Chapter 13
Salamanca
Elizabeth stumbled as she picked her way through the chaos, her feet numb and raw.
Walking one hundred and twenty miles from León had been a trial.
They had marched at the double for five days—six paces at a fast march and six at a jog.
Then repeated, again and again and again, until the blessed heat of the day stopped them for a few blissful hours, until the sun waned, the air cooled, and they were running once again.
She had lost count of the miles; her boots had surrendered to the stones somewhere after Benavente, and she had bound her feet in strips of linen torn off her petticoat, but even that was scant comfort.
Now, the pain had long since gone, her feet calloused, cracked, and stained with dirt.
Each evening, she would unbind them, wash them with a little of the harsh aguardiente that had been thrust into her hands as they passed through a small village.
They lived on food given freely by the poorest of people.
Don Mateo’s name was well known; men came to clasp his hand, embrace him in the Spanish style.
Colonel Fitzwilliam was regarded with respect, wearing the red-coat and epaulettes of a British officer.
Young men would come to gaze in longing at the long barrels of the hard-eyed riflemen.
Occasionally, Donnelly would spy a hare in the distance, its ears twitching, four hundred yards—a quarter mile—away.
He would send a child to gather the carcass for their family, and then walk on, his rifle already reloaded with powder and shot.
The men stared as Elizabeth passed; some women turned away.
She was not blind to it; even exhausted, her cheeks flushed with more than sunburn.
The clothing of a Spanish maja—bright skirt, short jacket, black lace mantilla, her long chestnut hair drawn back in a loose chignon—marked her out as foreign, dangerous, and alluring in equal measure.
The sprawling camp shimmered in a haze of dust and heat.
A town of canvas and smoke, with every acre of ground pressed into service: lines of white bell tents, picketed horses stamping and swishing their tails, and fires guttering in blackened pits.
The air was thick with the sharp tang of sweat, the sourness of unwashed bodies, and the ever-present drift of gunpowder from the range where redcoats drilled ceaselessly.
Elizabeth’s eyes—shadowed by fatigue—flashed defiance at those who dared to call after her.
The riflemen, Donnelly and Simms, walked close at her heels, their Baker rifles slung but hands always ready.
Don Mateo, tall and gaunt, shot a glare at a group of redcoats too bold in their admiration, and the men melted away with muttered curses.
Colonel Fitzwilliam led the way, his uniform stained and travel-worn, but there was nothing weary in his bearing.
He moved through the camp with the natural authority of a man accustomed to command, barking a sharp word at a pair of loitering corporals who blocked the path, pressing forward towards the great tent at the camp’s heart.
There, on a rise overlooking the River Tormes, stood the command marquee—larger than any other, its guy ropes staked tight and a sentry at its door, bayonet glinting in the sunlight.
They passed the surgeons’ tent, where the sick and wounded sprawled on makeshift cots—faces grey, limbs swaddled in filthy bandages. A cart rumbled by, axle squealing, loaded with powder barrels and grease-pots for the wheels.
The dust was everywhere—so thick it coated the inside of the mouth, turned sweat to mud on the skin, and set the men coughing as they drilled or rolled barrels or merely sat, staring listlessly at the horizon.
It swirled around Elizabeth’s skirts, streaked her legs, and clung to the folds of her mantilla.
The flies came with it, drawn by the stench of offal and spilled ale, their wings a constant, maddening drone.
A drummer boy, no more than twelve, watched her with wide eyes, stick frozen in mid-beat.
Two Spanish cavalrymen, their sabres slung and faces masked by days in the saddle, nudged each other and grinned as she passed.
“Mira la maja,” one breathed, not quite under his breath, and his companion leered openly.
“Keep moving,” Fitzwilliam snapped in Spanish, his voice like a whip. The riflemen closed ranks, Don Mateo’s hand tightening on the hilt of his knife. Elizabeth kept her chin high, eyes fixed on the marquee.
At last, they reached the sentry, who eyed them all with suspicion, gaze lingering on Elizabeth before snapping to Fitzwilliam’s insignia. With a begrudging nod, he stepped aside, and Fitzwilliam ducked through the flap, motioning the others to follow.
Inside, the air was blessedly cool, filtered through layers of canvas.
A single table stood at the centre, covered in maps and dispatches.
At its head sat Lord Wellington, his posture deceptively relaxed, a half-eaten biscuit resting on a plate beside his elbow.
His eyes, cold and sharp as flint, took in the newcomers in a heartbeat—a flicker of recognition for Fitzwilliam, a raised brow at the sight of Elizabeth.
Beside him, his adjutant scribbled notes, oblivious to the dust and noise outside. The general’s pen paused mid-sentence as he regarded the party.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam,” he said, voice clipped and precise. “I did not expect you.” He turned to Don Mateo. “You may take your ramera. Or is she the Colonel’s woman?”
Elizabeth, worn to breaking point, stepped forward and slapped Wellington hard across his face. There was a deadly stillness in the air, the chill enough to freeze water.
The adjutant made to stand, but Don Mateo’s knife was at his throat before he had risen an inch. Colonel Fitzwilliam’s hand was on the hilt of his sword, now released from its scabbard, a finger’s width of dull, honed metal glinting in the chill light of the tent.
