Текст книги "The Fields of Death"

Автор книги: Simon Scarrow

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Arthur felt his mind reeling with the possibilities that the victory at Salamanca had opened up for future operations. But that was work for later. For the present he was content to play the part of the liberator of Madrid, and as the royal palace came in sight along the avenue he raised his hat from his head and held it high as he swept it round towards the sea of ecstatic Madrileсos, cheering as they waved their strips of cloth in wild abandon.

As soon as Arthur stepped inside the tall doors of the balcony he gestured towards a footman bearing a tray of glasses of water. The cheers of the crowd filled the room almost as loudly as they filled the plaza outside. The midday heat beating down upon Madrid had caused Arthur to perspire freely under his scarlet woollen jacket. Once he had removed his hat and wiped a dribble of sweat from his brow, he downed two glasses of the chilled water in quick succession. Then he allowed a servant to remove the ribbon across his shoulder and the other around his waist before unclipping his sword belt, undoing the buttons of his jacket and slipping it off.

‘Thank God for that.’ He breathed deeply. ‘I believe I would have stewed in my own juices if I had been forced to wear that a moment longer.’

General Alava smiled. ‘It seems that our climate suits no one but the natives.’

‘There are more comfortable landscapes across which to wage war,’ Arthur agreed. ‘But for now we will rest the army for a few days. Let the men indulge themselves, and let the locals enjoy their freedom, while I decide what is to happen next.’

‘And what will you decide, I wonder?’Alava cocked an eyebrow.‘You have Madrid, but taking the capital – while a great achievement in itself – will not rid my people of the French.’

‘No, it won’t,’ Arthur admitted. ‘But it has forced them to withdraw to the north and east of the country, and Marshal Soult will have to give up the siege of Cadiz and leave Andalucia, or risk being cut off.’ Arthur took another glass of water and sipped at it thoughtfully. ‘Now that we have our great victory, and have chased Boney’s brother out of Madrid, it would be criminal to squander the favourable circumstances in which we find ourselves.’

He stretched his arms and then crossed to the huge oak table that dominated the middle of what had once been King Joseph’s library. The most valuable books in the collection had been hurriedly packed into the convoy when the French had fled. Now there were gaps in the shelves, like missing teeth, and hundreds of volumes that had been pulled out and then rejected still lay where they had been dropped on the floor. Most of the rooms in the palace had been ransacked by the palace staff as soon as the French had left, and now the elegant halls and chambers were littered with broken vases and crockery.

Many of the maps and charts that had been stored in a large rack in the corner of the library had been left behind, and Arthur selected a large-scale representation of the Peninsula and unrolled it across the table, helping Somerset pin the corners down with some of the discarded books. Then he stared at the map thoughtfully. Less than two years ago his army had been crammed into a small sliver of land north of Lisbon, while the French had free range across the rest of the sprawl of land depicted on the map. Now, the French were pressed back into the north and east of Spain. While they still had over two hundred thousand men in their armies, the marshals were bitterly divided and treated Joseph with barely disguised contempt, according to the reports of Arthur’s agents. Moreover, they had been largely abandoned by their master as he pursued his apparently limitless ambitions in Russia.

Arthur was still astonished by the news of the invasion, and the scale of the forces involved. Just half of the resources Bonaparte had deployed in Russia would have enabled him to settle his troubles in Spain very swiftly indeed. As it was, the soldiers of the Emperor were now forced to fight on two fronts, stretched thinly over hostile terrain with only the most rudimentary of road systems. Unless destiny was perversely overgenerous in the favour it bestowed on Bonaparte, his empire was being stretched to its limits. Here in Spain, Arthur was determined to strike a mortal blow to French aspirations. If the Tsar could do the same in the depths of Russia, then surely this war of wars was drawing towards the final act.

Arthur focused his mind again. At length he put voice to his thoughts as Somerset and Alava stood either side of him. ‘With Joseph having fallen back on Suchet’s army at Valencia we are faced with the prospect that Soult will at some point come to his senses and join forces with them, in which case we will, as so often before, be outnumbered. However, I believe that we might still be able to hold the centre of Spain if we can be sure that we have contained what is left of Marmont’s strength as far north as the river Ebro. That means taking Burgos.’ He turned to General Alava.‘What do you know of the fortress of Burgos?’

