Текст книги "The Fields of Death"

Автор книги: Simon Scarrow

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The minutes dragged by. Arthur kept himself as still as possible, in order to set a calm example to his subordinates and ensure that his reputation for being unflappable endured. At length he discreetly took out his fob watch and angled the face towards one of the lanterns down in the fort. Almost quarter of an hour remained. Down below, within the fort, a handful of artillery men stood in one corner, ready to launch a rocket that would be the signal for the main attack to begin.

At that moment a voice called out from the direction of the trenches.

‘Pick that bloody ladder up, you lazy Irish bastard!’

Arthur felt his heart jump. Around him the other officers froze, waiting for the alarm to be given up on the wall. The seconds passed, but there was no reaction from the enemy and no more shouts from below as the frogs continued their rhythmic croaking. The tension eased and Somerset let out a long low sigh.

‘That was close. Someone should have that man on fatigues for the rest of the year.’

‘I dare say there will be time for recriminations later,’ Arthur responded evenly.

He concentrated his gaze on the approaches to the breaches, knowing that the Forlorn Hopes of each division would be creeping stealthily forward at that moment. After a delay of a minute the assault parties would begin to follow them, while those behind gripped their muskets and awaited the signal for the general attack. Arthur saw a movement in the shadows perhaps fifty yards from the breach, then another, then more, as the Forlorn Hope crawled through the rocks and scrub in front of the wall.

A French voice called out, a challenge, then an instant later there was a muzzle flash on the wall. The crack carried to Arthur a second later.

‘Up lads and at ’em!’ shouted the ensign in command of the Forlorn Hope, and figures rose and sprinted towards the breach. The cry was taken up to the left and right as the other volunteers dashed for the other breaches. Arthur turned to Somerset. ‘Kindly give the signal.’

Somerset cupped a hand to his mouth. ‘Rocket crew! Fire!’

There was a brief glow as the sergeant blew on his slow fuse and then applied the end to the tail of the rocket. Sparks pricked out and then with a whoosh the rocket soared into the night sky leaving a brief trail of fire in its wake. High above Badajoz it burst in a brilliant explosion of white, and the detonation echoed back from the town walls. There were more shouts along the wall now and more muskets crackled as they saw the attackers rushing towards them. There was no need for stealth any longer and the English soldiers shouted their battle cries as they broke cover and charged for the ditch in front of the wall. Arthur felt his muscles tense as he watched the Light Division’s Forlorn Hope begin to scramble across, and then up to the debris below their breach. The walls on either side flickered with musket fire and the ensign in command dropped before he was even halfway up the pile of rubble. His sergeant went down within feet of him and then several more were cut down as they struggled over the difficult ground. The remainder charged forward regardless of the slaughter, and they too fell as they scrambled towards the breach. Not a single man from the Forlorn Hope got even as far as the tangle of abattis spread just below the breach.

‘Good God,’ Arthur muttered under his breath.

The leading men of the assault party reached the ditch, but now the first of the cannon on the bastions joined in with the musket fire, the blast of flame briefly illuminating the walls in a lurid orange glow as the grapeshot lashed the ground in front of the ditch, dashing several men on to the grass. More figures emerged from the darkness, some carrying plank-covered ladders which they threw over the ditch and rushed on towards the breach. Soon over a hundred men were struggling up the rubble and some were on the verge of gaining the breach, under a storm of musket fire that was cutting them down all the time. Then, as the first redcoat clambered into the breach, there was a brilliant flash of light close to the foot of the wall which sent rocks and men and body parts flying through the air as the walls and approaches were briefly lit up for hundreds of yards, freezing thousands of men in a tableau of destruction. The concussion and roar of the explosion struck the officers in the fort a moment later. Despite the shock, the assault continued without any pause.

‘A mine!’ Somerset exclaimed in horror. ‘They hid a mine in the rubble.’

‘Thank you, Somerset,’ Arthur snapped tersely. ‘I am following events, you know.’

