Текст книги "The Fields of Death"

Автор книги: Simon Scarrow

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‘On his own?’ Napoleon shook his head. ‘Even if Massйna did manage to surprise the Austrians they can simply retreat into the German states to the north, and try to win over their allegiance while drawing us after them, and away from Vienna.’ He paused a moment and gently scratched the stubble on his chin. ‘No. We’ll not play Archduke Charles’s game. Instead, we must try to make him follow us.’

‘How, sire?’

‘We march on Vienna. I doubt the Austrians will be prepared to let us occupy their capital a second time.’

Lannes gestured to the enemy forces massed on the far bank. ‘And what if they cross back over and try to cut our communications?’

Napoleon smiled. ‘Then we turn on them and force them to fight. My guess is that they will not have the stomach to risk that for a while yet. So, we take the war to Vienna, my friends. Then we shall have our battle.’

Chapter 2

The Austrian army withdrew during the night and Napoleon sent Davout and his corps across the Danube to keep in contact with the enemy, and harass them. Meanwhile, the main army marched east, towards Vienna, pushing the remaining Austrian forces ahead of them. The spring weather remained fine and the soldiers of the French army tramped across the enemy’s lands in high spirits.

All the while Napoleon carefully scrutinised the regular intelligence reports sent to him by Davout. As soon as the threat to Vienna became clear Archduke Charles had turned his army round and set off along the north bank of the Danube in a bid to reach his capital city before the French. There was little chance of that, Napoleon calculated, since the Austrian army had always marched at a ponderous pace. The only news that concerned him came from Italy, where Archduke Charles’s brother, Archduke John, had bested the French army there. It was possible that John might march back towards Vienna in an attempt to combine the Austrian armies against Napoleon.

Early in May, the spires and roofs of the Austrian capital came within sight of the French army and Napoleon gave the order for the artillery to prepare to bombard Vienna. Before the guns could open fire the gates of the city opened and a small party of civilians rode out.

‘I wonder what they want?’ Berthier mused as he raised his telescope and watched them cautiously approach the French pickets. He turned to his Emperor. ‘Maybe they want to sue for peace already.’

‘I would hope so,’ Napoleon replied. ‘But if they intend to defend Vienna, then this time I will not hesitate to flatten the city. There will be no third chance for Emperor Francis to defy me.’ Napoleon gestured for the telescope and squinted through the eyepiece. There were five men in civilian clothes, together with a small mounted escort from the city’s militia.

‘Have them brought to the main battery,’ Napoleon instructed Berthier.‘I’ll meet them there. Might as well let them see what they can expect if they fail to meet my demands.’

‘Yes, sire.’ Berthier nodded and wheeled his horse away to carry out the order. Napoleon turned his gaze from the approaching horsemen to the defences of the city beyond. There were a handful of forts guarding the approaches to Vienna, and then the walls. However, there were no signs of life in any of the forts, and no flags or regimental standards flying over them. He lowered the telescope with a slight frown and muttered, ‘What the hell are they playing at?’

Half an hour later Napoleon, together with Berthier and a squadron of Guard cavalry, rode into the main battery to meet the enemy deputation. On either side the line of twelve-pounders stretched out across the Austrian countryside. Fifty yards behind them lay the caissons, loaded with powder and shot, ready to feed the guns when they opened fire on Vienna. The gun crews had completed their preparations and stood close by their weapons, watching the Austrians curiously. At Napoleon’s approach the gunners cheered and he indulged it a moment as he slowed his mount to a slow walk and fixed the Austrians with a hard stare. They removed their hats and bowed their heads curtly as the French Emperor raised a hand to quieten his men. Once the cheers had died away Napoleon cleared his throat and addressed the man at the head of the Austrian deputation. The official was tall and thin, and his dark curls were streaked with grey. His coat was finely embroidered with gold lace and a broad red ribbon hung across his shoulder. Napoleon spoke curtly.

‘What is the purpose of your presence here?’

‘Sire, I represent the mayor of Vienna. His honour respectfully requests an audience with you.’

‘Your name?’

‘Baron Karinsky, sire.’

‘Tell me what your master wants.’

‘Yes, sire. He wishes to discuss terms for the surrender of Vienna.’

‘Vienna? I see.’ Napoleon paused. ‘And has Emperor Francis agreed to the surrender of his capital?’

