A very handsome man, Jean Herault, and made even more handsome by his gorgeous uniform. There were girls across Europe who sighed at the memory of Herault, the slim cavalryman who had ridden into town, broken their hearts and ridden out, but Herault was much more than a handsome young hero on a horse. He was also clever. And he was lucky. And he was brave.
Herault had led a charge at Albuhera that had destroyed a British battalion, and even though that battle had been lost, Herault had emerged covered in glory. It was a glory that had been enhanced in the battles against Ballesteros’s Spaniards, and Soult had promoted the young cavalry officer to command all the Army of the South’s horsemen, and Herault had led them brilliantly. He had done the dull work well, and that was an even more impressive achievement than doing the brave work gloriously. Any fool could be a hero if he had daring enough, but it took a clever man to do war’s day-to-day chores well, and Herault’s cavalry patrolled and scouted and manned an outpost line that was forever under assault by partisans, and Herault had made sure they did it aggressively and efficiently. He had even persuaded his men not to treat every Spanish peasant as an enemy, for doing so only made them into enemies, and for the first time in Spain Soult was beginning to receive information from civilians, information that was freely given instead of extracted by torture. Herault had achieved that.
Now Herault had to capture the bridge at San Miguel de Tormes, and even before he left Toledo he had given the problem a deal of thought. He had even managed to impress Pierre Ducos, and that was quite an achievement, for Ducos believed most soldiers were pig-headed fools. “The danger,”
Herault explained to the Major who was not really a Major, “is going through the mountains.”
“Because of the guerilleros?” Ducos asked, “so travel at night.”
“But however fast we travel, Major, they will still outrun us and so give warning to this fortlet at San Miguel,” Herault tapped the map, “and the fort’s garrison will send to Salamanca for reinforcements, and we shall arrive and find a small army waiting for us.” He frowned, staring at the map and tapping his teeth with a pencil. “Avila,” he said after a while, prodding the town with the pencil. It lay well to the east of San Miguel, high in the hills.
“Avila?” Ducos asked.
“If I march towards Avila it will draw the guerilleros like flies to a corpse. And I shall send a vanguard, say three hundred infantry? We give the bastards a victory, Major, by sacrificing those three hundred men on the Avila road, and when the guerilleros are busy destroying them, the rest of us will go straight across the hills.” He slashed the pencil over the map. “My two thousand cavalrymen will go first, and we shall ride like demons, Major. Any horse that falls will be left, its rider abandoned. We will ride straight for San Miguel, and you will follow with the infantry.
It will take the footsoldiers two days, less if General Michaud forces them hard, and we shall hold the bridge at San Miguel until you come.”
Michaud would force the infantry hard. Ducos would see to that, using all the Emperor’s surrogate authority to make Michaud crack the whip. “But what about the British reinforcements from Salamanca?” Ducos asked.
“Suppose they arrive before Michaud?”
“They won’t know where to go, Major,” Herault said, “because I won’t just wait for Michaud to catch up. I shall send cavalry all across the plain, right to the gates of Ciudad Rodrigo. We shall burn supplies, ambush convoys, kill every small garrison. We shall set southern Castile afire, Major, and the British will march in circles trying to find us.” He let the map roll up.
“And what does the infantry do?”
“It stays at San Miguel, of course. To protect our retreat.”
Ducos approved. Madrid would be saved, Marmont’s retreat could end, and the British would be forced back to the Portuguese border, only to discover that their enemy had vanished into the hills. It was an audacious plan, brilliant even, and proof to Ducos that a few brave men could change the course of a war. Herault, he thought, must be recommended to the Emperor, and he wrote the general’s name in his small black notebook and added a star which was Ducos’s code for a man who might well deserve swift promotion.