The assault party was now swarming across the ditch and the fire from the walls was reaching a new intensity, cutting down the attackers in swathes, all in full view of Arthur and his staff as the lurid flare of artillery and muskets continuously illuminated the scene. But the horror of the assault was not yet complete. As the first of the attackers climbed into the breach they were confronted by a screen of chevaux de frise, wooden beams pierced with sharpened sword blades and supported by trestles at each end. In front of them were planks with six-inch nails protruding from the surface, and behind them a barricade lined with French marksmen. Dozens of redcoats stumbled on to the nails in agony before being shot down or impaled on the sword blades and left to hang there, screaming as they bled to death.

The assault party died in the breach, and now the following wave of the Light Division came forward, the men throwing themselves into the attack, determined to succeed where their comrades had failed. They charged over the ditch, their ranks thinned by grapeshot, and then on to the breach where they faltered, unable to find any way over the savage obstacles waiting for them.

For an hour one attempt after another was made to take the breach, and then Arthur watched in despair as the men started to go to ground, pressing themselves into the soil, or sheltering behind rocks and down in the ditch. Now the French began to lob grenades down from the wall and each burst caused more casualties amongst the men taking cover. Arthur knew that the crisis of the assault had been reached. If the men could not go forward then they would die where they were. The only chance of success was to keep attacking.

‘Somerset, send a message down to Alten. He must keep his men going forward.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Also, send word to Cole and the other divisional commanders. I have to know how their attacks are proceeding. See to it.’

The second assault began at eleven thirty as a fresh battalion moved forward towards the breach. They fared no better than their predecessors and the slaughter continued as before. It was now impossible to see the gap or the debris slope leading up to it through the heaps of redcoats, and yet still the officers rallied their men and made one attempt after another.

General Alava could not help marvelling at the terrible spectacle. ‘My lord, I have never seen such gallantry in any body of soldiers.’ He paused a moment. ‘Surely they have sacrificed enough this night? They have proved their gallantry. Yet they cannot take the breach. Spare your men. Recall them and end this butchery, I implore you.’

Arthur resisted the urge to turn and meet the Spaniard’s gaze. He felt consumed by anguish over the decimation of those fine men down in front of the breach. Alava was right. They had no peer in terms of their courage and determination. That was why they would, why they must, surely succeed. He swallowed to make sure his voice did not betray him when he responded. ‘I will not recall them.’

The attackers’ nerve did not fail them for another two hours. Only then did they pull back from the wall, just far enough to be out of the range of the French muskets, and hidden from the cannon by the darkness. Even so, the French regularly fired blind in an effort to discomfort their attackers.

In that time Somerset had returned to inform Arthur that the Fourth Division had also failed to take the two breaches to its front and had suffered grievous losses. Shortly after two in the morning a runner arrived from General Alten. The corporal had a bandage around his head, and one arm hung uselessly in a sling as he made his report to Arthur.

‘The general’s compliments, sir. He begs to inform you that his first two battalions have failed to take the breach. They have suffered heavy casualties, most of them dead, as those who fell wounded were struck again by the defenders’ fire where they lay. The general wishes to know if you require him to continue the attack, sir.’

Arthur stared at the man, momentarily unable to issue any orders. Then he summoned the will to harden his heart. He spoke as gently as he could. ‘Tell your general that he knows my will as well as I know his courage. Tell him to rally his men and reorganise his leading formations in readiness to resume the attack as soon as possible. Is that understood?’

‘Yes, my lord,’ the corporal replied bitterly. ‘Perfectly.’

‘Once you have given him my reply, I would be grateful if you would go to the rear and have your wounds seen to. Ask for my surgeon.’

The corporal stared at him and then shook his head. ‘If it’s all the same to you, my lord, I’d prefer to remain with my mates than with your surgeon.’

The corporal turned and trotted away, leaving Arthur to stare after him, his stomach sick with guilt. Then he turned back towards Badajoz, not daring to meet the eye of any of his officers.

A pounding of hooves sounded from down in the fort and a voice cried out, ‘Where’s Wellington?’

‘Up there, sir.’ One of the artillery crew pointed to the rampart. A moment later an officer came running up to Arthur and the others.

‘My lord, I come from Picton’s division. He sent me to find you as soon as he was sure of our success.’

‘Success?’

‘My lord, the castle is yours.’

‘What? Tell me more!’

‘The escalade succeeded, sir. Only after heavy losses, but the division has control of the castle.’