‘As far as I understand, sire.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘His imperial majesty and the court have left the city, sire. The mayor was left in charge with orders to defend it for as long as is practicable.’

‘Then this offer relates to Vienna alone?’ asked Berthier.

‘Indeed, sir.’

‘There is no intention on the part of Emperor Francis to discuss an armistice?’

‘Not as far as I am aware.’

Berthier exchanged a look with Napoleon, who let out a brief sigh of frustration before he continued addressing Karinsky.

‘So why is the mayor preparing to discuss surrender before we have fired a single shot?’

The Austrian gestured towards the city. ‘The garrison has already withdrawn from the walls, sire. On the orders of Archduke Charles. All that remains is the militia. Accordingly, the mayor has determined that he cannot defend the city. Out of compassion for the inhabitants of Vienna he believes it would be better to surrender rather than waste lives in a pointless attempt to resist you, sire.’

‘Where is the garrison now?’ Napoleon snapped.

‘They have retreated across the Danube.’

Napoleon stared at the man briefly. ‘And the bridges are intact?’

The man lowered his eyes as he replied. ‘They were when I left the city, sire.’

Napoleon turned to Berthier. ‘Send a cavalry division forward. Tell Bessiиres I want his men to take those bridges at once. We must have access to the far bank if we are to—’

He was interrupted by a faint roar and looked towards Vienna. Beyond the city skyline he could see a billowing column of smoke rising up into the clear sky. A moment later there was a second explosion and more smoke, followed by two more blasts that echoed across the landscape towards the startled leading elements of the French army.

‘They’ve blown the bridges,’ Berthier said quietly.

Napoleon nodded, and glared at Baron Karinsky. ‘Tell the mayor Vienna is to surrender unconditionally. If he does not surrender the city within the hour, then I will order my guns to pulverise your capital. Is that clear?’

Karinsky shook his head. ‘Sire, I am not authorised to negotiate with you. My master simply sent me here to invite you to speak with him.’

‘There is nothing to say. There will be no negotiations. Tell him that I demand he surrender, and that if he fails to do so then the death and destruction that I will rain down on Vienna will be his responsibility.’

The Austrian opened his mouth to protest but Napoleon took out his watch and glanced down briefly. ‘It is now just gone eleven o’clock. If the city has not surrendered by noon I will order the guns to open fire. It would be wise of you to waste no time in informing the mayor of my terms.’

Karinsky frowned and then abruptly turned his horse about and spurred it into a gallop as he headed back down the road to Vienna.

As soon as the gates of Vienna were thrown open to the French army, Napoleon and his chief engineer, General Bertrand, rode through the city to assess the condition of the demolished bridges. The Austrian engineers had done a thorough job. The central spans of each bridge had been blown, and the buttressed piles were little more than heaps of masonry in the swiftly flowing current of the Danube. On the far side of the river the enemy was busy building barricades across the ends of the ruined bridges. On the flanks artillery batteries were being constructed to cover the river in case the French engineers attempted to make any repairs to the blown spans.

Napoleon gazed at the bridges with a heavy heart. The enemy would be safe until the French could find another way across the river.

General Bertrand had finished surveying the bridges and the Austrian forces beyond, and clicked his tongue. ‘It would be suicide to attempt any repairs, sire.’

‘I can see that for myself,’ Napoleon replied testily. ‘If we can’t cross here, then we must find somewhere else.’

‘Yes, sire.’ Bertand nodded thoughtfully as he removed his hat and scratched the thin strands of hair plastered to his skull. ‘The main problem is the current. As you can see, the river flows quickly, particularly at this time of year. Any sudden storms can only make matters worse. If there is a sudden flood, then our pontoons could be carried away.’

‘Very well, then. Where do you suggest?’

‘I’ve considered a few possibilities already, sire, having questioned the local people.’ Bertrand delved into his saddlebag and unrolled a map. He pointed a gloved finger at the map where it indicated the banks of the river, downstream from Vienna. ‘I think this looks promising, sire. Here, opposite the island of Lobau. It’s over eight hundred yards from our bank to the island, but from there to the far bank it’s only another hundred yards. And the width of the river means that the current is slower there than elsewhere as well.’

Napoleon nodded approvingly. ‘Good. Assuming this site is suitable you are to begin work the moment the bridging train reaches the army. The wagons carrying the pontoons are to have priority over all other vehicles on the road. Issue orders for that in my name.’

