Arthur thrust his arm out towards the retreating French soldiers. ‘But, sir, we already dominate them.You have but to give the word and we can run them to ground and compel Junot to surrender.’ He paused as he swiftly considered the best way to change Sir Harry’s mind.‘Think of the glory, sir. The man who forces Junot to surrender will be the hero of the hour.’

‘And the man who throws caution to the wind and leads the army to disaster will be the villain in perpetuity, Wellesley. I will not be that man. Besides, we should wait and see what Sir Hew Dalrymple decides.’

‘With respect, sir, Sir Hew is not here. If he was, then I am sure he would seize such a fine opportunity to destroy the enemy.’

‘Enough, Wellesley,’ Sir Harry said curtly. ‘I have made my decision. There will be no pursuit. We will wait for General Dalrymple and the rest of the reinforcements.’

Arthur stared at his superior for a moment. His heart was crying out with frustration and despair, but there was nothing he could do. Sir Harry was the ranking officer, and his word was final. Trying hard to hide his feelings, Arthur turned away and gazed towards the escaping French. All around him he heard the cheers of his men, but there was no joy in his heart.

Chapter 46

Chapter 46

The following afternoon Arthur visited the wounded in the makeshift hospital in Vimeiro. Even though the hard-pressed medical orderlies were doing their best to treat the men’s wounds and find them shelter from the sun’s searing heat, the cries and groans of the soldiers were pitiful and there were constant demands for water. All the while more casualties were being brought in from the battlefield, men who had been lying in the sun the previous day, left through the night and into the following morning. Many were suffering from sunstroke and were delirious, their cracked lips trembling as they babbled incoherently. As he moved from one room to the next in the small monastery Arthur was assailed by evidence of the true horrors of war. And it was not just the sight of the shattered limbs and bloodied dressings that caused him distress, it was the stench of urine, faeces, vomit and corrupted wounds that assaulted him.

As he emerged into the courtyard of the monastery Arthur breathed deeply to expel the foul vapours that had filled his lungs. He turned to Somerset. ‘See to it that those men are fed and watered properly. They are to be made as comfortable as possible while they recover.’ He paused. ‘If they don’t recover, at least they shall be comforted as far as possible in the time left to them.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Somerset replied.

Arthur noted the tremor in his young aide’s voice and turned to look at him directly. ‘The face of battle is grimmer than you had ever imagined, eh?’