Arthur felt hope rekindle in his heart, and a familiar alertness to the possibilities of the situation. The sacrifice of the men in the breaches might have had some purpose after all if, as seemed likely, the enemy had been obliged to draw men from the other sectors of the town to defend the breaches. If Picton’s division had succeeded then there was a chance that Leith might as well.

‘Has Picton enough men left to attack the breach from behind?’

‘Surely, but he cannot break out of the castle, sir. The French have blocked all the gateways.’

‘Damn.’ Arthur frowned. ‘Very well, ride to Leith. Tell him what you have told me. Tell him that the French have sent every available man to defend the breaches. If he is bold he can take the wall in front of him.’

Picton’s officer saluted and ran back down the stairs to his horse. Within twenty minutes there was a ferocious fusillade of shots to the north and then the shrill notes of bugles as the Fifth Division stormed into the streets of Badajoz. The fire from the French soldiers around the breaches quickly died away and then there was only sporadic shooting, fading slowly as the enemy pulled back to the northern sector of the town. Below the fort, the Light Division was warily advancing towards the breach again. This time the walls were silent, the ramparts and bastions abandoned by the enemy. Arthur watched as the leading company clambered over the bodies in the breach and then disappeared into the town, followed by the rest of the battalion.

‘Come, Somerset, Alava!’ He turned and hurried out of the fort, striding swiftly over the open ground towards the breach. They came across the first bodies a short distance from the ditch, sprawled and twisted on the ground. The rear formations of the division were standing formed up in front of the ditch waiting their turn to enter the town. General Alten was on the far side ensuring that his men did not advance in a mad rush. Until the lethal obstacles were removed it would be too perilous. Alten saw Arthur and the others approaching and turned to salute his commander.

‘A very bloody business, my lord.’

‘Indeed. But we have the town.’

‘Yes. There is that.’

For a moment there was elation in Arthur’s heart. Then his gaze travelled up the pile of bodies, rising to the breach where yet more lay heaped. A company of Alten’s men had stacked their muskets and were busy clearing away the spiked planks and the chevaux de frisewhile other men searched amongst the bodies for the living. Here and there a voice called out for help, or groaned in agony, and the dead were pulled away so that the wounded could be freed from the tangle of limbs. Meanwhile, the companies entering the breach were obliged to climb over the bodies of their comrades.

‘What is that smell?’ asked Somerset.

Arthur sniffed. It was like roasting meat and his stomach lurched as he realised it came from the men who had died when the mine had exploded. He pressed a gloved hand to his nose as he stared at the hellish scene.

‘What was it you said, General Alava?You had never before seen such gallantry?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘I hope that I shall never again be the instrument of putting them to such a test as that to which they were put tonight.’

As he gazed at the dead there was a woman’s scream from somewhere in the town, then a harsh chorus of laughter. Elsewhere a shot rang out. The British army had paid a high price to take Badajoz and now they would be sure to slake their thirst for revenge on the people of the town, regardless of whether they had aided the French or not.

Chapter 26

Badajoz was thoroughly sacked over the following days. The soldiers broke into every house and stole all that they could, killing those who stood in their way. Many sought out wine and spirits and their drunkenness served to strip away what was left of their self-control. The terrified cries of women filled the streets. Rape became simply one of the vices through which the soldiers vented their rage against the town that had cost them so many comrades. Once the thirst for revenge had been sated, they turned to looting, and when the townspeople’s gold and valuables were exhausted the soldiers began to turn on each other, clubbing men down to steal their loot.

Arthur knew what was going on within the walls of the town but was powerless to act. The officers had simply lost control of their men and some of those who had tried to enforce discipline had been shot at, or violently thrust aside and forced to flee the city. The only soldiers still under Arthur’s control were those who had been ordered to remain outside the walls, and they looked on with a degree of envy as the other men indulged in an orgy of theft and destruction.

The final act of the siege occurred the day after the assault, when Fort San Cristobal surrendered. With the breaches taken, General Philippon had gathered the survivors of his garrison and led them across the bridge over the Guadiana, and fought his way along the bank to reach the fort.

Having given orders for the burial of the dead, and viewed the harrowing list of casualties, Arthur crossed the river and approached the fort together with an ensign bearing a flag of truce. Riding up the steep ramp to the gate he halted and demanded to speak to General Philippon.