‘Yes, sire.’

‘I want the river bridged as quickly as possible. Understand? There’s no time to waste. The army must be across the Danube in less than a week if we are to defeat Archduke Charles.’

Bertrand puffed his cheeks. ‘As you order, sire.’

Smiling coldly Napoleon turned his attention back to the enemy troops on the far bank. The latest reports from Davout indicated that Archduke Charles and his army were still some distance from Vienna, on the far bank. If Bertrand could bridge the Danube quickly the Austrians would be caught between Napoleon and Davout and be forced to give battle. The odds would be in Napoleon’s favour, as further reinforcements under Marshal Bernadotte were marching from Dresden to join him. Provided the French army kept up its momentum Archduke Charles should be defeated before his brother arrived to help him.

Five days after the fall of Vienna, the wagons carrying the pontoons arrived and Bertrand began work on the bridge. Napoleon joined his senior engineer to watch the progress as each raft was manhandled down into the river and rowed out into the current with long oars, until it was in position to drop a heavy anchor upstream. The engineers paid off the cable until the pontoon was in line with those already secured in place; then the pontoon was linked with lengths of timber and covered in decking. A covering force of infantry had been landed on the island and they quickly flushed out the handful of Austrian defenders. General Bertrand drove his men hard and the Danube was bridged in little over a day and a half. The moment the task was complete, the first of the cavalry units began to cross.

‘Fine work!’ Napoleon congratulated the general when he reported the news to the Emperor in person, just after midday. The forward headquarters had been established in a small village close to the end of the bridge, and the countryside around was crowded with men, horses, cannon and their limbers and wagons, as the army massed ready to cross.

‘Thank you, sire.’ Bertrand bowed his head. He had not slept for nearly three days and his exhaustion was evident.

‘What of the last stage?’ Berthier asked. ‘The crossing from Lobau island to the far bank?’

‘The pontoons will cross to the island this afternoon, and we’ll bridge the final gap tonight.’

‘Excellent.’ Napoleon smiled warmly. ‘Then by dawn we’ll have our bridgehead. Massйna’s corps will take the villages of Essling and Aspern and then the rest of the army can cross.’

Marshal Lannes leaned forward in his chair and cleared his throat. ‘That’s all very well, sire, but can we be sure that the enemy will not contest our landing on the far bank?’

‘Rest assured, my dear Lannes, the Austrian army is still many days’ march away. The first they’ll know about our crossing the Danube is when the cannon announce our presence. By then, it will be too late to do anything but give battle.’

‘But if the Austrians are closer than you have calculated, then we could be advancing into a trap of our own making. Sire, I urge caution. We are advancing over a fast-flowing river on a single bridge. What if this span broke, or was destroyed? Then the army would be cut in half. The vanguard would be at the mercy of the enemy if they could gather sufficient forces to oppose us. Sire, it is too much of a risk.’

‘The enemy are not strong enough to hamper the river crossing, I assure you. War is the realm of risk, chance and opportunity. In this case it is my judgement that the opportunity outweighs the risk.’ Napoleon’s tone hardened.‘Gentlemen, the orders are given and the army begins to cross the Danube tonight.’

THE IBERIAN PENINSULA

Chapter 3

Arthur

Abrantes, Portugal, June 1809

General Sir Arthur Wellesley lowered the letter with a frustrated sigh and leaned back in his chair. Even though he sat in the shade outside the small tavern the noon heat was stifling. Not so bad as India, he recalled, but beyond reasonable comfort all the same. He had taken off his coat and sat bareheaded at a plain trestle table as he dealt with the morning’s reports and correspondence. The army had halted at the Portuguese town of Abrantes several days earlier as it waited for supplies and money. The latter was Arthur’s most pressing concern. Not only had his men not been paid for over two months, but there were also numerous bills that required settling with Portuguese grain merchants and horse dealers, as well as the need for twenty thousand pairs of boots to replace those worn out by his men. It was Arthur’s policy that the British army must pay its way in the Peninsula if it was to enjoy the continued support of the Portuguese and Spanish people. His army was outnumbered at least five to one as things stood and the British could not afford the enmity of the people across whose land they campaigned.

Arthur knew that the French took a less enlightened view regarding their supplies, and lived off the land with no regard for the consequent attitude of the local people. As a result the French had incurred the wrath of the Spanish and Portuguese peasants who now waged a pitiless war of resistance, ambushing French patrols, harassing their columns and butchering any stragglers left behind.

