The Fields of Death - Scarrow Simon - Страница 15

The manor was built round a courtyard, and seated on the edge of a small pool into which a fountain trickled was the officer charged with guarding the route through the surrounding olive groves.

‘Good morning, Donkin,’ Arthur nodded as he strode up. ‘How is it with you?’

Major Donkin stood smartly and brushed away the crumbs of a pie he had been breakfasting on. ‘All’s well, sir. No sign of the French yet, but my lads will send ’em packing the moment they show up.’

‘Glad to hear it.’ Arthur pointed to the nearest tower. ‘Come, let’s see what’s happening.’

Stuffing the last morsel of the pie into his mouth and chewing ferociously, Donkin followed Arthur to the narrow staircase that ascended inside the tower. At the top they climbed out through the narrow opening into a square room with open arches on each side that afforded good views across the olive groves. A mile to the west Arthur could see the narrow course of the Alberche river, and on the far bank some swirling black clouds of smoke where several buildings were on fire. The smoke made it hard to see the river at that point and Arthur glanced further to the south, towards where the road from Madrid crossed a bridge. Clouds of dust indicated where the main French columns were closing on the river and with an anxious twist in his stomach Arthur estimated that the enemy must have some fifty thousand men.

He pointed towards the burning buildings. ‘What happened there?’

‘Mackenzie’s men set fire to them before they retreated back through my line.’

‘Why?’

‘To prevent the French from using them as strongpoints, sir.’

‘And what is the point of that?’ Arthur responded tersely. ‘Our line is over two miles back from the Alberche. All that he has done is deprived the local people of their homes. For which they will not be inclined to thank us.’

‘No, sir. I imagine not.’

Suddenly Arthur saw a movement through the distant smoke. A file of enemy soldiers was making its way down the bank and into the river, where they crossed and filtered into the trees. He turned to Donkin. ‘Best have your command stand to. The French will be on your pickets soon.’

‘Pickets?’ Donkin frowned, and then looked alarmed.

‘Good God, man, you must have posted them?’

‘Well, no, sir. I mean not yet.’

Arthur glared coldly at the major and was about to berate him for his reckless inattention to his duties when there was a shout from below the tower and a moment later a musket cracked amid the trees. Some of Donkin’s men sprang to their feet and peered into the nearest olive groves. As Arthur followed the direction of their gaze he saw blue-coated figures swiftly passing through the trees. He cupped a hand to his mouth and leaned over the parapet and bellowed down at Donkin’s men.

‘To arms! To arms! The enemy’s here!’

More shots were fired, and Arthur saw jabs of flame and puffs of smoke on three sides of the manor house. One of the British soldiers below doubled over and collapsed on the ground with a deep groan. The quicker-witted of the redcoats were sprinting for their stacked muskets, but several were cut down before they could take up their weapons. There was a crack and plaster exploded off the tower wall just below the parapet.

‘Damn!’ Arthur stepped back. ‘We’re in a damned bad fix, Donkin.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Without another word Arthur hurried back down the steps, the sound of boots ringing off the hard walls. At the bottom he ran through the courtyard and out of the main entrance. From the ground the position looked ever more desperate. French skirmishers were rushing out from the trees, shooting down Donkin’s men who had no chance to form ranks, or look to their officers for orders. Most had gone to ground, and those without weapons crouched down low with fearful expressions as the enemy closed round them.

‘Sir!’ Somerset had grabbed the reins of Arthur’s mount and was riding towards his commander, ducking low over his saddle.

Arthur glanced round. ‘Donkin, get your men out of here at once. Get back to our line as best you can.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Donkin nodded, crouching and holding his hat down on his head as if that would prevent it from being shot off. There was no time for any more words, and Arthur sprinted towards Somerset. Seeing a prize target the nearest enemy skirmishers took aim and fired. A bullet whipped past Arthur’s head, while another spat up a divot of earth a yard in front of him. As soon as he reached his horse, he placed a boot in the stirrup and heaved himself into the saddle with a grunt, taking the reins from his aide.

‘Get you gone, sir!’ Somerset called out, drawing one of the pistols from his saddle holsters. He glanced down to ensure the percussion cap was in place and thumbed back the hammer.

Arthur dug his spurs in and wheeled his horse round, urging it into a gallop down the road leading back through the trees. Glancing back he saw Somerset steady his horse, raise his pistol and take aim. There was a flash and the dull detonation and then Somerset thrust the weapon back in his holster and galloped after his general. Behind them, Major Donkin was bellowing orders for his men to fall back on him and make for the road.

Keeping his head down, Arthur rose up in his saddle as his horse thundered down the dry track. The sound of firing steadily faded behind them but Arthur continued riding as fast as his mount would carry him. Then, a half-mile from the manor house, he came across the first of Mackenzie’s pickets at the side of the road and reined in.

‘Stand to! The enemy’s coming. Take care not to fire on Donkin’s men!’

A sergeant nodded and saluted, and then turned to relay the order down the line in a parade ground bellow. Arthur waved Somerset on and the two of them continued at a less breathless pace down the road until they came to the clearing where Mackenzie still sat with a handful of his officers. Arthur reined in and thrust his arm back down the track.

‘The French have surprised Donkin’s men! Have your brigade formed up at once. We have to stop them here, or they’ll press on right up to our main line. You must drive them off before re-joining the main army.’

‘Yes, sir!’ Mackenzie was on his feet at once, shouting out his orders. As they were repeated Arthur saw figures scrambling from under the low boughs of the olive trees and taking up their positions in each company. The sergeants paced down each line, dressing the ranks and shouting threats at those who were slow in joining their comrades in the line. Within five minutes the men of Mackenzie’s brigade stood ready, watching the trees ahead for sign of the French.

Arthur trotted over to Mackenzie’s side. ‘Make sure your men don’t fire until they are certain they see the enemy. Donkin, and what’s left of his men, will appear first.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Mackenzie hurriedly briefed two officers and sent them down the line in each direction to pass on the instruction. There was not long to wait. The uneven crackle of muskets quickly drew closer and then the first British soldiers could be seen, some helping wounded comrades while others fired their muskets and fell back to take cover behind trees where they reloaded and fired again at their pursuers. The first of the French skirmishers were not far behind, flitting through the sunlit shafts of powder smoke that hung in the still air of the olive groves. As the last of Donkin’s men passed though the gaps in the line, Mackenzie bellowed out the order.

‘Present arms! Make ready to fire!’

There was a muted shuffling as his men raised their muskets and waited for the next command.

‘Cock your weapons!’

A sharp clatter passed down the line as the men thumbed back the firing hammers of their primed muskets.

‘Take aim!’

Up came the muzzles as the soldiers pointed them in the direction of the enemy soldiers who had halted and now flinched as they faced the first volley.