Jourdan had glimpsed Wellington once, glimpsed him through a ragged hole in the smoke curtain and he had watched his opponent calmly dressing the line of a British Battalion. A General had no business doing that, Jourdan thought, and what made it worse was that the Battalion had then thrown the French from the southern flank of the Arinez Hill.
Marshal Jourdan, his great guns outflanked and his infantry defeated, had been thrown back on his second line. If the new line, and if the troops across the river from Gamarra Mayor both held, then all was not lost. Indeed a victory could still be his, but he had the horrid sensation of control slipping from his hands. He shouted for information, demanding to know where General Gazan’s troops were, and no one could tell him. He sent aides galloping into the smoke and they did not come back, or if they did they had no news, and Jourdan felt a shrinking horror that the second line was not complete, and what there was of it was suffering terribly from the enemy guns.
Suffering because Wellington had done what Wellington was reputed never to do. He had taken a leaf from the Emperor’s book and concentrated his artillery and now the British, Portuguese and Spanish guns were pounding from Arinez Hill, pounding and pounding, stopping a man thinking, and carving great furrows of blood through the waiting French infantry.
King Joseph, his horse nervous, came close to Jourdan. `Jean-Baptiste?’
Jourdan frowned. He hated his Christian names, he hated the familiarity that he knew was being used to disguise fear. `Sir?’
`Should we advance?’
Christ on his bloody cross! Jourdan almost snarled at his monarch, but bit the blasphemy back. He forced himself to look calm, knowing that the eyes of the staff were on him. `We shall let our guns gnaw at him a bit, sir.’ Jesus wept! Advance? Jourdan spurred his horse away from the King, noting wryly that the royal coach was ready for flight, coachman aloft and postilions mounted on horses. The truth was that Wellington conducted the music of battle now, god-damned Wellington, and Jourdan was praying that his men would hold on long enough to let him dream up a response. Troops! He needed fresh troops. `Moreau! Moreau!’ He called for an aide. There must be reserves somewhere! There must be!
The afternoon had come, and it had brought an artillery duel on the plain. Jourdan shouted for more troops, but he knew his enemy, behind the curtain of smoke, was regrouping for a new attack. He demanded news, always news, and he asked for reassurance from staff officers who could not give it. Panic was beginning to infect the French command, while behind their guns the British prepared a new attack. The infantry were in their ranks, fresh cartridges issued, an army readying itself for victory.
On the walls of the city the ladies watched. They frowned when the carts brought the bloodied wounded back from the battle, but they believed the handsome cavalry officers who came to give them news. Jourdan, the cavalry officers said, had merely pulled his line back to give the guns more room. There was nothing to be worried about, nothing. One woman asked what happened to the north, and an officer reassured her that it was merely a few enemy who had come to the river and were learning the power of French guns. The officers caught the flowers tossed to them by the women, gallantly fixed the blooms to shining, plumed helmets, and trotted away through Vitoria’s suburbs leaving the womens’ hearts fluttering.
Captain Saumier knew that Marshals of France did not yield ground to give the guns space. `Are you packed, my Lady?’ His voice was low.
`Packed?’
`In case we have to retreat.’
La Marquesa stared at the ugly man. `You’re serious?’
`I am, my Lady.’
She knew defeat. If Sharpe had still lived, she thought, she would have been tempted to stay in Vitoria in the sure knowledge that Sharpe would dare to do what General Verigny dared not; snatch her wagons back from the Inquisitor. But Sharpe was dead, and she dared not stay. She consoled herself that in her coach, prudently concealed beneath the driver’s bench, there were jewels enough to save her from utter poverty in France. She shrugged. `There’s still time, surely?’