Arthur looked down the steep slope towards the river Tagus. The water flowed with a serene grace through hills planted with groves of olive and fruit trees and the men of the British army were enjoying a hard-earned rest as they waited for their commander to decide on his next steps. Hundreds of soldiers were lining the bank, taking the chance to wash their clothes, while the more adventurous had stripped and were splashing in the shallows.

Arthur permitted himself a small smile as he regarded them. The men had performed well at Oporto a month earlier, where they had surprised Marshal Soult and sent him fleeing towards Spain, abandoning all his artillery and wagons in the process. Besides proving that they could march hard, the redcoats had shown that they could stand up to the fanatical attacks of the French at the earlier battle of Vimeiro. Arthur was confident that his army, even outnumbered as it was, had the beating of all the marshals and men of Napoleon’s forces in the Peninsula, provided that the French were prevented from concentrating their armies. That was the trick of it, Arthur reflected. He must defeat them in detail until the Peninsula was liberated. Conversely, he dare not let his army suffer a single setback.

He commanded the largest British army in the field and there were many at home in England who loudly questioned the sagacity of supporting such a large force in the Peninsula, far from the vital battlefields of central Europe, where Arthur’s men could be better used. He disagreed. It was best to deploy valuable British soldiers where they stood a good chance of tipping the scales. Even so, Arthur’s political masters had proved reluctant to allow him to take risks. Or they had been until the victory at Oporto. Then, true to form, the politicians had veered from caution to opportunism in an instant.

Before Oporto Arthur had been forbidden from entering Spain without the express permission of the British government. Now that the news of the victory had arrived in London, together with Arthur’s report of his pursuit of Soult as far as the Spanish border, the Prime Minister had sent him a despatch expressing his disappointment that Arthur had not fully exploited his success. The Prime Minister now urged Arthur to invade Spain, capture Madrid and drive the French out.

Arthur heard footsteps approaching the table and looked up to see his senior aide de camp approaching. Lord Fitzroy Somerset was a handsome youth, but unlike many of the other younger officers in the army he dedicated himself to his duties with a high degree of organisation and intelligence. He had proved to be a valuable member of Arthur’s small team of staff officers and the general had come to rely on him and, on occasion, seek his opinion.

‘Good morning, sir,’ Somerset smiled, proffering a small bundle of letters.

‘Put them there, on the corner of the table. You can deal with them in a moment. For now, read this.’ Arthur pushed the despatch he had been reading across the table to Somerset as the latter pulled up a stool and sat down.

Somerset picked up the document and read through it quickly, his expression settling into an irritated frown as his gaze flitted across the text. He looked up as he lowered the letter.

‘He must be joking.’

‘Only at my expense,’ Arthur muttered.

‘Sir, this is preposterous. They get one whiff of victory and then want the impossible.’

Arthur sighed. ‘You are right, of course. It is impossible. We have barely twenty-five thousand men under arms, and another fifteen if you include Beresford and his Portuguese troops. Against us Joseph Bonaparte has perhaps as many as a quarter of a million men. It is true that many of the enemy are tied down in garrisons but they must still be marched upon and destroyed, and any siege is a costly affair.’ He paused briefly. ‘Speaking of cost, it appears that His Majesty’s treasury has declined to send me the four hundred thousand pounds I requested to fund our operations here. I am told that they have decided that the hundred and twenty thousand already sent is sufficient for the foreseeable future. It barely covers our existing debts.’

‘At least we should be able to pay those off soon enough, sir,’ Somerset responded, as he began to open and read the morning’s despatches. ‘Once Cradock returns from Cadiz.’

Arthur nodded. Cradock was one of his senior officers, entrusted with a hundred thousand pounds’ worth of captured bullion to be converted into Portuguese dollars. He was due back any day, and once there was money in the army’s war chest Arthur would be able to lead his men against the French once more and enter Spain. The Spanish junta, the government opposed to the regime of Joseph Bonaparte in Madrid, had offered to co-operate with the British and Arthur was bidden to join forces with General Cuesta to the west of the capital. Britain’s ally promised to provide ample supplies of food and ammunition to the redcoat army marching to their aid. Arthur had been promised much by the Portuguese government and received little, and feared that he could only expect the same from the Spanish.

