Cavalrytales 3 - WIP

Given my recent lack of output I thought I'd try a few things to get going again, including posting a section for comment (critiques good or bad gratefully received - I have a pretty thick skin by now). This is the prologue, which might benefit from some expansion of its first section. At the moment it's as tightly written as I can get it, to minimise potential reader boredom.

March 1809

Oporto, Portugal

A whole city fled in panic, but the ageing bridge of boats would save them.

Desperate to escape the French army’s advance, thousands fought to cross the roadway spanning the wide River Douro. Broken carts and discarded belongings littered its worn planking, slowing refugees’ flight to a crawl while hundreds more crowded at their backs.

From a rain-drenched slope overlooking Oporto, Marshal Nicolas Soult watched the disaster unfold. As his dragoons’ secretive march round the city’s unguarded east flank succeeded and they charged towards the bridge, sabreing all who stood in their way, cannon smoke blossomed on the river’s southern bank.

General Loison reined to a halt at the marshal’s side. “They fire on their compatriots,” he muttered in disgust.

Through the downpour, Soult squinted at the distant bridge. A tiny figure fell from the edge, then another, instantly swept away in the seething torrent below. “What would you do?”

Loison scraped drizzle from his face with his one hand. “The same.”

“The bridge is sinking.”

“The river is in spate. And they are…” Loison lifted a spyglass to scan the far bank, “…axing cables. Abandoning their own.”

Soult dropped his reins to point, “See - there!” In midstream the overloaded pontoon bridge dipped into the maelstrom below. He beckoned urgently at a staff officer. “Order General Merle to hold position. If necessary he must pull back his infantry!”

“You would offer them quarter?”

Soult gave Loison a cold glance, “You question my orders?”

“Crush them. That is what the Emperor expects. Let the river do your work.”

“I…we…must rule these people,” Soult said angrily. “That is what the Emperor demands, general. Deaths did not bring the Vendee to heel, remember.”

And still the fugitives scrambled to escape, their weight driving many of the bridge's near-derelict hulls under the surface. Plank by plank the roadway slowly unravelled, pitching terrified inhabitants deep into the killing water as the Douro’s rage tore the crossing apart.

Oporto was drowning, and Soult could not save her.

Horse Guards

London, England

“It is vital, major, this letter be delivered.” Sir Arthur Wellesley leaned forward to drop a pale envelope on the far side of his desk.

Jonas Hughes shifted uncomfortably on the horsehair-stuffed seat cushion. Craning his head he peered at the addressee. “Major...”

“…Fellowes,” Wellesley confirmed. “A Welshman, I gather.”

“Portugal?” Hughes squinted through candle-shadows. “Is that it, sir? Do we know nothing more definite of the major’s whereabouts?”

Wellesley sat back in his chair, fingers intertwined across his chest. “I am very much afraid we do not. That is the devil of it, Hughes. He moves around, of course. It may be his despatches simply fail to get through French blockades.”

“Perhaps he’s taken. Or dead.”

Wellesley grunted. “I believe we should have heard. Bonaparte could hardly fail to plaster such a coup across the pages of Le Moniteur.”

Hughes sighed, dog-tired from weeks on the road. In preparation for a new attempt to expel the French from Iberia, Wellesley had demanded all regimental rosters be physically audited rather than verbal assurances relied upon. Numbers of men, equipment stocks, transport, stores: all must be shown correct to the last musket cartridge and horseshoe. But this order to find a missing officer was couched in the vaguest possible language: it hardly made sense.

The major straightened his right leg, grimacing as joints grated. “You’ll forgive me, sir” he indicated the letter, “but that’s younger man’s work.”

Wellesley pursed his lips and was silent for a moment. “You have one in mind for it?”

“Captain Killen, sir, with whom you’re acquainted. You’ll recall he speaks the language as near fluent as makes no odds.”

“But he’s not your experience.”

Hughes inclined his head at the compliment. “He can take a reliable man - his sergeant.”

Wellesley frowned. “That rascal…I’d counsel against such a thing most strongly, Hughes.”

“Sergeant Lock has always done his duty, sir,” the major said defensively, “though he may sometimes give orders a...,” he hesitated, “...broad interpretation.” The general glared at him, he saw. “I’d trust no other.”

“I have no reason to be disappointed with your efforts thus far,” Wellesley said at last. “Just be sure you impress upon Killen the importance of his task.”

The interview was over. Hughes levered himself out of the chair, tucking Wellesley's letter safely in his sabretache before he straightened to attention.

Evening light was fading to dusk.

Hughes scuffed impatiently at the gravelled courtyard in front of Horse Guards while he waited for an orderly to retrieve his mount. Killen might not thank him for a return posting to Portugal for there was talk of a new cavalry officers’ school and he heard the young captain’s name proposed as an instructor. But the major knew no other suitable officer available at short notice. Find one man, somewhere in Portugal? Wellesley must be mad!

Lantern in hand, the orderly returned dragging a reluctant horse behind him. The animal looked as tired as Hughes felt but stood meekly while he hauled himself stiffly into the saddle before sketching a wave in response to the orderly's smart salute.

The major gave his mount an affectionate slap on the neck: only a half-mile ride to the inn where both would rest the night. Perhaps he should pray for a miracle: Killen might somehow manage to locate the elusive Fellowes. But he must then find his way back to the small British garrison holed up in Lisbon through strange country crawling with the French. And it was unfair of Wellesley to criticise Killen's sergeant. He did not know the man: at least, not as well as Hughes.

When this harebrained expedition ran into trouble Killen would need a dependable companion. Hughes was damned sure Joshua Lock used his head as well as his sword for up to now the sergeant had survived every scrape he found himself in. But also, so far as such a thing was possible between an officer and an enlisted man, Lock was Captain Killen’s friend.

Surrounded by the enemy, The Honourable John William Killen would need one.