‘It is on the main route between France and Madrid. Bonaparte must have recognised its importance, since he ordered a number of improvements to the defences.’ Alava shrugged.‘Though nothing on the scale of Badajoz.’

‘I’m glad to hear that. Might I ask if you have actually seen the fortress since these improvements were made?’

‘No,’Alava replied frankly.‘But I have heard enough from my sources to know that Burgos will not present you with much difficulty, my lord.’

Arthur stared at him for a moment and then nodded. ‘Very well. Now then, if Joseph and Suchet advance on Madrid then our Spanish allies must do everything in their power to disrupt the advance. The army of Andalucia must strike into the flank of the French, while the irregulars harry them every step of the way. If they can be delayed until autumn then the rains will have swelled the Tagus and I will be able to cover the handful of crossing points that will be left.’ Arthur paused and stroked his chin. ‘What do you think, gentlemen?’

Somerset puffed his cheeks out and shook his head. ‘Sir, you’re pinning your faith on things falling into line.’

Arthur shrugged. ‘I have no alternative. That is the hand I have been dealt. I intend to hold Madrid for as long as possible. It may not achieve much for us tactically, but we must look to the wider strategy that determines this war. Every day that we can stay here delivers another blow to the Bonapartes’ rule over Spain. It will give heart not only to the Spanish, but to all Europe.’

Somerset thought for a moment, then nodded. ‘I understand, sir. I just hope we don’t spread ourselves too thin to prove the point.’

‘Spread ourselves thin?’ Arthur repeated with a wry smile. ‘My dear Somerset, where on earth have you been these last years? Thanks to our government, if we were any more thinly spread then the enemy would see right through us.’

‘They may do that yet, sir.’

Arthur turned to Alava. ‘General, I want you to head south. You will speak for me. Tell every resistance leader and every regular officer you find that I have been given command over all allied forces in Spain. My orders are simple. They are to attack the French wherever they find them.’

Alava grinned. ‘That will be a pleasure, my lord. And what of you? What will you do now?’

‘Me?’ Arthur reached across the map and tapped the name of a town far to the north of Madrid. ‘I’ll take half the army and seize Burgos.’

Chapter 32

Burgos, 4 October 1812

The summer seemed reluctant to loosen its grip on Spain and every day the sun beat down on the parched landscape as the army marched north, driving back the small French force that had been scraped together after Salamanca. Then, as Arthur commenced his siege of Burgos, the weather changed as autumn swept in with unseasonal ferocity. The landscape of Castile was lashed by rainstorms which flooded the trenches and batteries that had been painstakingly cut out of the ground by Arthur’s men. The engineers had suffered heavy losses at the two previous sieges and had been reduced to a mere sixteen officers and other ranks. Nor was there sufficient siege artillery to end the task swiftly. By the time the army had reached Burgos along the heavily rutted and broken-up road that led north from Madrid, only three eighteen-pounders had survived the journey. The rest had suffered broken wheels or splintered gun carriages and had to be left behind while repairs were attempted.

‘So much for Alava’s sources,’ Somerset commented bitterly as he gazed at the fortress sitting atop a steep-sided hill. It was separated from the rest of the town by a ravine and linked to the town by a narrow spur of rock. A powerful battery covered this approach and rendered any frontal assault suicidal. Moreover, the fortress was constructed in concentric tiers so that the defenders would be able to continue their resistance even if the outer wall was taken. Somerset stared sourly at the fortress. ‘The place is all but impregnable, sir.’

‘Nonsense!’ Arthur snapped and then, cross at his fraying temper, continued more quietly, ‘We have one of their outworks, thanks to Major Somers-Cocks. It is just a question of time and steady effort and the fortress will be ours.’

Somerset glanced at him and then back at the fortress without saying a word, but his doubt and frustration were palpable. Arthur could understand his sentiment easily enough. There were thirty-five thousand men camped around the fortress. According to the local people the garrison amounted to little more than two thousand men, but their commander, General Dubreton, was every bit as wily and spirited as his comrade Philippon had been at Badajoz. Memory of that terrible siege had been preying on Arthur’s mind ever since the army had arrived before Burgos and he was determined not to repeat the bloody assault that had cost him so dearly. There would be no massed assault this time. Burgos would be taken piece by piece.

‘My dear Somerset,’ he said patiently, ‘I have seen many hill forts like this when I served in India and I managed to break into them readily enough. We will have Burgos in due course.’

