twelve minutes past eight. ‘We shall dine at the usual hour this night, gentlemen.’
His aides smiled, not sure if he was joking. They had come with him to the lower slopes of the western hills and could see, two miles to the east, the dark line of the French guns.
The General looked to his right where the Great Road came from a defile and he watched, on the river’s far bank, a column of infantry begin climbing the slopes of the Puebla Heights. The column was led by Spanish troops, who would, this day, have the honour of first engaging the enemy. He snapped the watch shut. ‘Gentlemen.’ His tone was distant, almost sour. ‘I wish you all joy of the day.’
The battle of Vitoria had begun.
CHAPTER 20
The guns, the great French guns, the guns that were the Emperor’s love and the weapons most feared by France’s enemies, fired.
The sound died and the smoke drifted.
The French had shot at no target. They had merely warmed the barrels and watched the fall of the roundshot in the killing ground. As yet the battle had no pattern. Some Spanish troops clawed their way up the Puebla Heights and fought the French skirmishers on the steep slope, but no infantry and cavalry had appeared on the plain to become meat for the gunners who now had the range perfectly judged. The smoke from the cannons drifted southwards, dissipating in the small breeze. The ladies who sat on the tiers of seats built by the French Engineers on Vitoria’s wall felt faintly disappointed that the sound had stopped.
La Marquesa climbed to the topmost tier. She smiled at the wife of a cavalry Colonel, knowing that the woman eagerly spread gossip about her. ‘Your husband’s piles are better, dear Jeanette? Or is he riding to battle in a cart again?’ She did not wait for an answer, but climbed on upwards then waited as her maid spread cushions on the bench. She felt in her reticule for some coins and nodded towards one of the pastry sellers. ‘I want some of the lemon pastries.’
‘My Lady.’
She sat. She carried a small ivory spyglass. There was little to be seen on the plain. The killing ground was hidden from her beyond the Arinez Hill. On a lower ridge that was closer to the city she could see troops drawn up in close order. Over their heads floated the great purple and white banner that told her they were King Joseph’s household guards.
She wondered where General Verigny was. He had left her eagerly, exhilarated at the thought of battle. With victory this day, he assured her, Pierre Ducos would be defeated. Joseph would keep the Spanish throne and La Marquesa’s wagons could be taken from the Inquisitor. Helene had smiled at her lover. ‘And what if we lose today?’
‘Lose? We can’t lose!’
Just days before, she reflected, the French army had expected nothing but retreat and the abandonment of Spain. Suddenly, with a volatility brought by news of Napoleon’s victories, the army was replete with confidence. Today, they were sure, they would revenge themselves on Wellington.
It was all so unexpected. At Burgos she had tried to persuade Richard Sharpe to betray his honour in order to defeat Ducos’ scheming. She wondered whether Sharpe would have signed the parole, then dismissed the thought because he was dead and the question was irrelevant. Instead King Joseph was fighting for his throne and victory today would mean an end of bribing Spaniards for favours. France would crush Spain again. The world would watch an Empire rear back to greatness.
A Captain, in the green and pink uniform of General Verigny’s regiment, appeared at the bottom of the steps. He had one arm in a sling, and one eye’bandaged. He limped. He could not fight this day and he had been ordered to attend on La Marquesa instead. It was typical of General Verigny, La Marquesa thought, to make sure that her escort was of an unbelievable ugliness. She raised her fan, caught his eye, and smiled as he joined her. ‘You’re looking for me, Captain?’
‘Are not we all, my dear lady?’ He bowed over her hand, kissed the gloved fingers, and smiled. ‘Captain Saumier, at your obedient service.’
He really was extraordinarily ugly, with a face like a grumpy toad. ‘Do sit down, Captain. You must be desolated not to be fighting today?’
‘There’ll be other days, my Lady, but this one is yours, flow can a man regret such a thing?’
‘So prettily said. A lemon pastry?’
She sent the maid for more, and ordered wine to be brought from her coach. ‘How did you fetch your wounds, Captain?’
‘Falling from the balcony of a lady. Her husband objected.’
No doubt, La Marquesa thought, at his wife’s egregious taste. She waved her fan at the battlefield. ‘You must tell me what is happening, Captain.’
She could see the small clouds of musket smoke on the Puebla Heights. Captain Saumier borrowed her glass, stared through it for a few seconds, and delivered himself of the opinion that Wellington was attacking on the Heights because he dared not attack on the.plain.
‘But if they take the hills,’ she paused as her maid brought her the fresh pastries and wine, ‘won’t they have to come down to the plain?’
‘Oh indeed, my Lady. How very true!’
‘And what happens then?’
‘We beat them with the guns.’ Saumier grinned, showing long, yellow teeth.
‘As simple as that?’
Saumier smiled. ‘War is simple.’
‘No wonder men like it so much.’ She smiled. ‘Perhaps Wellington will do something you don’t expect?’
Captain Saumier shook his head. He subscribed to the view commonly held in the French army, a view he stated now with manly certainty to reassure this nervous, beautiful, wide-eyed woman. ‘Wellington can’t attack. He puts up a reasonable defence, my Lady, but he can’t attack.’
‘You were at Assaye?’
‘Assaye?’
She did not enlighten him. ‘Argaum?’
He shrugged.
She smiled. ‘Salamanca?’
Saumier smiled. ‘These are most excellent pastries, my Lady.’
‘I’m so glad you like them, and I’m so looking forward to your enlightenment today, Captain. It’s so rare to watch a battle with a guide beside one.’
Saumier had been told by his General that the Marquesa was intelligent and well informed. He rather feared that he would be enlightened this day. ‘You’re comfortable, my Lady?’
‘Eminently.’ She turned from him and trained the glass on the Puebla Heights. She could see nothing of interest. The battle was being fought below the skyline. She hoped, she hoped passionately, for a French victory this day, or else the wealth that she had accumulated so carefully and with such good planning would be lost. She remembered her lover’s certainty, and took heart that Captain Saumier was also so replete with assurance. It seemed that the French army were sure of their coming triumph. No one had ever beaten Wellington in battle, but neither had Wellington ever fought an army commanded by Marshal Jourdan. She ate her pastry, accepted a glass of wine, and hoped for victory.
Her hope that was devoutly shared this day by Don Jose, by the grace of God, King of Castile, of Aragon, of the Two Sicilies, of Jerusalem, of Navarre, of Granada, of Toledo, of Valencia, of Galicia, of Majorca, of Minorca, of Seville, of Sardinia, of Corsica, of Cordoba, of Murcia, of Santiago, of the Algarves, of Algeciras, of Gibraltar, of the Canary Islands, of the East and West Indies, of the Ocean Islands; Archduke of Austria; Duke of Burgundy, of Brabant and of Milan; Count of Hapsburg, Tyrol and Barcelona; Sire of Biscay and of Molina. The titles were ones he had given to himself. His younger brother, who was the Emperor of France, merely called him Joseph Bonaparte, King of Spain and the Indies.
