THE BARONET'S DAUGHTER

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER ONE

VITORIA, SPAIN JUNE 1813

Acrid smoke thick and black rose over the battlefield, hovering like a host of visible lost souls in perdition. The pitiful screams and groans of dying men and horses assailed the ears of the still living, and seemed to give substance to this awful illusion.

The captain of infantry, lurching through the carnage, could hardly tell illusion from reality. His face was blackened by smoke; his uniform torn and stained with gunpowder, dust and blood.

The filthy smoke set his throat burning, and half-blinded, he stumbled over the carcass of a horse, uttering a guttural oath as he fell heavily onto his knees.

The heat of the day mingling with the heat of the battle had all but exhausted him. He felt it bite savagely at what strength he had left, but he fought it off once again. Miraculously, he was unwounded and was now driven by an overpowering sense of duty to those not so fortunate.

Strewn around him on the hard and dusty plain of Vitoria were the blackened and bloody corpses of so many men, enemy and ally, some lying huddled together as though forgiving each other in death.

It pained him too, to see scores of dead and injured horses. During the hours since the battle ended he had shot several of the poor beasts as he continued his search for wounded men.

Where the smoke had thinned, weird structures of tangled and twisted metal that had been cannon and howitzer, spewing out death and destruction, were visible, scattered about the plain like hideous graven images of war.

The sounds of stricken men, sobbing, pleading pitifully for help spurred him on. He rose to his feet, almost under the hooves of a loose horse. It reared up, screaming; nostrils flaring, eyes staring in terror. He snatched at the loose bridle, but the horse shied away and made off.

Turning back to self-appointed task, he moved on among the broken, blood-soaked bodies, looking for life. After inspecting several he leaned wearily against an upturned ammunition cart, and peered through the smoke.

A hollow groan that seemed to issue near his feet made him start up again. On the ground on the other side of the cart was a man, his red coat almost unrecognisable; stained with a hellish mixture of smoke grime, gunpowder and blood.

The captain dropped to his knees beside the prostate form. 'Ambrose! Major Warburton! I never expected to find you alive, man.

The wounded man opened his eyes. They were red-rimmed and blood-shot. He clearly had difficulty in recognising his comrade at arms. He lifted a hand and clutched at the captain's coat.

'Henry Wellesley, is that really you? What of the day?'

The captain was not surprised that Warburton, although severely wounded, could still concern himself with the battle. He was that kind of a soldier.

'Wellington has given us a decisive victory, Major,' Captain Wellesley replied, his voice hoarse with the effects of the smoke. 'The French are well beaten. King Joseph has no choice now but to take what remains of his army and seek the safety of the Pyrenees.'

'Then we will be on French soil by the end of the year,' Warburton whispered.

'Aye, but not you, Major.' He glanced at the man's bloody leg. 'It's England for you. I warrant your campaigning days are over.'

Captain Wellesley removed his stock and tied it around Warburton's thigh, drawing it tightly as a tourniquet, until the wounded man winced.

'You've lost much blood, Major,' the captain said as he gently inspected the wound again. 'We must get you back quickly if the leg is to be saved. If only I could capture a horse.'

'Help me up,' Warburton said, struggling to get to his feet. 'I can manage with your help. I can use my sword as a stick.'

He finally got upright and leaned heavily on Wellesley. He took a few tentative steps before collapsing unconscious.

As Warburton slumped against him, Wellesley took the weight with a grunt of strain. Major Ambrose Warburton was a big man and heavy of shoulder. He topped Captain Wellesley's stockier frame by a head.

Summoning all his remaining strength, Captain Wellesley hoisted the unconscious man onto his own broad back and then stared about him for a moment trying to get his bearings. He advanced slowly and with much difficulty, picking his way through a sea of death; through the Spanish dirt and dust that was mingled with the blood of many valiant men.

He finally reached the track that was the road to Vitoria and was relieved to see a cart swaying towards him along the rutted track, driven by a peasant woman; her dirty blood-stains skirts pulled up over her knees.

He called to her in Spanish and she drew up the cart immediately, climbed down and reached for a goat-skin water pouch that hung on one side.

The cart was filled with straw. Lying or sitting inside were several wounded men. With the woman's help Wellesley managed to get Warburton on the cart. With gentle hands the woman bathed the Major's dust-encrusted face, and moistened his lips.

Warburton opened his eyes. 'Gracias,' he whispered, weakness slurring his tongue. His gaze turned to Wellesley who was thankfully slaking his own parched throat from the pouch.

'How can I ever thank you, Wellesley? But for your help I would have died, if not this night, than surely tomorrow. I owe you my life.'

'Don't speak of it,' Henry Wellesley said with a smile. 'You would have done the same for me.'

The woman climbed up onto the cart.

'Do you come with us now?' Warburton asked. 'You look exhausted yourself, Wellesley.'

Henry Wellesley shook his head. 'No. There's still many a poor devil in need of help.' He lowered his voice. 'And someone has to prevent the peasants slitting the throats of the French wounded.'

The woman flicked the reins and the cart began to move. Wellesley kept pace for a moment. Warburton raised a hand in salute and farewell.

'When Boney is truly beaten,' he said. 'And England at peace once more, we will meet again, Wellesley. I will find some way to repay you.'

Henry Wellesley lifted a hand in farewell and smiled. He turned then, and strode off towards the place where men had fought and died.

Major Warburton watched his friend's strong figure until he was lost to sight, unaware that he would never see Henry Wellesley again.