‘I trust you are right, sir.’

‘How are the preparations for the mine proceeding?’

Somerset gestured towards the narrow trench zig-zagging up the slope towards the outer wall. A short distance from the base of the wall the trench disappeared into a tunnel.‘Captain Perkins says that it will be ready to detonate at dawn tomorrow, sir.’

‘Very well. Pass the word for Major Somers-Cocks to see me at headquarters at three in the morning. I will give him his orders in person.’

The major, like so many who had bought their way up through the officer ranks, was young, fair-haired and fresh-faced. But Arthur knew the man had a fine combat record. As such he was just the kind of man Arthur needed to lead the assaults on the defences of the fortress. He seemed to court danger with impunity and had been one of the handful of officers who had volunteered for the duty. It was as well for England that she produced such fine soldiers, Arthur reflected as he briefly examined the man standing at attention in front of his desk in the early hours.

Arthur cleared his throat and began the briefing. ‘Have you completed the preparations for your assault party?’

‘Yes, my lord,’ Somers-Cocks answered with a slight Scots burr. ‘The men are already waiting in the approach trench. Two hundred and fifty volunteers, as you ordered.’

‘I hope it will be enough.’

‘It will suffice, my lord.’ Somers-Cocks smiled. ‘After all, my orders are not to take the whole fortress. Merely take and hold the breach.’

‘If you are successful, the support wave will reach you quickly enough. But understand, they have strict orders not to advance unless you give the signal that the breach is in your hands.’

‘I understand, my lord.’

‘Good.’ Arthur nodded, and then softened his formal tone. ‘Did you have any difficulty finding the volunteers for the assault party?’

‘Most came willingly.’

‘Most?’

‘Och, you know how it is, my lord. Some men never know that they want to volunteer until they receive the right kind of inspiration.’

Arthur arched an eyebrow. ‘That being?’

The major pursed his lips. ‘The choice between fifteen minutes in the breach and a week of fatigues in the latrine generally has the desired result, my lord.’

Arthur laughed and stood up, offering his hand to Somers-Cocks. ‘Good luck, my boy.’

‘Thank you, my lord.’ He shook Arthur’s hand, then stepped back, saluted and turned to leave the tent. Arthur stared after him for a moment, wondering if he would see the man alive again when the next day had dawned. Then he shook his head. Somers-Cocks was one of those individuals who was fated to survive.

‘Four o’clock, sir,’ Somerset said quietly, his boots squelching in the mud as he stepped forward to Arthur’s side.

‘Yes.’

All was still. Overhead a bank of clouds had blocked out the stars and added to the pitch darkness that enveloped the fortress. Torches on the wall picked out some of the details of the defences and occasionally one of the French soldiers on watch. The only sounds came from the allied camp where a handful of drunken soldiers from two battalions were engaged in a brawl. The provosts would soon sort that out, Arthur reflected, but for now the noise would help to divert the attention of the defenders while the assault party edged as close to the mine as they dared.

‘Five past four,’ Somerset muttered. ‘The engineers are late.’

Arthur was about to reply when a jet of flame blasted out from the entrance to the tunnel leading under the wall, followed by a roar that echoed off the walls of the nearby town. After the sound died away there was a stunned silence before Arthur heard the crash and rumble of masonry as a section of the wall above the mine collapsed. At once there was a cry from Somers-Cocks. ‘Forward! Go forward!’

There was no cheer from the men of the assault party as they burst from the shelter of their trench and scurried up the slope towards the breach. A few muskets fired down at them from the nearest tower of the outer wall, but they charged on, clambering up the debris slope and into the breach. The sounds of fighting carried back to the command post as Arthur strained ears and eyes in an attempt to try to discern how the attack was progressing. Then there was a sudden lurid flare of white sparks as one of the assault party lit the small pot of powder that had been taken forward to act as the signal that the beach had been taken. At once the waiting support brigade rose up from where they had been concealed in the approach trenches and rushed towards the breach. The sounds of musket fire continued for the next half-hour before dying down to the occasional exchange of a handful of shots.

As the first light gathered on the horizon a runner came panting up the trench to the command post, his boots slipping in the glutinous mud that filled all the trenches.

‘My lord.’ He breathed heavily as he stood to attention. ‘Major Somers-Cocks begs to report that the breach has been taken, and his men are holding the flanks while the brigade invests the defences around the breach.’

