The monastery was on the edge of the town, set into the sturdy wall that ringed the town. General Beresford’s chief surgeon commanded a small team of overworked orderlies who did what they could for over a thousand of their comrades wounded at Albuera. As Arthur and Somerset entered the refectory they saw that the long tables and benches had been pushed to the sides and the vast open space was now crowded with row upon row of wounded British soldiers. Their limbs were wrapped with soiled bandages and hundreds of them had suffered amputation of an arm or a leg, and now lay in miserable contemplation of a life of begging and reliance on others. Many were groaning or crying out in pain, or were tormented by hunger and thirst, since the medical orderlies had no time to see to their needs as they dealt with the more seriously wounded.

‘This is a disgrace,’ Somerset muttered as he scanned the dim interior of the monastery, and wrinkled his nose at the smell of the soldiers who had soiled themselves and now lay in their own filth. ‘Why aren’t there more men assisting the surgeon’s team?’

‘I suspect that our friend Beresford has been too preoccupied to consider these men’s needs. That must change.’

‘My lord . . . sir . . .’ a voice called hoarsely. Arthur turned and saw a young corporal staring at him from one of the few mattresses the monks had been able to spare for the soldiers imposed on them. ‘Sir, a drink. For pity’s sake.’

Arthur nodded and turned to Somerset. ‘Find this man some water, or small beer.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Arthur found a stool and eased himself down beside the corporal. For a moment he said nothing, and then, as the soldier turned his head slowly to face him, he saw that a blast of grape had mutilated the other half of his face, which was now a mass of dried blood and purple flesh.

‘What is your regiment?’ Arthur asked.

The corporal licked his lips. ‘Twenty-ninth Foot, my lord.’

‘How did the Twenty-ninth fare?’

The corporal gestured to the rows of men surrounding him. ‘Most of ’em are from the same regiment, sir. We were pretty badly cut about.’

Arthur looked round at the casualties before he continued in a muted voice, ‘By God, I am so sorry to see so many of you wounded.’

The corporal nodded. ‘If you had been commanding us, my lord, then there wouldn’t have been so many of us lying here.’

Chapter 21 - Badajoz, 9 June 1811

Chapter 21

Badajoz, 9 June 1811