Somerset cleared his throat as he looked at a lengthy list of names on a sheet of paper.‘More bad news, sir. A score at least of our officers have requested reappointment to the Portuguese army.’

Arthur’s heart sank at the news. ‘How many is that so far?’

Somerset paused a moment to think. ‘Must be over a hundred by now.’

Dearth of supplies was not the only difficulty facing the army,Arthur mused ruefully. The men were in good enough spirits, despite the frustration of watching Soult escape when they reached the border, but the mood amongst many of the officers was far less encouraging. In an army where commissions were bought and sold like any other commodity, those without a family fortune or access to large loans were often destined to spend the whole of their careers as junior officers. So it came as little surprise when many of them requested a transfer to the Portuguese army where they would be assured of swift promotion and far better pay. Beresford, charged with training and leading the Portuguese army, had already been promoted to the rank of marshal, technically outranking Arthur himself. It was frustrating to lose good officers this way, but at least they would be helping to improve the performance of Britain’s allies. Besides, Arthur could not begrudge the unfortunate officers unable to buy their chance of advancement in the British army. If only some of his more incompetent subordinates could be induced to transfer to the colours of Portugal along with the others, Arthur mused briefly.

He nodded wearily. ‘Very well. Have their applications approved in my name. Then send a memo to the War Office to notify them of the relevant vacancies in our ranks.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Somerset continued working through the morning’s paperwork and then paused as he came across a small, neatly addressed bundle of letters. He cleared his throat and held the bundle up. ‘Correspondence from Lady Wellesley, sir.’

Arthur glanced up briefly. ‘Put it with the rest. I’ll attend to it when I have the time.’

Somerset was still for an instant, as if considering adding some further comment, and then put the bundle in the wooden tray reserved for low priority papers. Arthur felt a flicker of irritation at the imputed reproach of his aide. After all, he had an army to command, with all the duties that came with the post. His wife was back in London in a comfortable house, surrounded by servants. Yet Kitty contrived to drag him into making decisions about the pettiest issues of domestic management. While he found her news of friends, family and society mildly diverting, his heart began to sink when Kitty turned to the more substantial issues that consumed her thoughts: how to end the service of a difficult or incompetent maid, or whether to redecorate a room, or her latest choice of school for their sons, even though they were little more than infants. Despite his polite efforts to encourage her to take charge of the family’s affairs whilst he was away on campaign, thus far she had proved to have little faith in her ability to do so. Privately, it infuriated Arthur, just as it did when one of his officers failed to show the initiative required of his rank and responsibilities. It occurred to him that a wife and a subordinate might not be quite the same thing, but he dismissed the notion. A wife had duties, just the same as a man, and should be measured by how well she carried them out.

Marrying Kitty had been a mistake, he accepted. Nevertheless, the deed was done, though for all the wrong reasons save one: that he had given his word that he would marry her before he set off for India. She had waited for his return and so Arthur had dutifully married her, though her looks and youthful charms had long since faded. Now, if he were honest, he was glad to be away from her.

As he shook thoughts of Kitty aside, Arthur spied a movement on the far side of the river. A small convoy of wagons was snaking through the olive trees down towards the bridge that crossed the Tagus. A thin gauze of dust hung about the wagons as they rattled along the crude roadway. Two squadrons of cavalry escorted the convoy, one at its head and the other guarding the rear.

‘Somerset.’

‘Sir?’

‘See those wagons down there, on the far bank, approaching the bridge?’

Somerset looked in the direction indicated. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Ride down there and see if it’s Cradock. If it is, send him directly to me.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Somerset lowered the document he was reading, saluted and made his way over to the horse line where several mounts waited in the shade of some cedar trees, their tails flicking at the flies that buzzed round them in a constant cloud. He unhitched the reins and swung himself up on to the saddle of the nearest horse, then spurred it towards the track that led down to the bridge.

While he waited, Arthur pulled a blank sheet of paper towards him and took up a pen. He paused a moment as he composed the arguments necessary to try to squeeze more money and men from the government. Try as he might,Arthur could think of no new way to state the obvious. If the politicians in London were serious about winning the war then they would provide the means to see it through. If they were not serious, then whatever Arthur said would not sway them from the path to defeat. All that he could do was lay the facts in front of his political masters and trust to their good sense. With a deep, weary sigh, he flipped open the cap of the inkwell, dipped his pen and began to write.