After a brief delay the locking beams rumbled behind the thick timbers of the gate and one of the doors swung inwards. Three men emerged, two soldiers supporting the general as he limped painfully between them. Philippon’s breeches were cut away below the right thigh and there were splints on his leg, tied round with bandages through which blood had oozed in a series of dark round patches. He was bareheaded, and his face was streaked with dried blood from a tear across the top of his scalp. Nevertheless he managed to smile as he greeted Arthur.

‘My congratulations on the swift and successful resolution of the siege, my lord.’

Arthur swallowed bitterly. ‘It is hard to derive any satisfaction from the outcome when so many men have been lost. Over three thousand of my soldiers fell before your defences.’

For a moment the Frenchman’s composure slipped as he recalled the ferocity of the previous night’s battle. ‘I never before saw such slaughter . . .’ He cleared his throat and raised his head. ‘My men and I did our duty, just as your men did. That is the cost of war.’

‘An avoidable cost. You could never have held the town. There is no honour in fighting to postpone inevitable defeat.’

‘Is there not?’

‘No. Not for you here at Badajoz, nor for the rest of the French army in Spain. Nor for your master, Bonaparte. He cannot win the war. All Europe is against him, despite the sham treaties and alliances he has forced on France’s neighbours. There is only one outcome, I am sure of it. Bonaparte can’t win. He can only put off losing.’

Philippon smiled sadly. ‘My lord, that is half the reason why men go to war, to postpone inevitable defeat, as you put it.’

‘Then such men are bloody fools,’ Arthur replied tersely. ‘Now then, I have no desire to prolong this discussion. I am here to offer you terms for the immediate surrender of San Cristobal. I do not desire to lose any more men in assaulting this fort, so if you refuse to surrender I will have my siege guns ranged against the fort and they will pound it to pieces. I will not take any prisoners.’

Philippon scrutinised Arthur’s unflinching expression. ‘You wish to discuss terms? Then I will surrender the fort, and my men’s arms, in exchange for free passage to Madrid.’

Arthur shook his head. ‘You misunderstand. I am not here to discuss terms, but to state them. In short, you will surrender the fort unconditionally. Your men will be disarmed and marched to Lisbon where you will be shipped to England as prisoners until the end of the war, or such time as his majesty’s government decides to exchange you. If you will not agree to these terms then you and your garrison will be destroyed along with the fort.’

‘I need time to consider.’

‘No. You accept or reject my terms now.’

Philippon frowned and looked down to conceal his anguished indecision. He shook his head slightly, then paused and looked up, resigned to his fate. ‘Very well. I accept.’

‘Good. Then your men will leave the fort within the hour and form up there to surrender their arms.’ Arthur pointed to the flat expanse of ground below the fort, close to the camp of Beresford’s Portuguese battalions. ‘You will make no attempt to destroy any supplies or equipment within the fort, is that understood?’

‘Yes, my lord.’ Philippon nodded as he stared at the Portuguese soldiers in their camp. ‘But I would rather surrender to English soldiers than the Portugese. In view of the . . . barbarity with which they have treated French prisoners before.’

‘I recall little difference between the barbarity of the Portuguese and that of the French under whom they were forced to suffer. In any case, I cannot afford to despatch one of my battalions to escort your men to Lisbon. I think you will find that the Portuguese, thanks to our training and example, will treat you with greater mercy than you have shown to many of their compatriots,’ Arthur concluded coldly. He lifted his hat. ‘I bid you good day, General. We shall not meet again. Make sure that the last of your men leaves the fort within the hour.’

Arthur turned his horse away and spurred it into a trot, a sour taste in his mouth.

It took four days for the soldiers to recover their senses and start drifting out of the city, nursing hangovers and clutching their spoils in loose bundles. The army’s provost general was all for disciplining them for being absent without leave, but Arthur ordered that no action be taken. Instead, fresh toops were sent into the town to fish out the last of the looters and eject them. Then the work of repairing the damage began. The sick and injured of Arthur’s army were carried into the castle’s barracks to be looked after by the surgeons of the units assigned to garrison the town.

A steady trickle of those who died from their wounds was added to the corpses laid out in a series of long graves a short distance from the walls. When each grave was filled, men wearing gin-soaked cloths about their faces to overcome the stench of the corpses shovelled earth over the bodies and then piled heavy stones on top to discourage wild dogs, carrion and human scavengers.