‘Very good,’ Arthur felt the burden of anxiety lift from his shoulders. ‘Pass on my congratulations and my thanks to the major.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Once the man had slithered back down into the trench Somerset spoke. ‘Well, that was fairly straightforward, thank God.’

Arthur rubbed his aching eyes briefly.‘We have the breach, Somerset. That is all. You can be sure that Dubreton is already planning his counterstroke.’

As the morning passed the assault party took cover around the breach and continued to exchange shots with the defenders in the upper level of fortifications. Meanwhile the follow-up brigade, under the guidance of the engineer officers, hurriedly built up a breastwork inside the breach and began to clear away the debris to make the passage through the gap easier. At noon, Arthur sent forward a company of Portuguese troops to relieve Somers-Cocks and his men, while another company took over from those widening the breach.

It was slightly overcast and a chilly breeze was made yet more uncomfortable by a steady drizzle that began mid-morning. Arthur made his way along the approach trench to inspect the breach. There was already a foot of water lying in the bottom and the soil beneath was muddy and slippery so that he had to tread carefully. In places the sides of the trench were crumbling away and small parties of men, drenched and covered with mud, were shoring up the banks of earth with wicker baskets filled with rocks. As the trench began to climb the slope the puddles ceased and instead the water gushed down the floor like a small mountain stream. Arthur paused to look up at the fortress looming overhead and there was a soft zip as a plug of mud exploded into the air near the edge of the trench.

‘Keep yer bloody ’ead down!’ a sergeant bellowed at him. ‘ ’Less you want it blown orf!’

Arthur ducked and then turned towards the sergeant. At the sight of his commander’s distinctive hooked nose the sergeant blanched. ‘Beggin’ yer pardon, my lord. Just that we’ve already lost two men today to some bleedin’ Frog marksman up there.’

‘I thank you for your wise advice, sergeant.’ Arthur smiled at him, and keeping low he continued up the trench, making sure he kept close to the most sheltered side as he climbed up to the breach. Captain Perkins of the engineers saluted him as Arthur emerged into the small open space in front of the gap. A section of wall fifteen feet across had collapsed and the soldiers were busy removing the rubble and using it to build up two low walls linking the end of the trench to the breach.

‘How is the work progressing, Captain?’

‘Well enough, sir.’ Perkins was another Scot, short and thickset, with a broader accent than Somers-Cocks, and he was as covered with mud as his men. ‘Once we have the breach cleared, I’ll set the lads to work constructing the approach to the second wall, though it’ll be hard work.’

‘Oh? What’s the problem?’

‘Let me show you, if I may, sir.’ Perkins did not wait for a reply but made his way through the breach and crouched down just inside the ruined masonry. He turned and gestured to Arthur to keep his head down. Arthur crouched beside him and quickly glanced round the interior of the fortress’s first wall. A cobbled track ran between the two walls, and to its side there was a cliff of perhaps twenty feet in height before the foundations of the second wall rose up. The cliff was a good fifty feet from the breach. Perkins coughed and smiled apologetically. ‘Caught a bit of a cold in all this damp, sir. Anyway, as you can see, there’s open ground between us and the cliff. In order to mine the second wall we will need to cut into that rock and tunnel up towards the foundations. It’s going to be a tough job.’

‘But you can do it?’

‘Given time, sir. Yes.’

‘Time is something we are a little short of, Perkins. My scouts to the north report that a French army is gathering to relieve Burgos within the month. The latest word from Madrid is that Soult is marching to join Joseph. When that happens they will make for Madrid. We have to take Burgos as soon as possible and join forces with Hill if we are to hold the centre of Spain. Do you understand?’

‘Aye, sir, I do. We will carry out our duty as swiftly as we can, but before we can start mining we have to get the lads across the open ground. A trench is no good because the Frogs have the ground covered by the bastion to our right, and the angle of the wall to the left there. At the moment the Portuguese boys have the wall covered’ – he nodded towards the brown-uniformed men crouching amid the rocks at the base of the cliff on either side of the breach – ‘but to get men and equipment up to the cliff we are going to have to build a covered gallery across the open ground. Dangerous and time-consuming work, sir.’

‘I see. How long will it take?’

Perkins pursed his lips. ‘Two days to erect the gallery. Two weeks to tunnel up through the rock, a day to prepare the mine, and then it’s up to the infantry to storm the fortress, sir.’

