Текст книги "The Fields of Death"

Автор книги: Simon Scarrow

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 45 страниц)

Arthur folded the despatch and tapped it on the table.‘General Alava, please ask our friend if he has seen anything of the enemy recently. Any sign of a column on the move.’

The general translated the question and El Cuchillo nodded, and then there was a lively exchange of comments before Alava turned back to Arthur with an excited glint in his eye. ‘He says that he saw a large force crossing the Douro at Tordesillas. They could not get close enough to estimate the number because of the enemy’s cavalry pickets.’

‘I see,’ Arthur responded. He was wary of any amateur’s estimation of an enemy force and needed to have a more accurate assessment of what the Spaniard had seen. ‘He says it was a large force. Does he mean a brigade, or a division, or something bigger?’

The general questioned the man and turned back. ‘He says it was a host. He has never seen so many men.’

‘It’ll be King Joseph and his reinforcements, my lord,’ Somerset suggested.

‘I don’t think so,’ Arthur responded with a frown. ‘That would mean they were right on the heels of the messenger bearing the news of their coming. Alava, ask him from which direction this host was crossing the Douro.’

‘They were coming from the north bank,’ Alava translated.

Arthur’s eyes widened for an instant. ‘By God, it’s Marmont. He’s over the river and trying to outflank us!’

Somerset nodded. ‘He must know about Joseph. Why else take the the risk?’

Arthur pushed the saddlebag aside and examined the map, before crossing to an empty window frame and staring across the river at the thin haze of smoke above the ridge opposite. ‘That scoundrel Marmont has tricked me. And now he aims to slip round our flank and cut us off from Salamanca. Well, whether he knows about the message or not, it makes little difference now.’ He turned to Somerset. ‘Pass the word to all divisional commanders: we’re breaking camp and marching back to Salamanca immediately. Oh, and reward this fine fellow generously for his services. A hundred guineas in gold.’

Alava cleared his throat and rocked his hand discreetly.

‘Second thoughts,’ Arthur muttered. ‘Make that fifty.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Somerset nodded and gestured for El Cuchillo to follow him. Arthur looked down at the map again with a leaden feeling of disappointment. It was as he had feared. The enemy had taken enough notice of his successes to gather together a force sufficient to turn him back. It would be a heavy blow to the army’s morale, Arthur realised. To begin a retreat so soon after setting out from Ciudad Rodrigo. It would also play into the hands of his political enemies in London, who would be sure to use this latest setback as proof that the army in the Peninsula was achieving little but marching up and down the length of Spain at the taxpayer’s expense.

Arthur breathed in sharply. ‘Damn that fellow Marmont. He may ruin our fortunes yet.’

Chapter 27

Salamanca, 22 July 1812

‘Typical of those underhand American rascals.’ Somerset spoke with acid contempt as he read the despatch that had reached the army at first light. Just over a month earlier President Madison had declared war on Britain. Since Britain had only a handful of soldiers in Canada at the time the opportunist nature of the war was clear to all. ‘I tell you, my lord, this is a day that will live in infamy. They attack us when our back is turned and we are fighting to save the world from a tyrant.’

‘Yes, yes, a pox on them all,’Arthur muttered, doing his best to ignore his aide’s ire as he contemplated the implications of the news. ‘You can be sure that the army in Canada will now have first call on reinforcements. An ill day for us here in Spain, that is for certain. But for now we have other matters upon which to concentrate our minds.’ Arthur nodded across the valley to the opposite ridge where Marmont’s soldiers were exchanging fire with a handful of riflemen defending a small chapel beside the road to Salamanca.

For most of the last five days the two armies had been marching alongside each other, sometimes separated by no more than two hundred yards, as if they were in a race. And it had been a race of sorts, Arthur reflected. Marmont had been driving his men on in an attempt to pull ahead of the allies and then turn to cut them off from Salamanca, on ground of Marmont’s choosing. For his part,Arthur had been urging his men to reach Salamanca first, and keep open their line of communication to Ciudad Rodrigo.

