Beyond the Sunrise (30 page)

Her fingers were moving lightly over his head.

“You were a sweet and gentle boy,” she said. “But you were not weak. You were incredibly strong. Most men would have put up with a great deal of degradation and many insults too for the comforts of the privileged life you were offered. But you gave it all up so that you could retain your integrity and your dignity. And then you made for yourself a life that you could be proud of.”

She made him sound like a bloody saint, he thought with lazy amusement.

“I was stunned when I realized that the two Roberts in my life were one and the same person,” she said. “I could scarcely believe it at first. For so long I had thought you dead. And you looked and seemed very different from the boy of my memory. But it is fitting that you are one and the same. I am glad that you are, and I am glad that you grew into the man you have become. I am glad you lived. Did you know that you are a hero to your men and very popular with them? Allan—the young private you set to guard me—looks upon you as some sort of god. And you are highly respected at headquarters. You have done wonderfully well, and all on your own, without anyone's help at all.”

Her fingers continued to smooth through his hair.

“Robert?” she whispered after several moments of silence.

But there was no answer.

“And I love the man quite as dearly as I loved the boy,” she said, her voice no louder than a murmur. “More so. For now I know how
hard love is to find, just how difficult it is to find a man worthy to be loved. I will always love you, no matter what happens tomorrow.”

Captain Robert Blake slept on.

*   *   *

There
was something almost eerie about the predawn scene. Thousands of men were woken without the aid of bugles and adjusted their clothing and checked their firearms and ate a cold and hurried breakfast with almost no sound at all beyond the inevitable rustlings and bustlings. There was no sign of open fear, only of a heightened awareness, of a suppressed excitement.

The tents had been dismantled and taken back to the rear. The women who had come up to spend the night with their men were kissing them good-bye without fuss or hysteria and were also taking themselves back.

Joana watched all the activity as if she were a long way off, as if she were not part of it at all. But then she was not. And she hated her lack of involvement. For she felt sick and mortally afraid, feelings that she despised in herself and usually went out of her way to avoid. If only she were preparing for battle alongside the men, she felt, she would not be afraid.

Whoever had decreed that women should not fight was stupid in the extreme, she thought.

The same young private was to guard her that day too. Captain Blake was giving him instructions, crisply, impersonally, as if she meant nothing to him whatsoever, as if she were nothing more than his prisoner. She wondered if the soldier minded missing the battle, if he resented her. He looked proud enough of himself, as if his captain had singled him out for a deed of extraordinary valor.

She tried to fill her mind with such details and thoughts. She
tried to ignore the ball of panic that was lodged deep in her stomach.

And then it was time to go. And time for him to go.

“Joana,” he said, looking at her at last. Dawn had still not provided them with enough light to see each other clearly. And there was a mist. He was his granite self, she thought, looking at him too at last. “Go with Private Higgins. And remember your promise of yesterday, if you please. I shall see you later.”

The ball in her stomach exploded and she found herself fighting her legs and her breathing. She wondered if this was what women called the vapors. She lifted her chin and looked steadily at him.

“Until later,” she said, and she gave him her most dazzling smile before turning away.

He was swinging his rifle up onto his shoulder when she whirled back to face him again. “Robert,” she said, and she did not care that the young private was there beside her listening, and perhaps half a dozen other men within earshot. “I love you. I want you to know that.”
In case you never return.

His hand stilled on his rifle. His whole body stilled and tensed. And then he nodded curtly, unsmilingly, and turned and strode away.

“Well.” She laughed lightly. “One has to say such things when a man is going into battle, Allan. Now, where are you going to lead me? I hope not right back to the baggage carts and the other women. It would be tedious to hear no news of the battle as it is fought, would it not?”

“Yes, ma'am,” he said.

She smiled at him. “You would hate that, would you not?” she said. “You came here to be a part of it all and would be justly annoyed if a mere woman kept you so far beyond the action that you did not even know what was happening. Some of your friends might even call you coward. That would be quite unjust, would it not?”

“Yes, ma'am,” he said uncertainly. “But I am following orders. I am proud to follow Captain Blake's orders.”

“Of course you are,” she said. “And tonight he will be proud of you. For you will have done your job well. I shall even make it easy for you by not trying to escape. I would not do so, you know. I must stay here to see his safe return. I meant what I said to him just now, you see.” She smiled confidentially at him.

“Yes, ma'am,” he said.

