided to follow the regiment that was passing through Vimeiro. He let his horse have a drink from the Maceira, then forded it and went up the Eastern hills above Vimeiro. Once atop, he found a good view of the countryside, and began to get a grasp of the ground.
Stretching out towards the East and Northeast, there was a long ridge, nearly two miles long, he estimated. The Maceira, now a creek, ran along the ridge’s South foot, below an irregular slope which was rather steep in places, but approachable at most, though he thought anyone climbing up would be out of breath by the time he got to the top. To the South and Southeast there lay a rolling set of hillocks that made a second plain, well-timbered in places, and beyond there, what he took for another drop-off to lower ground, a narrow valley in between yet another row of hills.
There was movement all along the ridge as regiments marched further on to shift the whole army’s positions to counter … something. Lewrie pulled out his smaller pocket telescope and searched for a reason why, and, after a time, found it. There were clouds of dust in the Southeast, and, now and then, glints of morning sunlight off metal, perhaps brass shako plates or bayonets; he did not know, but strongly suspected.
He had loaded and primed all his pistols the night before, but had left the Ferguson un-loaded. Now, he felt the urge to load it. He cranked the long brass trigger guard–hand grip one turn, lowering the sealing screw to expose the breech of the barrel. From the cartridge box on his right hip he withrew a pre-made paper cartridge and bit off one end, using a dribble of powder to prime the pan, then shoved the rest of the cartridge, bullet-end first, into the breech and screwed the weapon shut. A final fiddling with the screw of the dog’s jaw that held the flint tight, and he lay it across the front of the saddle, ready for use.
Lewrie thumped his heels to get his horse moving again, along the ridge for a better view of what the newly-placed regiments were doing. He saw green-jacketed soldiers who carried shorter weapons than the Land Pattern Tower musket, men with silver hunting-horn insignia on their shakoes, who were moving downslope in pairs, spaced far apart from other pairs, and wondered who they were; red was the colour of soldiers, after all! The regiment closest to him was taking position along the backside of the ridge, detaching their Light Companies of skirmishers downslope a few paces, and along the crest. With another prompting thump, he goaded his horse for a closer look-see.