In the end, the allies had won the race, crossing the river Tormes some miles east of Salamanca the day before. After a night’s rest, Arthur had given the order for the baggage train to take the road to Ciudad Rodrigo while the army covered the retreat. Escorted by a Portuguese cavalry unit, the baggage train was obscured by a haze of dust as it headed away. Arthur had given orders for his men to form up on the reverse slope of a roughly horseshoe-shaped hill overlooking a valley, on the far side of which was a corresponding hill formation that curved round the first. In between was a tall free-standing hill known as the Greater Arapil, as it was marginally taller than the hill upon which Arthur sat with his staff observing the movements of Marmont’s army. Earlier that morning a French division had seized the hill and now, as they saw the English commander and his staff, some of them waved.

Arthur did not feel in any mood for levity. The most recent report from his scouts revealed that King Joseph was little more than a day’s march to the east of Marmont, and another column of reinforcements was a similar distance to the north. Today would be the last chance to fight on roughly equivalent terms. After that, the allied army would have no choice but to retreat to the fortress of Ciudad Rodrigo. So far Marshal Marmont had shown no sign of wanting to fight and Arthur’s men looked like spending the whole day without shade on the reverse slope of the ridge.

A movement caught Somerset’s eye and he turned towards a nearby farmhouse, surrounded by a low wall. One of the junior staff officers was waving his hat. Somerset raised his in reply and then prepared to address his commander, somewhat unnerved by Arthur’s irascible mood.

‘My lord, Lieutenant Henderson has managed to secure a light meal for us.’

‘What?’ Arthur glanced round. ‘What’s that?’

Somerset pointed to the farm. ‘I sent Henderson to organise some food, my lord. Neither you nor the staff officers have eaten today, and it’s nearly two in the afternoon. We can eat and still keep an eye on the enemy from there.’

Arthur thought a moment and then nodded. ‘Very well, but mind the food is eaten quickly. I’ll not be caught napping by Marmont simply because my officers have decided to have a picnic.’

The small party trotted across the ridge towards the farmhouse. Inside the wall two long trestle tables and benches had been set out. A large platter of cooked chicken, some baskets of bread, and jugs of wine with clay cups had been laid out by the farmer and he smiled as he waved his guests towards the table. Somerset and the others slid down from their saddles and eagerly took a seat and began to eat. Arthur did not dismount, but took out his telescope from the saddle bucket to take another look at the enemy. The French were still deploying on the other ridge but seemed to have made no attempt to prepare for an attack on the division straddling the road to Salamanca, the only large formation that the enemy could see.

‘Would you care for something to eat, my lord?’

Arthur lowered his telescope and saw that Somerset had brought him a chicken quarter and the end of a loaf of bread. He did not feel hungry, but knew that he needed to eat, and besides, he did not want to spoil the appetite of his subordinates by his example.

‘Just the chicken, if you please.’

Somerset passed it up and Arthur forced himself to take a bite out of the cold joint. It had been hurriedly fried and the meat was slippery in his gloved hand. Somerset returned to the table and helped himself to a cup of wine as he joined the other officers happily satisfying their hunger and slaking their thirst after sitting in the saddle, under the sun, for the last few hours. Arthur watched them for a moment, mechanically biting at the chicken, chewing and swallowing. Then he walked his horse towards the wall so that he would have a better view of the enemy-held ridge to the south, opposite the centre of his line.

At first he was not certain what he was seeing. It made little sense. He raised his telescope with his spare hand and trained it on the ridge. Sun-browned grass swam across his field of vision, then he carefully tracked up the slope until he could make out an enemy division marching hurriedly along to the west. Beyond them marched a regiment of cavalry, the sun glinting off their helmets.

‘What the devil is Marmont up to?’ Arthur muttered to himself. He swept his telescope along the line of march and saw that it continued all the way back to the main French position. All told it looked as if three divisions were making their way across the front of the allied position. Such was the enemy’s hurry that their formations were dangerously extended. Then Arthur grasped what was going through his opponent’s mind. Marmont could only see a handful of men on the Lesser Arapil and the division blocking the Salamanca road. He had mistaken the great cloud of dust being kicked up by the baggage train for the allied army in full retreat, and now he was hoping to outflank, cut off and destroy what he took to be Arthur’s rearguard.

Arthur felt an icy flush of excitement in his veins as he realised that the battle on advantageous terms that he had been seeking was upon him, but only if he acted swiftly. Hurling the chicken aside he turned to his staff officers.

