JК
Sharpes Escape :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 183 из 283He had been rebuffedat Bussaco, but that defeat had not prevented him turning the enemy's left flank and thus chasing the British and Portuguese out of central Portugal. Massena's army was now on the Mondego and the enemy was retreating towards Lisbon, but that still left the Marshal with other enemies. Hunger assailed his troops, as did the Portuguese irregulars who closed behind his forces like wolves following a flock of sheep. General Junot suggested it was time for a pause. "The British are taking to their ships," he said, "so let them go. Then send a corps to retake the roads back to Almeida."
Almeida was the Portuguese frontier fortress where the invasion had begun, and it lay over a hundred miles eastwards at the end of the monstrously difficult roads across which the French army had struggled. "To what end?" Massena asked.
"So supplies can get through," Junot declared, "supplies and reinforcements."
"What reinforcements?" The question was sarcastic.
"Drouet's corps?" Junot suggested.
"They won't move," Massena said sourly, "they won't be permitted to move." The Emperor had ordered that Massena was to be given 130,000 men for the invasion, but less than half that number had assembled on the frontier and when Massena had pleaded for more men, the Emperor had sent a message that his present forces were adequate, that the enemy was risible and the task of invading Portugal easy. Yet the Emperor was not here. The Emperor did not command an army of half-starved men whose shoes were falling apart, an army whose supply lines were non-existent because the damned Portuguese peasants controlled the roads winding through the hills to Almeida. Marshal Massena did not want to return to those hills. Get to Lisbon, he thought, get to Lisbon. "The roads from here to Lisbon," he asked, "are better than those we've traveled?"
"A hundred times better," one of his Portuguese aides answered.
The Marshal went to a window and stared at the smoke rising from buildings burning in the city. "Are we sure the British are making for the sea?"
"Where else can they go?" a general retorted.
"Lisbon?"
"Can't be defended," the Portuguese aide observed.
"To the north?" Massena turned back to the table and stabbed a finger onto the hatch marks of a map. "These hills?" He was pointing to the terrain north of Lisbon where hills stretched for over thirty-two kilometers between the Atlantic and the wide river Tagus.
"They're low hills," the aide said, "and there are three roads through them and a dozen usable tracks besides.
Almeida was the Portuguese frontier fortress where the invasion had begun, and it lay over a hundred miles eastwards at the end of the monstrously difficult roads across which the French army had struggled. "To what end?" Massena asked.
"So supplies can get through," Junot declared, "supplies and reinforcements."
"What reinforcements?" The question was sarcastic.
"Drouet's corps?" Junot suggested.
"They won't move," Massena said sourly, "they won't be permitted to move." The Emperor had ordered that Massena was to be given 130,000 men for the invasion, but less than half that number had assembled on the frontier and when Massena had pleaded for more men, the Emperor had sent a message that his present forces were adequate, that the enemy was risible and the task of invading Portugal easy. Yet the Emperor was not here. The Emperor did not command an army of half-starved men whose shoes were falling apart, an army whose supply lines were non-existent because the damned Portuguese peasants controlled the roads winding through the hills to Almeida. Marshal Massena did not want to return to those hills. Get to Lisbon, he thought, get to Lisbon. "The roads from here to Lisbon," he asked, "are better than those we've traveled?"
"A hundred times better," one of his Portuguese aides answered.
The Marshal went to a window and stared at the smoke rising from buildings burning in the city. "Are we sure the British are making for the sea?"
"Where else can they go?" a general retorted.
"Lisbon?"
"Can't be defended," the Portuguese aide observed.
"To the north?" Massena turned back to the table and stabbed a finger onto the hatch marks of a map. "These hills?" He was pointing to the terrain north of Lisbon where hills stretched for over thirty-two kilometers between the Atlantic and the wide river Tagus.
"They're low hills," the aide said, "and there are three roads through them and a dozen usable tracks besides.