The boy was falling under her spell. She knew that if her next statement had been “Black is white, you know,” he would have replied, “Yes, ma'am.” And she had to ruthlessly press her advantage. She would die of boredom and frustration—and fear—if she had to spend the day right at the rear with the supplies and the baggage and the women. She would not know how the battle went and she would not know how Robert did. And she would be far from the French army. It was just beginning fully to dawn on her that the French army would be close throughout the day.

Perhaps she would have one more chance . . . But, no, she must not expect as much. It would be too good to be true. Besides, she still did not have either her musket or her knife. The former was over Private Higgins's left shoulder, balancing the rifle over his right. The latter was probably still in Robert's belt.

“I think,” she said when they were in the no-man's-land between the front and the baggage train, “this would be a good place to stop, Allan. From here we can watch the action for ourselves, or what can be seen of it from this side of the hill, anyway.”

She stopped and gazed back up the way they had come, to where the thin lines of the British and Portuguese infantry were forming in two lines just behind the crest of the hill. But very little could be seen. The darkness was only just beginning to lift, but the mist had not yet decided to follow suit. Whom would the mist favor? she wondered, and she felt that unfamiliar fear clutch at her again as she
pictured Robert, out in front of the lines with his skirmishers, unable to see exactly who or what was advancing on them.

“But if the French take the hill, ma'am,” Private Higgins said, “you will be in danger. You will be safer farther back.”

“But, Allan”—she turned the full force of her charm on him—“I have complete faith in the courage and strength of our gallant men. Don't you? Of course they will hold back Marshal Massena's men. And if by some chance they do not, then you will protect me.” She set a hand lightly on his sleeve. “I have complete trust in you. Were you not personally chosen by Captain Blake? I know you would distinguish yourself in my defense.”

He gazed at her with the same worship in his eyes as she had seen there the day before for Robert. Poor boy, she thought. He had probably completely forgotten that he was to guard her as a prisoner and not defend her as his captain's lady.

“We will stay here for a while, then, ma'am,” he said, “until the action gets too hot. Then I shall escort you farther back.” There was a suggestion of a swagger in his voice, Joana noticed.

She had never been near a battlefront, but she imagined that this no-man's-land, crossed from north to south by a wide cart track, would be used later by riders carrying messages back and forth between Lord Wellington and the various divisions. Perhaps she would hear news of what was happening.

But her sense of triumph was swallowed up by fear as she heard distant drums and fifes sounding the advance.

French drums and fifes. Sounding the French advance.

M
ARSHAL
Massena made the mistake of assuming that if Wellington's forces were on the ridge at Bussaco at all, they were concentrated in the northern half of the hills. He did not believe that Wellington would be daring enough to string them out the whole ten-mile length of the ridge. His plan was to launch General Reynier's corps against a low ridge in the center of the hills so that when his men took it they could circle behind the British while Marshal Ney attacked the higher northern front of the hill, up from the road to Coimbra, toward the convent. Marshal Massena intended to surround his enemy.

The first attack came perilously close to success as the French attacked in dense columns behind the brisk skirmishing of their
tirailleurs,
who cleared the hill of British skirmishers. The early-morning mist was in their favor. It was only the dogged determination of the British infantry and the steady courage of the Portuguese, involved in their first pitched battle, and the timely arrival of General Leith's forces, brought up from the idle right, that averted disaster and sent the French columns hurtling back down the hill in disarray, leaving their dead and wounded behind.

Marshal Ney began his attack soon after seven o'clock, sending General Loison's division to take the village of Sula and then to push upward along the paved road to the convent and Ross's battery of twelve guns and the Sula Mill, the allied command post commanded by General Crauford of the Light Division. It was a difficult task, and the lifting of the morning mist gave some of the advantage back to the British.

Joana stood with Private Higgins a little way back from the
lateral track that ran the length of the ridge, behind its crest. All was movement and noise and apparent confusion once the fighting had begun, and she knew all the agony of her own helplessness. In Salamanca there had been danger, but there she had been able to control it, to manipulate it. She had not been afraid. Indeed, if the truth were known, she had enjoyed herself there. Here she felt impotent.

Not only was there nothing for her to do, but there seemed to be no way of knowing how the battle was going. No way of knowing if he were still alive. There was all the frustration of the mist and the top of the ridge, which would have hidden her view of the action even without the mist, and the deafening and terrifying sounds of the drums and the guns, coming all from the south at first.