‘Mount up, gentlemen! At once!’

The imperative tone of his command had the desired effect and they jumped up from the benches, abandoning their food and wine. As they climbed into their saddles Arthur was already calling out his orders, as calmly as he could to ensure that there were no mistakes.

‘The French are on the move.’ He gestured towards the far ridge. ‘Marmont aims to work round our position. The army is to prepare to attack as soon as possible. Gentlemen, ride out to every division and have them make ready. Somerset!’

‘Sir?’

‘Stay here and be ready to report to me the moment I return.’

‘Where are you going, my lord?’ Somerset asked anxiously.

‘Why, to close the trap, of course!’ Arthur grinned exuberantly, and then spurred his mount into a gallop as he raced along the ridge, heading towards the extreme right of the allied line. The Third Division, now commanded by Kitty’s younger brother Edward Pakenham, had been tasked with holding the flank and was perfectly positioned for what Arthur had in mind. As the track leading towards the Salamanca road began to angle to the right and down the reverse slope, Arthur glanced to his left to make sure that the French were still advancing to the south, and was gratified by the glint as the sun caught their polished accoutrements in a shimmering sparkle.

He rode on, angling down the slope until he emerged from a vale and out on to the dusty plain behind the hills. Ahead of him was a column of redcoats, and a regiment of Portuguese dragoons, tramping south along the Salamanca road and kicking up a cloud of dust as they took up their position to cover the flank. He saw the colours of the division’s battalions marching in a cluster behind a small group of horsemen. At their head was the tall, elegant figure of their general. Arthur urged his horse on, and approached the column fast, hooves pounding over the hard, dry ground beneath him. Faces turned towards him as he approached and he heard a voice cry out, ‘It’s our Arty!’ A cheer sounded from some of the men, but they were too tired and too thirsty for any more. He slowed the horse as he reached the divisional staff officers and then reined in behind his brother-in-law.

‘Edward!’ he called out, and Kitty’s brother turned round with a quizzical look that turned to a smile as he saw Arthur. ‘Edward, I want you to continue advancing with your division. Beyond this ridge there is another. Take it and then drive back the French you will see to your front. Go in hard, and keep pushing them back for all you are worth, is that clear?’

‘Perfectly, my lord.’

‘Good. Then before the day is out we shall have Marshal Marmont caught in a vice of his own making. Good luck!’

Arthur turned and spurred his horse back up the slope to the ridge. The Third Division had two more miles to advance before it took the hills Arthur had described. Most of the time they would be shielded from French view by the Lesser Arapil, so that their attack would come as a surprise to the enemy. If Packenham struck swiftly he would smash into the French vanguard and start rolling their line up.

As soon as he reached the ridge Arthur rode to the two divisions waiting on the reverse slope, and ordered them to advance into the enemy’s flank strung out before them. With Pakenham driving Marmont from the right, the French advance would be halted in its tracks, and then there would be chaos, and easy pickings for the Fifth and Fourth Divisions as they joined the assault. If all went well, the enemy’s line would be shattered. All that remained was for the left flank of the allied line to advance and finish the job.

By the time he returned to the farmhouse the roar of cannon echoed across the left flank of the battlefield as the British and French artillery fought a duel across the valley that separated them. It was of little immediate concern to Arthur. As long as the French guns concentrated their fire in that direction they could not intervene at the decisive point.

Already the Fourth and Fifth Divisions were advancing, marching over the crest and down the forward slope towards the flank of the extended French line. Each division was formed up in a long line two men deep. It seemed like an impossibly slender formation, but it made the most of the firepower that could be brought to bear on the French when the two sides engaged.

A faint shrill call of trumpets caused Arthur and his staff to turn to their right where they saw the Portuguese dragoons attached to Pakenham’s division charging towards the flank of the leading French division. Beyond the dust kicked up by the cavalry Arthur could see the infantry of the Third Division doubling forward to form a line across the head of the French advance.