“You. Will. Apologise. My. Lord. “ he hissed. “If I am forced to draw my sword, then you, sir, will defend yourself. Now!”
Wellington stared. Never before had a subordinate officer dared to challenge him. There was a cold contempt in the Spaniard’s face. Damnation!
“A glass of wine would be very welcome, my lord. And perhaps your adjutant could fetch me a chair, for we have just now come from León and I am bone-weary.” Her voice was soft, melodious, out of place in this camp of dirt and sweat and flies.
“Ma’am, is all well with ye in there?” A hard, weathered man looked through the flap of the tent, peering intently at the lady, scowling at the General.
“Donnelly, if you would, let us have some privacy—no one is to enter.”
Wellington heard the unmistakable sound of flintlock rifles being cocked. “Harrumph. Crawley, some wine for our guests, a chair for the lady.”
The tension in the room eased. Don Mateo’s knife disappeared, Fitzwilliam stepped back from the table. “Sir, it is my honour to present Miss Bennet, and Don Mateo… the General Lord Wellington.”
Elizabeth curtsied, then sank wearily into a canvas chair that the adjutant had placed near her. Chairs were also brought for Don Mateo and the Colonel.
Lord Wellington’s gaze lingered on Elizabeth—God, she was beautiful!—yet he kept his expression inscrutable. He picked up his biscuit, considered it, and set it aside. “You have travelled far, Miss Bennet. How came you from León?”
Elizabeth, gathering herself, managed a smile that was more pride than warmth. “Easy, my lord? Only if one counts hunger, exhaustion, and the occasional misplaced gallantry among your officers as nothing extraordinary.”
A faint smile ghosted across the general’s lips—gone as swiftly as it had come. “Not many English ladies find themselves so deep in Spain, nor so quick to take offence.”
“She is here by necessity, not choice,” Colonel Fitzwilliam interjected, his tone polite but edged with warning. “And her courage, I think, should speak for itself.”
Don Mateo, fingers drumming idly on the table’s edge, inclined his head. “Senora Isabella has endured what many men could not.”
Wellington’s eyes flicked from one to the other; his adjutant scribbled notes with nervous haste. “Very well. You come from León, you say. What news? Speak freely—my patience grows thin, and Marmont grows bolder with each passing day.”
The Colonel leant forward. “Caffarelli and Bonnet have joined forces at León—they have reformed Napoleon’s Army of the North. They have cavalry in strength, and over fifty guns.”
Wellington leant back in his chair, a smug look on his face. “Their intention? Perhaps they wish to prevent Santoclides from laying to siege to the garrison at Astorga?”
“No, General. They are already marching—the vanguard has reached Benavente. Their intention is a pincer, to trap you between Marmont to the south, Souham to the west, and their army from the north. They know the bridges at Zamora and Toro are only lightly defended.” Elizabeth was tired, too tired to argue with a recalcitrant general who was unaccustomed to being wrong.
Wellington’s jaw tightened. “Miss Bennet—five days from León, three days from Benavente? You could not possibly know the French are there!”
“Senor, you will listen, for much is at stake,” interrupted Don Mateo quietly. “Please, send for Major Hurley, your intelligence officer. Then, you both must listen to Senora Isabella. She speaks the truth, and you disdain her at your army’s peril.”
“Humbugged, by God!” Wellington slammed his fist on the table. “What say you, Hurley? We last heard that Bonnet was still on the north coast near Santander.”
“Indeed, my lord,” said Major Hurley, wryly. “We have been tricked, bluffed, chicaned, flimflammed—all words more suitable for the ear of a lady. Yet, Miss Bennet has given us further vital information as to how we can act: this Colonel Dumoustier retreats from Zamora.”
“Ah, indeed he does.” Wellington turned to Fitzwilliam. “Can he cross elsewhere? Is there a ford?”
“Only deep fords, certainly not suitable for heavy guns, likewise wagons. If I may, my lord. It might be best to blow the bridges; then you could bring Marmont to battle. A small force at Zamora could prevent their repair, until you can bring up a division.”
Elizabeth dozed; she had said all she could.
Already Dumoustier’s future memories were fading.
Now, it was up to the General to plan his attack on Marmont; then turn to squeeze the Army of the North between his forces and those of General Santoclides from the west. The French, forced to flee north with little water and forage, would be unable to prevent Wellington’s march on Madrid.
“Miss Bennet, Major Hurley’s wife is here, to take you to her lodgings.” Colonel Fitzwilliam assisted Elizabeth to stand. A woman, perhaps the same age as her Aunt Gardiner, stepped forward and gently took her arm.
“I am Mrs. Hurley, my dear; I hear you walked from León. Come, there’s a clean bed waiting, and, if you would like it, a cup of good English tea.”
“Ma’am, that sounds ever so delightful.” She looked back, but already the Colonel had returned to the maps spread across the table.
Don Mateo nodded a goodbye—it was likely that as soon as she was able, Senora Isabella would make the journey across the mountains to Porto in Portugal, and thence return to England.
He watched her leave. If it were not for this accursed war, he would follow, court her, bring her back to Asturias—birth beautiful chestnut-haired daughters, with a laugh like tinkling bells, so fleet of foot—and in the evenings… It was not to be.
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