Chapter 15 #2
“Not likely, though I take it as a compliment that Napoleon has sent an army to catch just three English ladies. Perhaps, Darcy, we should send for Aunt Catherine—if Georgiana and Miss Bennet require a division to be taken, perhaps Lady Catherine would rout the whole of Napoleon’s armies in Spain.
” Fitzwilliam laughed, but his voice held no mirth.
Darcy said nothing, watching the French. He noted the artillery pieces, lined up outside the city wall—he counted fifty guns. He saw the wagons, the endless lines of shivering conscripts, the officers striding among them.
“It is more than just Caffarelli,” he said, “there are too many guns for one division. Is that not Bonnet’s pennant also?”
Fitzwilliam cursed again. “Pardon, Miss Bennet, I did not see you there.”
“It is nothing, Colonel,” said Elizabeth, “but would two divisions be tasked with fighting Santoclides’s army in Galicia? Even I cannot think that is the purpose of the French.”
A flock of crows rose from a copse near the river, startled by some movement below.
Darcy followed the line of the road, saw a patrol of French dragoons picking their way through the ruins of an orchard, muskets slung, swords loose in their scabbards.
They looked cold and sullen, but alert. They had not come here to rest.
Fitzwilliam cursed again, louder this time. “This is wrong,” he said. “It is all wrong. The last intelligence we received in England was that Bonnet was content to stay in Santander and leave the fight to Marmont’s Army of Portugal.”
Don Mateo grinned, showing broken teeth.
“The French are clever, Colonel. But not clever enough to keep their heads when the knives come out. My men can harry their supply lines, strike at their foragers. We can make them bleed for every loaf of bread. I do not fear these armies, for they will surely starve, for there is little forage in the plains around León.”
Fitzwilliam scowled. “You are correct, Don Mateo. They cannot remain here for very long. I feel there is some trickery that Lord Wellington has not anticipated.”
“They are here for a reason,” muttered Darcy. “We must find out what it is.”
Below them, the city stirred. Church bells rang, thin and tuneless. Darcy saw women at the wells, children darting through the streets. The French moved among them, not quite at ease—occupiers, not conquerors. There was a tension in the air, a sense of something about to break.
Don Mateo rose, brushing dirt from his knees. “Give me a day, Colonel. I will send my best men into the city. They will learn what Bonnet and Caffarelli are about.”
Fitzwilliam hesitated, then nodded. “Do it, Mateo. But be careful. If the French catch your men, there will be no mercy.”
The Spaniard’s grin widened. “There is never mercy, Colonel. Not in this war.”
Darcy watched the French camp, his mind racing. Caffarelli’s presence at León was a puzzle, a piece out of place. The French were not fools—they would not have sent an entire army here unless there was something worth defending. Or something worth attacking.
He looked south, where the partisans had spoken of Wellington and the French Marshal, Marmont, marching across the plains, almost within sight of each other, each searching for ground of their own choosing, in order to win a decisive victory.
Don Mateo slipped away, vanishing into the trees like a wraith. Fitzwilliam stood with his arms folded, staring at the distant fires, his face bleak.
“Colonel, do we remain here?” Elizabeth tore her gaze from the French camp. “We are exposed, and Georgiana and Lydia are close to exhaustion. They are doing well, but the traverse of the ridge was extremely tiring.”
Darcy’s thoughts snapped back to the present company; thoughts of French armies were the least of their present worries. “Richard, we should move off the ridge. To the east, there are some ruins, mayhap a place to make camp. It is below the ridge, out of sight of León—and out of the wind.”
* * *
The morning brought Don Mateo and news—but nothing good.
“My men could not get into the camp; none but soldiers may enter. Their security is very tight. A young boy tried to sneak a piece of bread from their bakery—he was caught—” Tears glistened in Don Mateo’s eyes.
“I am a hard man, Colonel, but he was only a boy! They are animals, pigs—I will castrate them all!”
Colonel Fitzwilliam slapped his thigh in frustration. “If a boy cannot enter… surely they must collect fodder for the horses. And wine? An army of this size, twenty thousand men, must have the thirst of the Irish.”
“No, senor, only whores and their pimps are allowed to enter,” said Don Mateo.
“The pimps are closely guarded. Were they to ask even one question about the army’s destination, they would be shot, and the women—” he shrugged.
“If the pigs can violate a young boy, I know not what they would do to a woman.”
“Colonel, how important is it to know what General Caffarelli is planning?” asked Elizabeth, who had come to listen to Don Mateo. “You appear to be desperately worried.”
“I know from intelligence I received in England, and from Don Mateo’s partisans, that Lord Wellington intends to force Marshal Marmont to battle, but only on ground of his choosing, likely near Salamanca.”
“Salamanca? Due south of here?” Elizabeth gasped.
“You know of it, Miss Bennet? How so?”
“My gift—or curse, as I have begun to think of it—Simms and Donnelly fight on a hill, the Lesser Arapile. It is a desperate battle.”
Don Mateo stared at Elizabeth with astonishment. “Yes, yes! The Lesser and Greater Arapiles. Senora Bennet, you are a vidente, a seer?” He crossed himself. “Then, surely, you know the purpose of this great army?”
“No, Senor Mateo. It is only if I am close, if a person touches me or I them. My sight also fades with familiarity, over time. I know no more than you and the Colonel as to where the army intends to go—whether to fight Santocildes in Galicia or remain here at León.”
Elizabeth paused, deep in thought. “Does Wellington know of this army, Colonel?”
“No, his intelligence is likely out of date—that Caffarelli remains at Burgos; that Bonnet is on the northern coast. He cannot divert troops to protect his northern flank, for then Marmont would attack him on the west.”
“And if he knew, for certain?” Elizabeth pressed the Colonel.
“Timing, ma’am. If this army were to march tomorrow, and Wellington were warned, then he could turn, force Marmont to battle, then hurry to reinforce the bridges across the Douro at Zamora and Toro.
Likely, a very close thing. Yet, if he were to delay just one day, it could mean defeat for the British, perhaps retreat to Portugal. All the gains of the past year lost.”
Darcy stared at her. Whatever was she thinking? “No, you cannot!” he cried, but Elizabeth had already turned to Don Mateo.
“Senor, have you a man who will accompany me? And, perchance some clothing suitable for—what did you say—una ramera, a whore?”
“No, Elizabeth, I forbid it! You cannot be serious?” Darcy clutched her arm, desperate to stop her madness.
“My apologies, Mr. Darcy, but I could not live with myself if Wellington were to lose, if Portugal were to fall once again under the tyrant’s rule.
How many young men, young women would die merely because I sought safety, returning to the peace of Hertfordshire, drinking tea, reading La Belle Assemblée and laughing at puffed sleeves and daring ball gowns showing my ankles? ”
“Senora Bennet, you speak French and Spanish?”
“I am fluent in French, a little Spanish—some Asturian that I have learnt over the past few days. Enough, I believe, to pass through the gates—though my chestnut hair is uncommon, it is not unknown. Perhaps your man is already familiar with the camp? I will not think the less of him, or his ladies. War is a difficult time, especially for women.”
* * *