At the start she made no attempt to stop any of the riders who galloped back and forth along the path, obviously carrying important messages from one command post to another. But she bristled when one yelled in passing.

“Women to the rear!” he roared. “Goddammit, soldier. Get her out of the way.” He rode on without pausing.

Private Higgins coughed nervously. “For your own safety, ma'am . . .” he began.

But the insult had been all Joana had needed to bring her out of the near-paralysis that the sound of the guns had imposed on her. She stepped out onto the path and yelled epithets after the departing and oblivious staff officer that had the poor private gaping in astonishment.

“Men!” she said finally. “God's gift to the animal kingdom. He made such a number of ghastly errors creating them that he had to create women to set all to rights again. Ah, this is better.”

Someone else was galloping toward her, someone she knew. She set her hands on her hips and lifted her chin while Private Higgins,
she could see from the corner of her eye, appeared to be hopping from one foot to the other.

“Jack!” she called in a loud, clear voice.

Major Jack Hanbridge reined in so quickly that his horse reared and he had to fight for a moment to keep his seat. He frowned at the woman who stood her ground on the path, and then peered more closely.

“Joana?” he said at last. “Joana? Is it really you?” His eyes swept over her. “Good Lord. But what in the name of thunder are you doing here? Allow me . . .”

But Joana held up an impatient hand. “Tell me what is going on,” she commanded. “Are we winning?”

“Oh, assuredly,” he said. “You may trust the Beau, Joana. We have sent them back from the center with their tails between their legs. They think to gain the convent here, but Bob Crauford will hold them. And see what awaits them if they do reach the top?” His arm swept a wide arc over his shoulder.

Joana had already seen. Lines of quiet, disciplined infantry had already taken their places behind the skyline. They would send a deadly volley into any Frenchmen unfortunate enough to come charging up over the hill.

“But what on earth are you doing here?” the major asked again. “You must get back, Joana. You should be far from here. Let me—”

“Jack, don't be tiresome,” she said. “The French are fighting their way up this hill, then? Who is stopping them?”

“Oh, they will be stopped,” he said. “Have no fear. We have the best of our skirmishers down there.”

“The Ninety-fifth,” she said, her stomach performing a somersault.

“And the
cacadores
,”
he said. “The very best. Now, let me—”

“And which French forces are coming up?” she asked. “Do you know, Jack?”

“Ney's corps,” he said. “But we will—”

“Ney's?” she said. “Who in particular, Jack?”

“General Loison's division, I believe,” he said. “Joana, I have to go. Is this private your escort? Soldier . . .”

“Yes, yes,” Joana said. “Be on your way, Jack. I would not keep you. I shall be quite safe.”

He looked at her doubtfully and frowned at Private Higgins. But he had already been delayed longer than a minute. He touched his spurs to his horse's sides and galloped off to the south.

General Loison. Colonel Leroux was in his division. Perhaps his battalion was among those coming up the hill. Perhaps, oh, perhaps . . . Joana looked hastily about her. All was businesslike organization. And yet it sounded as if all hell had broken loose beyond the hill. Perhaps Colonel Leroux was just beyond the hill. And Robert was there—amidst all the thunder of the guns and all the deadly smoke. Perhaps he was already dead. Perhaps Colonel Leroux was even now in the process of killing him. Perhaps . . .

Perhaps she would go insane if she had to stay inactive one more minute. No, there was no perhaps about it.

“Allan,” she said, turning on the boy who was her guard. She looked wild, afraid. “Give me my musket. Please give it to me.”

“I can't, ma'am.” He took one step back from her, but she advanced on him.

“You can and you will,” she said. “How would you like to be weaponless at this moment? The French may burst over the hill at any moment, and I am defenseless. And don't tell me that you will defend me or that you will take me back to safety. I am talking about now—this moment. Give me my gun at least. Do you think I am about to take on the whole of our own army with it?
Do
you?”

Private Higgins took one more half-step back. “No, ma'am,” he said.

“Give it to me, then,” she said, her voice trembling. “Captain Blake would not want me dead, I do assure you.”

“But, ma'am,” he said, protesting as she reached out and took her musket, checked it quickly with hands that were somewhat out of practice but nevertheless skilled with the weapon. “But, ma'am . . .”

She felt sorry for him—almost. Robert would crucify him at the very least. But there was no time for conscience. She leveled the musket on the boy, whose eyes widened in a kind of hurt astonishment.