With Badajoz in English hands Arthur began to plan his next course of action as he waited for the latest reinforcements to reach the army. Despite the losses, his strength, when the fresh regiments and replacement drafts arrived, rose to over sixty thousand men. Enough to take his campaign into the heart of Spain, but – frustratingly – not enough to contemplate facing a combination of French armies. Therein lay the irony of his situation. The more successful the allied army became the more likely it was to provoke the French into concentrating their forces to march on Arthur and destroy him and his army once and for all.

There was another, constant, cause for concern. Having reinforced the Peninsular army the government back in England would expect him to take the war to the French. It was evident that only a small number of wiser heads in the government appreciated the game of cat and mouse that Arthur was obliged to play with his more numerous opponents.

The most obvious enemy force for his army to engage was the army of Marshal Marmont. The latest intelligence suggested that Marmont commanded fewer than thirty-five thousand men, and that decided Arthur.

Early in May, he left General Hill and eighteen thousand men at Badajoz, in case Soult decided to venture out of Andalucia, and marched back to Ciudad Rodrigo to organise his offensive against Marmont. As he waited for the final reinforcements to reach him from Oporto, he gave orders for his wagons to be repaired and loaded with marching rations from the fortress’s depot. The soldiers were rested, and given the chance to repair their kit in readiness for the campaign.

Late in the month, as Arthur was putting the final touches to the campaign plan, Somerset entered his office with the latest packet of despatches from London.

‘Left London on the twelfth. They’ve made good time,’ Arthur noted with satisfaction. He broke the seal, opened out the waterproofed covering and extracted the documents within. At the top of the pile was a small note from Lord Liverpool marked Most urgent – read at once.

Arthur raised his eyebrows, then with a slight shrug he pushed the rest of the letters towards Somerset. ‘Prioritise those for me, if you please.’

His aide nodded, pulled up a chair and began to open and sort through the documents, ensuring, as was customary, that personal and administrative missives were placed below more vital communications. Arthur sat back in his chair and broke the wafer seal on Liverpool’s letter, unfolded it and began to read. At length he folded the letter up.

‘The Prime Minister is dead,’ he announced evenly.

Somerset looked up from the latest document he had been glancing through. ‘I’m sorry, my lord, I missed that.’

‘I said the Prime Minister is dead.’

‘Good God. Dead? How? Accident or illness?’

‘Neither. He was assassinated. Shot in the lobby of the House of Commons. Some madman named Bellingham who blamed Perceval and the government for ruining his business, apparently.’

‘I say, that’s a bit much.’

Arthur raised his eyebrows. ‘ “A bit much” is hardly the apposite reaction, Somerset. The man has deprived us of a Prime Minister.’

‘Sorry, sir. I’m just shocked by the news. It’s not the sort of thing that happens in England. France or Russia yes. But England?’

‘Well, yes, quite.’Arthur raised his arms, folded his hands together and rested his chin on them.‘The question is, what impact does this have on the government’s policies here in the Peninsula? However parsimonious Perceval might have been in supporting our campaigns, he at least had the virtue of understanding their necessity. The danger is that his replacement may not share his views, just as we are on the brink of changing the balance of power here. Worse still, the government is weak and its opponents may seize on this as a chance to topple the Tories and push the Prince Regent to appoint a Whig administration. If that happens . . .’ Arthur did not need to finish the sentence. Somerset, and indeed most of the army, knew that any Whig government would seek to withdraw the army from the Peninsula as a matter of priority.

‘The government, any government, would be mad to abandon the campaign when it is showing such promise, my lord,’ Somerset responded, then he smiled. ‘It may take a little while for a new Prime Minister to emerge, or even a new government. Whether it be the Tories or the Whigs, you must use the time to inflict as many reverses as you can on the French, my lord. Make it politically inexpedient to recall the army.’

Arthur nodded. ‘By God, you are right. Somerset, for a fine staff officer, you make a decidedly formidable politician.’

His aide sat back in his chair with a shocked expression.‘Sir! I hardly think my suggestion merits such a slur on my character!’