The enemy were not slow to react and thousands of Marmont’s soldiers rushed forward, drums beating, as they fired freely down the slope at the silent redcoats. As the dragoons began to withdraw the infantry advanced up the slope and, on reaching the crest, loosed off the first volley into the milling ranks of the leading French division. There was a brief exchange of fire, the French responding with an ill-disciplined rolling musketry, while Pakenham’s men fired in volleys, discharging over a thousand muskets at a time. Arthur knew the morale effect of such a devastating blow. The leading ranks of both sides were obscured by smoke and dust, and then Arthur saw the first of the French break away, running back along the ridge to the east. Moments later he saw the redcoats emerging from the smoke as they charged and shattered the leading French division.

General Alava clapped his hands together with delight. ‘Fine work! Ah, Marmont has already lost! I know it.’

Arthur kept his concentration on the action as his forces closed on the French line. The second enemy division had begun to move down from the ridge to avoid being thrown into confusion by their comrades fleeing back towards them. As they reached the floor of the valley they halted and began to adjust their formation.

‘What on earth?’ Somerset sat up straight in his saddle and squinted as he watched with growing disbelief. ‘They’re forming squares. Madness . . .’

Arthur felt a brief sense of pity for the men of the French division as the long lines of the redcoats closed on them. The key to winning a battle was using the correct formation to counter the enemy’s moves. Infantry in square might well be invulnerable to cavalry but they provided an easy target for artillery and muskets. Having seen the dragoons savage the flank of the division ahead of him, the French general had decided to be cautious, and now his caution was about to be punished.

The men of the Fourth and Fifth Divisions approached to within effective musket range and halted. Opposite them, the densely packed French squares stood their ground, and Arthur was impressed by their self-discipline: not one shot had been fired. A moment later, as the redcoats lowered their muskets to take aim, the foremost sides of the French squares spat flame and smoke and after a short delay the crash of the massed volley carried up the slope to Arthur. Scores of men went down along the British line, but the casualties were far fewer than they would have been if they had been more closely formed up, as were the French.

When the British fired back, it was hard to miss, and hundreds of the enemy were cut down in the first discharge. The following volleys tore the nearest faces of the French squares to pieces, and as smoke and dust engulfed the battered formations the redcoats charged home. The struggle was brief as the badly shaken French infantry suddenly saw faint figures rushing through the haze towards them, bursting into view with a deafening roar, eyes wide and wild, bayonets gleaming as they cut their way into the ruined French squares, stabbing and beating down all who stood in their path. Having already suffered murderous losses from musket fire and now faced with the savagery of a bayonet charge the French spirit broke and the squares fell apart as the men turned and ran back up the slope towards the ridge.

However, their suffering had only just begun. Into the gap between the Third and Fifth Divisions streamed the heavy cavalry of General Le Marchant. A thousand sabres glittered in the hot sunlight as the horsemen charged at full tilt in amongst the fleeing French. It was the ideal opportunity that every cavalryman hoped for and they set about their broken enemy with ferocious slashes and thrusts, cutting hundreds of them down as they struggled up the slope.

‘Glorious work!’ General Alava exclaimed. ‘Simply glorious.’

‘For now,’ Arthur replied evenly. ‘But unless they are reined in, Le Marchant’s men will be a spent force.’

The cavalry continued their pursuit in a swirling cloud of dust, cutting the second French division to pieces, until they came up against the third enemy formation. This time the French squares came into their own and the British cavalry were stopped in their tracks by the massed volleys of the enemy infantry. Arthur gritted his teeth in frustration at yet another example of his cavalry’s propensity to lose their heads. As the dragoons began to fall back Arthur quickly surveyed the battlefield. Already, two French divisions had been shattered, and now the three British divisions were closing in on the front and flank of the next enemy formation. Arthur frowned as he watched the Fourth Division advancing, its left just starting to pass the slope of the Greater Arapil. Arthur could see a French unit on top of the hill.

‘What is Cole doing?’ Arthur muttered. ‘Why doesn’t he cover his flank?’ He turned hurriedly to Somerset. ‘Send a message to General Cole and warn him to watch his left flank. And tell Pack to send one of his brigades forward to take the hill.’

‘Yes, sir!’

As Somerset wheeled away Arthur watched anxiously as the Fourth Division halted and began to exchange fire with the third of the French formations. So intent was Cole’s concentration on the target to his front that he had clearly missed the danger to his left. Arthur could see that the enemy had realised the chance they had to take sweet revenge on the redcoats in precisely the same manner as they had suffered. But before they could strike, General Pack’s Portuguese doubled forward and began to clamber up the slope towards the crest of the Greater Aparil. It was a desperate attempt to win time for their British comrades, and they were outnumbered by an enemy who held the high ground. The attack stalled as the French skirmishers unleashed a withering fire down the slope. Arthur watched with growing anguish as Pack’s men stopped and went to ground, and then started to fall back.

