1st June: A Violent Reaction

"Furious" was not a sufficient word to describe Sir Arthur's reaction to hearing of the skirmish ahead of the column. To suffer such a reversal of fortunes so soon after so promising a start to the campaign was infuriating in the extreme - considering, also, that it was a reversal that could have so easily been avoided. The vanguard picquets had been surprised and a rogue unit of french cavalry had been allowed to penetrate their line of march and cause havoc! Where had Beresford been? Where were the Portuguese forces that he had been assured would be shadowing the French to their right? What could have happened to allow such a blunder to take place?

And had that blunder been his fault? Wellesley felt he should have forseen it; that he must have overlooked something that allowed this gap in their defences to open. Therefore he was to blame, and that made him angry twice over; angry that the mistake had occurred, and angry with himself.

Whatever the cause he would see to it himself that the wrong was righted - therefore he was galloping at breakneck speed to the front of the column, the rest of the army being ordered to halt the advance, the Staff of the Divisional Headquarters doing their best to keep up with him. Reports had met them with wounded that several of the Rifles and women had been taken prisoner, and it was with a growing sense of urgency and anxiety that the general sought out anyone that could relate to him accurately what had occured - and where he should strike to turn the matter in his favour.

It was Cavender who first noticed the approaching groups of officers, and nervously mentioned it to Vickery, who forced his eyes open.

"Help me up, Cavender, please," he said, determined to be standing on his own two feet to meet the General.

Cavender looked nervous, and offered his arm. He didn't have the solid muscle that Cotton had, but any help was better than none, and Vickery levered himself to his feet, holding the bugler's arm as the world spun around him for a moment.

"You all right, sir?" he asked, biting his lip at his own temerity.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine," Vickery said, and wished that he could have properly prepared a report for the General. It really didn't help that he didn't know what had happened after the first desperate few moments of fighting.

Coming up with more of the wounded Rifles Wellesley recognised a face that was familiar, and he reigned in his horse. Poor Vickery looked much the worse for wear, only managing to stand with the support of his buglar boy - but the general was too concerned with gaining the facts to be gentle in his address.

"Tell me what happened, Vickery!" he demanded.

The General did not look at all happy, which was perfectly understandable, considering Vickery had failed in his duty. That he had had no support from those who should have been his immediate reserves was not going to wash, not with the General.

"Cavalry, sir," he managed, still trying to marshal his thoughts and form a coherent report. His head felt as though there was a battery of artillery in it, and he still couldn't focus properly. "They came along the road. I sent a message back and formed my men up across the road to receive them, with Mister Sharpe in support. I don't know how many there were - I suspect a full regiment, sir. They charged two or three times before breaking the line. I was wounded then, sir, and knocked out, though I heard Mister Sharpe reforming the line, sir."

Beside him, Cavender was looking nervous, glancing between his captain and the General, and biting his lip.

An entire battallion of cavalry? No wonder; the Rifles hadn't stood a chance on their own!

"To whom was this message sent?" Wellesley was still trying to understand how such a hole had opened up in his line of advance to allow this to happen.

"To the Colonel of the Second Guards, sir. He sent a Company back to support us, but at the time I had not realised the number of enemy troops we were facing and could give him no more details than that we needed support. We held the French off for as long as we could, but by the time they reached us, I am afraid I was out of the action."

He desperately hoped that Sharpe had managed to get away, because he would be able to give a much better picture and a far clearer report than Vickery was managing to produce.

Silently Wellesley fumed, angry and impatient, but willing himself to get as best a grasp on the incident as he could. Sharpe, it seems, would be the person to ask - damn it, why was it always Sharpe? He was determined first to get as much information out of Vickery as possible.

"What sort of cavalry?"

What did he mean, what sort of cavalry? It would help if he could think straight...

Oh.

"Heavies, sir. Cuirassiers, I believe." They had certainly been cuirassiers, in fact; the big breastplates they wore were unmistakable. Thank God they hadn't been Lancers.

And whatever else Sir Arthur thought about it, Vickery felt the weight of his failure pressing down on him.

"I am sorry, sir."