‘Indeed.’ Arthur laughed. ‘I have to apologise, Somerset, else I am sure that you would call me out, and the army cannot afford to lose either of us.’

Somerset nodded, satisfied.

‘So then,’ Arthur stood up and looked out of the window, over the camp of his army.‘While we await word of poor Perceval’s replacement, we march against the French.’

Early in June, as the allied army set off from Ciudad Rodrigo, Arthur received news that Marmont had been reinforced and now slightly outnumbered the allies. On past French showing Arthur was prepared to accept the odds and the army continued marching into Spain, making for Salamanca, the enemy’s nearest base of operations.

There Arthur found that the French garrison had abandoned the city, leaving behind a few hundred men to fortify the convents that dominated the bridge over the river Tormes. While the main bulk of the army made camp on the hills to the north of the city, the engineers set to work besieging the convents by digging approach trenches and constructing batteries for the small number of siege guns that Arthur had brought with the army.

As Arthur had hoped, Marmont advanced towards Salamanca to attempt to relieve the defenders, but the allied troops on the hills barred his way. There followed a few wearing days when Arthur had the army stood to in the dust and the heat, waiting for a French attack that never came. For his part, Marshal Marmont contented himself with regularly sending a few batteries of horse guns together with some skirmishers to fire on any allied troops who were exposed on the forward slope. Arthur responded by ordering the greenjackets forward, and after a short duel the skirmish broke off and the two armies sat and watched each other as before.

The convents quickly surrendered once the siege guns began to pound the walls to pieces, and as soon as the last of them had been taken Marmont began to withdraw north, towards the protection of the river Douro. The allied army followed, camping on the southern bank. Arthur inspected the enemy through his telescope in frustration. A thin screen of pickets patrolled the far bank and the main enemy camp, its position marked by trails of smoke from camp fires, was beyond a low ridge that ran along the river for some way. His spies had told him that Marmont had already been joined by another division and was waiting for yet further reinforcements.

Then, on 15 July, a band of Spanish resistance fighters rode into the allied camp in an excited state, demanding to speak to the English general. They wore bandannas, short-cut jackets over their shirts and breeches, which were buttoned below the knee, and heavy boots. A formidable selection of carbines and pistols were visible in their saddle buckets, and swords, clubs and knives hung from their belts. The two sentries on duty outside Arthur’s headquarters, a disused barn, eyed the new arrivals warily as Somerset brought General Alava out to speak to them. After a few words, Alava beckoned their leader to dismount and follow him and Somerset into the barn.

He rapped on the weathered doorpost and Arthur looked up from the map he had been studying. ‘What is it?’

‘One of the local fighters, my lord. He says he has captured some enemy despatches and wishes to sell them to us.’

Arthur puffed his cheeks. ‘Very well. I can spare him a few minutes. Bring him in.’

A moment later the leader entered, carrying a saddlebag over one arm. Arthur rose to exchange a bow with him as Alava made the introductions. ‘Seсor Jose Ramirez, or El Cuchillo, as he claims to be known along this stretch of the Douro.’

‘What has El Cuchillo,’ Arthur smiled at the man, ‘got for me, exactly?’

Once Alava had translated, the resistance leader stepped forward and laid the saddlebag over Arthur’s map. Arthur noted a dark smear on the casing and assumed that it was the blood of the hapless courier who had been intercepted by El Cuchillo and his men. With a flamboyant gesture the Spaniard unfastened the strap and flipped the bag open. Inside were a number of sealed documents. One immediately caught Arthur’s eye – larger and bearing a more ornate seal than the others. He gestured towards the bag and the Spaniard nodded. Arthur drew the document out and saw that it carried the seal of King Joseph and was addressed to Marshal Marmont. He broke the seal and opened it, quickly scanning the contents before he looked up.

‘King Joseph is marching to join Marmont with thirteen thousand men.’

Somerset shifted uncomfortably. ‘That will give Marmont nearly twenty thousand men more than us, my lord.’

Arthur nodded. ‘More than enough to make a difference, I fear. The question is, has Marmont had a copy of this message? It is possible he may not know that Joseph is marching to join him.’

‘It’s possible, I suppose,’ Somerset said doubtfully. ‘Though the French tend to send out two or three couriers by different routes, given the danger presented by the partisans.’