‘Time for the reserves,’ he decided. Wheeling his horse about, he galloped across the ridge to where the men of the Sixth Division were waiting on the reverse slope, hidden from the battle. General Clinton sat on his horse at the head of his men and tipped his hat as Arthur rode up and reined in breathlessly.

‘Clinton, I want your fellows to advance directly. They are to take the large hill to your front. The enemy must be driven from it and across the valley.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Clinton nodded. ‘You can rely on us. The boys have missed enough of the excitement as it is.’

‘Then I am glad to be of service,’ Arthur smiled. Then his expression hardened. ‘Remember, drive the enemy off the hill.’

By the time he had returned to his command post Arthur was shocked to see that fresh French formations were descending from the Greater Arapil, directly towards the left flank of the Fourth Division. General Cole was finally alert to the danger and had begun to wheel the battalion at the end of his line to face the danger. But one battalion would not be enough, Arthur could see at once. Within the next few minutes his fears were borne out as the French line halted and opened fire, cutting down swathes of men in the thin red line opposing them.

Arthur felt his stomach tighten as he watched. The battalion could not possibly hold its ground for long, and when it gave way the French could charge into Cole’s flank and begin to roll up the allied line. Another French volley ripped through the battalion, cutting down scores of redcoats. Now it seemed that more lay crumpled on the ground than still stood, steadily reloading and firing into the oncoming French formation.

Arthur was aware that General Alava was watching him, trying to gauge his reaction, and he determined not to show the Spaniard any sign of the anxiety that gnawed at his heart. He looked to his left and saw that Clinton’s men had reached the crest and begun to descend the slope. But they would not reach the hill in time to prevent the collapse of Cole’s division.

‘Who’s that?’ Somerset asked, then hurriedly lifted his telescope to examine a formation approaching the hill. It had been hidden from Arthur and his staff by a spur reaching out from the Lesser Arapil. ‘It’s a Portuguese brigade! Must be from the reserves, sir.’

Arthur was watching them now, and saw a general in a heavily gold-braided uniform leading them from the front. He smiled.‘Good for you, Beresford.’

The fresh Portuguese brigade marched swiftly across the intervening ground and formed a firing line on the flank of the French division that had been poised to crush General Cole and his men. With a dull crash the brigade fired into the the French flank, cutting it down almost to a man. The French advance abruptly stopped, and hurriedly began to swing back the right of its line to face the new threat.

Cole’s division had been saved and Arthur breathed a sigh of relief as he exchanged a quick glance with General Alava. ‘That was close.’

‘Indeed?’ Alava laughed. ‘I would never have guessed it from your demeanour, my lord.’

Arthur turned back to observe the battle and saw that Cole had withdrawn one of his brigades from the crumbling French line to his front and sent it to reinforce his flank, stabilising his position. Caught in the angle between two allied brigades, the French began to pull back towards the protection of the hill’s summit. Clinton’s men began to climb the hill, the red line wavering slightly as the soldiers struggled across the boulders and patches of scrub that covered the slope. Above them the enemy re-formed, and such was the gradient that Arthur could see that the rear ranks would have a clear shot over the heads of those before them.

‘General Clinton will find the going hard,’ Alava mused as he watched the redcoats slowly advancing upon the waiting French men.

‘We shall see,’ Arthur responded quietly as he glanced at his watch. It was nearly six. Less than three hours had passed since the first shots had been fired and the sun hung low to the west, bathing the dust and smoke of the battlefield in a ruddy red-brown glow. To the south Arthur could see thousands of the French fleeing over the crest of the ridge, pursued by cavalry. The British infantry had all but given up the pursuit, and were wearily re-forming their ranks amid the enemy bodies that littered the rising ground.