"Sorry?" Wellesley felt the failure so strongly to be his that he was startled that Vickery felt any sort of blame. "This is beyond you, Vickery, and damn well beyond 'sorry'! Did you not receive any warning that there was enemy cavalry in the area?"

Because if there was not then the breakdown in communications had been far more severe than Wellesley had first feared.

Vickery shook his head and immediately wished that he hadn't. "Not until it was too late, sir. My own patrols informed me, but had no clear indication of numbers and I had very little time to prepare to receive them."

He had done his best with what he had, but it was a damn poor showing, and Vickery knew it. If he had had more time, more men... Well, that was water under the bridge and couldn't be helped now.

The General might at least accept his apology, little though it was. After all, he had been in command of the Rifles, and it was their task to protect the column. Had been... Vickery wouldn't be surprised if the General were to replace him after this.

"It is a miracle that any of you survived," Wellesley said bluntly. "What are your losses?"

That was the question, wasn't it. Vickery had been dragged away, half-conscious, and hadn't had any sort of butcher's bill at all. The only men he had seen so far were Bertschinger and Friedler, and Friedler had died of his wounds.

"I... have no idea, sir. I don't know what happened after I was wounded." And that was a damning testimonial.

The first thing Sharpe had to do was to let Vickery know that his Company had not been completely decimated. Yes, there were losses, but miraculously Vickery had not had everyone killed. Only five men killed - it could have been much worse.

The Rifle Captain was looking better than Sharpe had expected, despite the fact that he was leaning rather heavily on the poor young bugler. And as if that wasn't enough, he was being cross-examined by Sir Arthur Wellesley, too.

He had no compunction about interrupting; the General would want to see him anyway, and the sooner, the better.

"Sir!"

Wellesley grunted in a neutral way. Poor Vickery had got the worst of it alright, including being helpless as his company suffered a rout.

"Where the devil is Sharpe, then?" he asked brusquely. "As it appears I must have the rest of your report from him."

Beside him several of the Staff, including, Captain Sanders could not help but wince. Sanders knew Sir Arthur was not a cruel man at heart, but the captain wondered that the general had not noticed just how cutting that last remark must be to the wounded Rifles officer... Then all heads turned as Sharpe made his presence known.

"Your report, Lieutenant Sharpe," Wellesley said immediately, not wasting a moment. He glanced down to Vickery, who it seemed was near fainting, and addressed the buglar that was supporting him - still a mere boy, the general realised. "Get your captain's wounds attended to," he ordered bluntly, hoping the boy would have enough presence of mind to act sensibly.

That stung. It wasn't Vickery's fault that he'd been kicked in the head - or something - and knocked out.

If Sharpe knew anything about his men, Vickery wanted to know about it. About all he wanted to do was sit down, but he could hardly do that in front of the General.

"Surgeon's already seen him, sir," Cavender muttered, abashed at the presence of the General and so many other officers in red coats with bright gold lace.

"Sir, with respect I think the Captain ought to hear this," Sharpe said, glancing at Vickery. "Though, mebbe if he were to sit down, sir?" The suggestion was offered directly to Vickery who nodded slowly and eased himself down, with the help of the young bugler.

"We was got by cavalry, sir, as the Captain will have told you - a regiment of cuirassiers. We formed line, only there was so many of 'em that they got through us. Couldn't get round, not with the hills bein' what they are. Anyroad. The Captain here went down, hard, an' I thought he'd been killed. Managed to reform the men, but we couldn't hold 'em for long, even with the Guards' Light Company. We kept 'em off for as long as we could, an' ended up in the hills. I had one man killed, Vickery lost five - an' four captured. Cotton, the two Palmers an'... someone whose name I didn't catch, sir, sorry."

He'd given the names for Vickery's benefit and pulled out a scrap of paper for Wellesley. "Butcher's bill, sir. Got the rest of the men away - had to circle round in the hills in case we came across any more Fro... French, sir."

Wellesley accepted the paper mutely, reading the names and calculating the losses. All combined six killed, eleven wounded and five taken prisoner. Heavy enough losses for a company, but it could have been much worse.

"It is fortunate you managed to escape," he said flatly, handing the paper to Sanders, who read it through himself before pocketing it. "According to Captain Vickery you received no intelligence of the enemy's presence in advance. Were you not in contact with the cavalry scouts?"