‘Two and a half weeks, then,’Arthur mused.‘That’s cutting it fine. Do whatever you can to speed things up, Perkins.’

‘Aye, sir. I’ve had the necessary tools brought forward and I’ll set the lads to work as soon as the breach is cleared.’

‘Very well.’Arthur clapped him on the shoulder.‘Keep me informed.’

He was about to turn away when there was a sudden crackle of musket fire from close by. The two officers looked towards the sound. To their left the Portuguese were firing along the cobbled road as it bent round the corner. More shots were fired, this time to their right. Then there was a shout and the sound of boots echoing off the fortress walls and Arthur saw the first of the Frenchmen appear along the road. More came, filling the gap between the walls as they charged forward, pausing only to fire at the Portuguese troops in their way.

Perkins cupped a hand to his mouth and bellowed, ‘To arms! To arms! The Frogs are sallying!’ He turned to Arthur. ‘You’d better go, sir. Get back to the support trench and order some reinforcements up here.’

Arthur shook his head as he stood up. ‘No.’

Perkins reached inside his coat and pulled out a pistol. ‘As you will, sir.’

All around the breach, the men who had been working to clear the rubble scrambled for their weapons and rushed forward, past Arthur. There was a brief skirmish as the Portuguese company tried to hold their ground, thrusting their bayonets and clubbing the butts at the Frenchmen, but there were too many of the enemy and they were quickly swept aside and cut down before the French closed in on the breach from both sides. Perkins and his men rushed forward. Most had muskets, but some had snatched up shovels instead and now wielded them like hatchets. It was close work, and bloody, with no time for mercy. Arthur saw Perkins raise his pistol and shoot a Frenchman in the face, blowing out the back of his skull in a shower of blood, brains and bone fragments. Arthur felt a surge of fear as he realised he was unarmed. Looking round he saw a musket leaning against the outside of the wall and scrambled across the rubble to snatch it up, hoping that it was loaded. By the time he got back to the breach, his men were already being pressed back through it, as hundreds of Frenchmen surged forward. He saw Perkins double over as a bayonet plunged into his chest, piercing him through.

‘Get back!’ a voice called out. ‘There’s too many of ’em. Fall back!’

The soldiers gave ground, carrying Arthur with them. They reached the trench as the first of the enemy emerged from the breach, led by a huge officer with a thick moustache. He bellowed at them to charge, and kill all in their path. His men plunged towards the trench, driving the British back. Arthur had already been thrust some distance and turned to make his way down the slippery trench towards the camp. Then he saw a young lieutenant, wide-eyed with terror, pressed against the side. Arthur grabbed him by the arm.

‘Lieutenant! Rally these men. You must fight back. Here!’ He thrust the musket into the man’s hand and pulled him into the middle of the trench, blocking the way of those still scrambling back from the breach.

‘Stop there, lads!’ Arthur held up his hand. ‘Stop, I say!’

At the sight of their general the men drew up, unwilling to disobey him, yet afraid to turn and fight. Arthur pointed his gloved hand back up the slope. ‘The enemy have the breach! If we let them hold their ground then we will have to take it again! I will not waste lives unnecessarily. You must turn round and take it back! Come, lads, ’tis the only way!’

The lieutenant nodded, and then pushed through the throng of men, holding his borrowed musket at the slope. ‘After me, men!’ he shouted, a slight edge of hysteria to his cry. ‘Forward! For the King! For England!’

‘For England!’ echoed the sergeant who had urged Arthur to keep his head down. ‘Let’s gut those bloody Frogs, lads! Forward!’

The men let out a cheer and surged back up the trench. Arthur watched them go for a moment and then hurried back down the approach trench, slithering here and there in the mud. When he reached the flat stretch he splashed along until he came to the first of the assembly areas, where he saw Somers-Cocks and his volunteers.

‘What’s happening, my lord?’ asked the major.

Arthur did not answer, but thrust his arm towards the breach. ‘Take your men up there at the double. Clear the breach and hold your ground. Go!’