A sudden crackle of gunfire from the Greater Arapil drew all eyes to its slopes as the French opened fire on Clinton’s division. For once, the French firepower was massed in such a way as to permit more than just the front rank sight of the enemy, and Arthur saw the leading British brigade stagger to a halt as the leading ranks were decimated by enemy musket balls. The men steadily dressed to the right, lowered their bayonets and continued forward, closing the last hundred or so paces to the enemy. Another French volley ripped out, cutting down more men, and then Clinton swept his sword forward and with a harsh roar his men charged through the smoke and threw themselves at the French. There was a short struggle before the French fell back and retreated down the far side of the hill, closely pursued by Clinton and his men, who were intent on driving them from the battlefield.

Arthur nodded his satisfaction. There was just one section of the French army remaining now, still covering the road leading from Salamanca, where the first skirmishes of the day had taken place. Leaving Somerset with orders to organise the pursuit of the rest of the French army until midnight, Arthur and General Alava rode across the hill to the Light Division, which had not moved since the battle had begun. General Alten was forward of his front line watching his skirmishers exchange fire with the enemy as Arthur and Alava rode up. Occasional musket balls passed by with a dull whirr before they slapped into the ground.

‘How goes the battle?’ asked Alten.

‘It is won,’ Arthur replied. ‘All that remains is for your division to follow the French up. Engage the rearguard and drive it back.’

‘That will be a pleasure, sir.’

Arthur reached his hand up to touch the brim of his hat. ‘You have your orders, General. Hang on their heels. Give them no respite. We have Marmont beaten; now we must ensure that his army is destroyed.’

Arthur stayed to watch the Light Division begin to advance, and as soon as he saw the enemy begin to fall back, leaving a screen of light infantry to cover the retreat, he turned away and returned to headquarters with a feeling of exultation. That morning, he had been resigned to a wearisome retreat towards Ciudad Rodrigo. Now, at a stroke, and scarcely five hours later, the army of Marmont was scattered and little stood between the allied army and the Spanish capital of Madrid.

Chapter 28

Napoleon

Kovno, 24 June 1812

As the sun set on the first day of the invasion Napoleon sat in his campaign wagon reading through the latest intelligence reports. It had been a sweltering day and he was stripped to his shirt as he leaned forward over the small desk. The doors of the wagon were open and a lantern hung from an iron loop in the roof of the vehicle. Berthier sat at another table further into the wagon, busy collating the reports so that he could pass on only pertinent information to his Emperor. A cloud of mosquitoes and gnats had been drawn to the glow of the lantern and Napoleon continually swatted them away as he read. Outside the wagon a company of the Old Guard formed a cordon to keep the area clear of the long lines of soldiers tramping forward on the road to Vilna. A squadron of chasseurs had been detailed to carry messages and stood quietly in their horse lines waiting to be called forward. The wagon had stopped temporarily while the general in charge of the Emperor’s campaign staff arranged for the field headquarters to be set up in the chambers of the merchants’ guild of Kovno.

Napoleon finished reading the first batch of selected reports and pushed them aside before leaning back on his bench and rubbing his eyes. There had been no sleep the night before. The first troops had crossed the Niemen in the early hours, followed by the engineers who immediately began construction of the three pontoon bridges over which the main thrust of the Grand Army was to pass, a quarter of a million men, under the Emperor’s direct control. To the north, another army of eighty thousand Bavarians and Italians under Napoleon’s stepson Prince Eugиne was advancing to cover the left flank of the main force. On the right flank, heading towards the south of the Pripet marshes, was another army of seventy thousand men drawn from a variety of German states, as well as a contingent of Poles, commanded by Prince Jйrфme. Their task was to force General Bagration east, and prevent him from linking up with the main Russian army. Still to the west of the Niemen were the last two formations of the invading army. Marshal Victor was in charge of the reserves, a hundred and fifty thousand men, ready to be sent forward to replace the losses of Napoleon’s army. Behind Victor marched Marshal Augereau with sixty thousand men, tasked with guarding the supply depots to be established in the wake of the army, and keep the lines of communication with Warsaw and thence to Paris open. Even though Napoleon was commanding the largest army that Europe had ever seen, he was also the ruler of an empire and needed to ensure that messages continued to flow to and from his capital city. Ahead of the entire army rode Marshal Murat’s cavalry screen, nearly twenty thousand men, probing ahead of the army, searching for the enemy while at the same time preventing enemy scouts from observing the advance of the French armies.