"I have no idea what happened to the scouts," Sharpe replied flatly. "First thing we knew of any danger was our own scouts runnin' back to warn us, sir. Mind you, with a whole regiment of cuirassiers an' the only way our scouts could get back was by usin' that same bit o' road, I ain't surprised we never heard from 'em." The Rifles' scouts had done the sensible thing, of course, and kept an eye on the road from the hillsides above it. Sharpe did not have a high opinion of horsemen at the best of times, and this certainly wasn't the best of times.

"God knows how we got back, sir. Of them wounded, two of 'em was serious."

"One of them has died of his wounds since, sir," Vickery interjected, looking up. Six - maybe seven - dead, ten wounded, and five prisoners... It felt as though a lump of ice had settled in the pit of his stomach.

"God knows indeed, Sharpe," retorted Wellesley, Not in the mood for a confrontation with the lieutenant now. He would have to send someone to re-establish contact with the forward scouts - had he known sooner he could have sent someone up to shadow the cuirassiers and see where they went. "They company is in a state to march, though?"

"Give 'em a ten minute rest an' a bite of scran and they'll be good to go, sir," Sharpe said flatly. They hadn't had much chance to pause and catch their breath, not with it being imperative that Sharpe report what had happened, and find out what had happened to Captain Vickery.

Whether there was any food to be had was another question entirely, but if Sharpe knew the riflemen - and he did - they'd have something stored away to munch on, even if it was only a mouthful or two of dry bread.

Sharpe's tone finally made an impact on Wellesley, and he forced himself to calm down. He was on the verge of making a rash decision by letting his frustration get to him - and that would never do. Of course they could not march; not with a wounded commander, without hearing from the forward scouts and not knowing their distance from nor the strength of the enemy. Infuriating though it was he must call a general halt whilst more intelligence was gathered. He would move the army back a few miles to suitable quarters, give the men room to breathe and then move on.

"Then be ready to move in an hour; you shall be directed to billets."

There was a small town about three miles back - a short march, and a suitable location to call a temporary halt.

An hour. That was something, at least. Enough time for the men to get their packs off, boil up some water and have something to eat. And they deserved it - they had done their very best, and it just hadn't been good enough. The Rifles did the impossible often enough that knowing they had failed to do so on this occasion rankled.

"We'll be ready for owt you care to throw at us after we've had a break," he said. The fact that the Frogs had Riflemen as prisoners could not be allowed to pass, after all.

And Sharpe had a very high opinion of Vickery's men after their disastrous fight and their march through the hills. The Captain was lucky to have men like that, he thought. He was lucky to have his own men, however few they were in number.

"I'm sorry we couldn't stop 'em, sir," he added.

Maggie could not stop herself from listening, straining to hear every word, even though she knew she should not. That was her husband they were talking about, and his friends. They hadn't said anything about a rescue or an exchange. What were they going to do about it?

"Sir, what about - ?" She stopped. She found herself standing up and calling across to them, a group of officers, and the one in blue was obviously very important with all the other men so respectful in attendance, and that great star on his chest, maybe the general himself, and what the bloody hell was she doing?

She clapped both hands over her mouth. "I'm sorry," she breathed in a barely audible whisper, then turned and ran.

The outburst was from a woman - one of the few women who hadn't been caught up in the whole mess. Vickery looked up at the General apologetically. "I'm sorry, sir. Her husband is one of the men the French have taken prisoner," he said by way of explanation. He wished there was something he could do for her, that there was some sort of answer he could give her about how Cotton was, but he knew as much as she did.

Wellesley had seen that the woman's outburst had been ill-considered and that she regretted it immediately, and though it had annoyed him he had been willing to gloss over it - but Vickery's mentioning it irritated him further, as now he would have to officially take notice of it and possibly pass comment... Oh damn it all to hell! He did not have time for this.

"You had best prepare your men, captain," he said to Vickery, ignoring the captain's previous comment. Hopefully Vickery would see he was being generous by doing so. "You will receive your orders in the next half hour."

He turned to Sanders.

"Divisional Staff meeting in ten minutes."