‘Follow me!’ Somers-Cocks bellowed, drawing his sword. He plunged into the opening of the trench, and his men ran after him, splashing through the muddy water that filled the bottom. Arthur turned and hurried on, making for the command post. There he found Somerset and gave orders for a brigade to be sent to support Somers-Cocks. Then, snatching up a telescope, he leaned against the sandbag parapet of the command post and braced his elbows to squint through the eyepiece. The French were hurriedly smashing down the makeshift walls on either side of the breach. Others were busy finishing off the allied wounded with their bayonets. An officer in a gold-braided uniform was directing some of his men to gather up the engineers’ tools and carry them back into the fortress. Arthur’s heart sank at the sight. The French defenders were as intelligent as they were brave, he thought bitterly. The capture of the tools would set Arthur back far more than the deaths of his men.

The French officer took a last look round the breach and then down the slope towards Somers-Cocks and his men, charging forward to join the survivors of the attack battling their way back up the final stretch of trench before the breach. With a wave of his sword the Frenchman ordered his men towards the gap and they withdrew in good order and disappeared from view.

‘We lost ninety-four killed and thirty-two wounded, most of the tools that Perkins had brought forward, and twenty yards of the approach trench have been pushed in,’ Somerset reported that night. ‘The breach is back in our hands, and Major Somers-Cocks has established a permanent force of two companies of the Coldstream Guards to protect our foothold inside the fortress. Captain Morris has taken over the mining operation, my lord.’

‘Very well.’ Arthur nodded wearily. ‘We’ll proceed with the siege, for now. Did you read the latest report from our Spanish friends?’

The news was bad. The Spanish general charged with holding up any French advance fromValencia towards Madrid had taken umbrage at the appointment of Arthur to supreme commander and mutinied. Meanwhile Soult was marching to join Joseph Bonaparte. To the north of Burgos, General Souham had been confirmed in his appointment as Marmont’s replacement and had gathered nearly fifty thousand men on the far bank of the Ebro. Any day now, Arthur expected to hear that Souham had crossed the river and was making for Burgos. The final slice of misery was an intercepted message from the French Emperor to his brother announcing that he had won a great victory over the Russians at Borodino and was on the verge of capturing Moscow.

Somerset sat back in his chair despondently. ‘Unless our luck changes, it may well be prudent to cut our losses and retreat.’

‘From Burgos, perhaps,’ Arthur agreed. ‘But I fear that we may also have to abandon Madrid as well. What else can we do if this news is accurate? If I had the whole army here I could take on Souham and defeat him, at the price of leaving Madrid open to Soult. If I return to Madrid and combine Hill’s army with mine that would give us sixty-five thousand men with which to face Soult with as many as a hundred thousand, while Souham closes on us from the north. We would be caught in a vice.’ Arthur shut his eyes and forced his exhausted mind to think as clearly as possible. ‘The best we can hope for now is to take Burgos and put in a strong, well-provisioned, garrison. That will hold Souham up while we return to Madrid. Then? All I can do is pray that Soult is delayed.’

Somerset watched his general closely for a moment, noting how sunken his eyes looked and how exhausted he appeared. The cold, miserable weather of the past weeks and the mud and depressing landscape of Burgos had added to his burden and for the first time Somerset began to wonder how one man could endure the strain of command for so long. The campaign had begun at the start of the year and now, ten months on, the officers and men were clearly exhausted and their morale was low. If they were close to the end of their tether, then by what greater order of magnitude was Wellington close to the end of his? Only one man could have led the army to achieve all it had in the Peninsula, and looking on that man now, Somerset feared for himself, and for the whole army, far from a home some had not seen for years.

‘Sir?’ he asked quietly. ‘Shall I order you something to eat? Sir?’

There was no reply, just a deep, even breathing. Somerset smiled fondly, then rose to his feet and fed a few more logs into the campaign stove. After a moment’s hesitation he picked up the mud-stained cloak lying across one of the chests in the tent and carefully draped it over Wellington’s body.

‘Good night, sir,’ he said softly, and left the tent.

Four days later, the French attacked the sappers again, bursting into their works between the walls in the early hours. They killed the engineers who were cutting a small tunnel through the rock beneath the second wall; the men charged with protecting them had put up a short fight before fleeing back towards the breach. There they had encountered Major Somers-Cocks, barring their path. He was attempting to rally them and counter-attack the enemy’s raiding party when he was shot through the heart. His men’s spirit broke and they fled back down the trenches, leaving the enemy to seize yet more tools before they set a small charge in the mouth of the mine and blew it up, burying the entrance under tons of rock.