‘Cradock!’ Arthur looked up as Somerset returned with another officer. He lowered his pen and rose from his chair, leaving the table to greet the new arrival. Cradock’s short jacket and bicorne hat were covered with dust, which had also settled into the creases of his face, making him look far older than he was. ‘Good to see you!’

Cradock saluted briefly and grinned. ‘And you, sir.’

‘How was the journey?’ Arthur asked, and then shook his head apologetically. ‘By God, where are my manners? You must be hot and thirsty. Somerset, get you to the innkeeper and have some refreshment brought here.’

Somerset nodded and hurried away. Arthur turned his attention back to Cradock and lowered his voice. ‘I’ll ask about the journey later. First, tell me that you have changed the Spanish gold.’

‘Yes, sir. It’s locked away in pay chests in the wagons. Though I’ll admit that a hundred thousand in gold doesn’t buy as much Portuguese currency as one would like.’

Arthur looked sharply at him. ‘Explain yourself.’

‘It’s the money changers, sir. They knew how much we needed the money and charged a somewhat higher commission than we were expecting. I did what I could to get the best deal.’

Arthur frowned. ‘Damn them! The Spanish are fighting to survive, and we’re putting our heads on the block to try to help them, yet those blasted bankers still try to get their claws on every last penny that passes before them. By God, sometimes they forget whose side they’re on.’

‘Alas, sir.’ Cradock shook his head. ‘ ’Tis a well-known fact that bankers are a nation unto themselves and damned be the rest.’

‘Amen to that,’ Arthur said with feeling. ‘Anyway, the greed of bankers notwithstanding, at least the army can move forward again.’ He nodded down towards the river where twenty or thirty men were spraying handfuls of glittering water at each other. ‘It will do the men good to remember that we are here to fight the French, not play like children.’

Cradock gazed longingly down towards the river. ‘I suppose so, sir. But I have to say they’ve earned their pleasure.’

‘Maybe.’ Arthur pursed his lips. ‘But there’s a long road ahead of us, Cradock.’

Somerset emerged from the inn, followed by a teenage boy carrying a tray with some old chipped glasses and a bottle of white wine. He set it down on the table, bowed his head and withdrew.

Arthur nodded to Somerset. ‘You do the honours.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Somerset pulled out the cork stopper and half filled each glass before handing one to Arthur and Cradock. Arthur raised his and smiled. ‘Gentlemen, the toast is death to the French, and an end to tyranny!’

‘Aye!’ Cradock agreed and the three officers downed the wine. It was cooler than Arthur anticipated and he guessed that the owner of the inn kept a deep cellar beneath his house. He set his glass down with a sharp tap on the table and turned to Somerset.

‘Right then, pass the word to all the senior officers. The army is to prepare to march.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Somerset smiled. ‘In case I am asked, might I enquire in which direction the army will advance?’

‘Why, towards Spain, of course. Towards Spain, and glory.’

Chapter 4

The early days of June brought renewed heat that beat down on the columns of the British army as it tramped along the dusty road towards Madrid. The hearty spirit that had upheld the men as they crossed the Portuguese border had soon faded as they settled into the exhausting routine of rising before dawn to break camp and begin the day’s marching in the coolest hours of the morning. The infantry trudged forward, bent under the load they carried in their wooden-framed backpacks. The cavalry rode half a mile out on each flank, their kit hung behind the saddle, tightly stuffed forage nets slung across the pommel. A screen of light horse fanned out some distance ahead of the army, watching for signs of the enemy, and the outriders of General Cuesta.

As the sun rose across the barren Spanish landscape it washed a warm ruddy glow over the British soldiers and suffused the choking dust kicked up by boots, wheels and hooves with a fiery hue. As Arthur and his small staff rode to the side of the main column, far enough away not to be bothered by the dust, he was amused to think that any Englishman at home who might suddenly be transported to Spain would hardly recognise these soldiers as his compatriots. Most of the men had sprouted beards and their uniforms were worn and patched, their shakos battered and badly misshapen. The red woollen cloth in which British soldiers were normally dressed was almost unknown in Portugal and the men had to make do with the cheap local material, which seemed to be available in brown only. After the first months of campaigning the makeshift repairs to uniforms and the accumulation of dust meant that the British army appeared to be predominantly clothed in a murky brown.