“I am going forward,” she said. “I must see for myself what is happening. You may follow me if you wish, Allan. Or you may shoot me in the back—I shall turn it on you in a moment. But you will not stop me. This is my battle too. It is more my battle than anyone else's, I daresay.”

“But, ma'am . . .” Private Higgins protested, his voice high-pitched and frantic as she turned her back on him and broke into a run. Her back was tense for the first few yards, though she knew that he would not shoot. The noise of the guns was too intense for her to hear whether he shouted anything more at her or whether he was running up behind her. But she would not stop.

She would not stop for anyone or anything. A few of the infantrymen of the Forty-third and Fifty-second, standing in line below the skyline, looked back and saw her. General Crauford saw her and roared something as she passed the mill. And the gunners saw her as she circled past the battery and ran downward into hell.

But no one tried to stop her. No one was going to stop a battle or take any extra risk to prevent a mad peasant woman from hurling herself into certain death.

And strangely, once she was over the brow of the hill and all was noise and smoke, and guns were firing both behind her and in front of her, once she could see the British and Portuguese skirmishers down in the heather and rocks before her, strung out across the hill, firing down on the approaching
tirailleurs,
the masses of the French columns coming up behind them, she felt no more fear at all. Only a heart-pounding excitement and a sharpened awareness.

It was almost as if time were slowed, as if she had all the leisure time in the world to observe details. The British and the Portuguese were on the hillside, quite close. The French had already pushed them back through the village of Sula and were themselves on the
slope. They were moving inexorably upward. Her mind took in the larger picture almost immediately.

She went down onto her stomach behind a boulder. She could shoot only once with her musket. She had no ammunition with which to reload it. She must choose her shot with great care. Not that she had any interest in killing Frenchmen—only one Frenchman. And surely, oh, surely she would not be fortunate enough to see him.

But she saw Robert suddenly below her and was glad that she was down on her stomach. He was crouched down aiming his rifle at the enemy and firing it. His face was black with the smoke of his gun, and there was a smear of blood down one temple. But he was still alive. Oh, God, he was still alive.

He flung his rifle behind him for a sergeant to reload and picked up his sword from the ground beside him. As a captain he was not expected to use a gun at all, but only to lead and guide his men with his sword. But Robert was doing both. He was both leading and fighting. The sergeant reloaded the rifle and set it back on the ground.

Captain Blake and his company were stubbornly holding one rise of ground, she could see, refusing to give ground until they were forced to do so despite the fact that companies around them were already edging back up the hill. But the columns were coming closer and closer behind their own
tirailleurs.
Soon the riflemen and the
cacadores
would have no choice but to retreat or die needlessly.

Joana saw everything in just a few seconds. She saw Robert's danger and his stubbornness. And she looked beyond him to the advancing blue columns, scarcely visible as more than a dense mass through the smoke. And yet one sharp detail burned its way through her eyes and she stared, unbelieving, convinced for a moment that she saw only what she wished to see.

Colonel Leroux was at the head of one of the columns, urging it forward, his sword raised. Her hands suddenly felt cold and clammy against her musket. They shook. But they would not shake. By God, they would not. He had killed Maria. Worse. He had done those
unspeakable things to her before ordering her death, and she, Joana, had seen it all. For that he would die. For that she would keep her hands steady or die herself in the attempt.

He was too far away. She knew it even as she sighted along the gun. Not beyond range of the musket, but beyond sure range. For the musket was notoriously poor at hitting any definite target at any distance. And yet she could not wait. Her heart was pounding up into her throat and against her eardrums, more powerful even than the noise of the French drums. She would be helped. Some power above would help her. She could not miss. Not now, when fate had given her this one last unbelievably coincidental chance. She could not miss.

She fired the gun and watched Colonel Leroux march onward, still urging his men on, still waving his sword in the air. He was quite unaware that she was there and that she had just fired on him. She dropped her face to the ground and gave in to momentary despair while hell continued to rage about her.

And then her head snapped up and her eyes focused and widened on the loaded rifle still on the ground behind Captain Blake below her. At any moment he would pick it up. At any moment he would signal his men to move back—all about them had done so. At any moment her very last chance would be gone and Miguel and Maria would be unavenged for all eternity.

The battle was nearing and intensifying. But all Joana saw was the rifle on the ground below her. All she thought of was reaching it before it was too late. She abandoned her musket, pushed herself into a crouching position, and launched herself downhill.