Текст книги "The Fields of Death"

Автор книги: Simon Scarrow

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Текущая страница: 33 (всего у книги 45 страниц)

‘Where is the Light Division?’

The officer turned and pointed back down the road. ‘I heard they were making a stand at Arcangues, sir.’

Arthur tugged his reins and urged his horse on, along the column of wagons, then back on to the road, increasing his pace to a gallop as the horse’s flanks bellowed with each ragged breath. Ahead the sound of guns boomed out and as the road emerged from a large copse Arthur saw a low ridge ahead, perhaps a thousand paces in length. At one end stood a small but solid-looking church, at the other a country house. Both structures had been garrisoned. In between, the rest of the Light Division was drawn up, two deep in the front line, with a reserve line on the reverse slope. As Arthur and Somerset rode up the slope they came across the first of the wounded, sitting on the damp grass as they tended to their wounds, while those too badly stricken to help themselves had to wait for a member of the division’s corps of bandsmen to treat their injuries.

A colonel of the Fifty-second Foot hurriedly directed them to General Alten’s headquarters in the church tower before turning his attention back to his battalion as a fresh shot from the enemy guns smashed two of his men down before ploughing a muddy divot in the ground a short distance from the colonel’s horse. From the vantage point of the crest of the ridge Arthur could see the entire length of the Light Division’s battlefield. Before the front rank the ground sloped down for four or five hundred paces before flattening out. Rough lines of blue-uniformed bodies marked the extent of the earlier French attacks, while a few score men of Light Division lay sprawled in the trampled and muddy grass. The French columns had halted at the foot of the slope while behind them a dozen guns continued to fire on the defenders of the ridge. There were only two British guns on the ridge, light mountain guns, whose puny bangs were all but drowned out by the regular blasts of the enemy batteries.

General Alten was in the church tower, calmly watching the artillery exchange, as Arthur and Somerset came panting up the narrow spiral staircase into the belfry.

‘How goes it?’ asked Arthur, straightening up and discreetly rubbing his buttocks, numbed after the hard ride.

Alten pursed his lips. ‘Oh, they caught us napping right enough. Started drifting forward in ones and twos, and then made a dash at our pickets. I had my fellows pulled back at once to this position.’

Arthur glanced along the ridge and noticed the boggy ground protecting the flanks at each end. He nodded approvingly. ‘A fine choice. They’ll not get through the Light Division in a hurry.’

‘I should think not,’ Alten replied stiffly. ‘In any case, as you can see, we have already thrown back one attack. The Frogs have been resorting to guns ever since, mostly trying to reduce our strong points.’ Alten patted the masonry. ‘They’ll not pound this to rubble in my lifetime. Mind you, their roundshot has played merry hell with the stones in the cemetery.’

Arthur leaned forward and peered down. Several of the headstones had been smashed to pieces. As he looked up he saw movement to the rear of the French formations lined up opposite the ridge. Three columns had broken away from the force and were marching west, towards the other road. He pointed them out.

‘D’you see? I suspect that Soult has decided to press his luck against our left, having failed to break through here. It is a pity, though, that you had to abandon your fortifications and fall back at all, Alten.’

The general looked at him with a puzzled expression. ‘Fortifications? ’

‘As per your orders. Make a feint towards Bayonne, halt and fortify.’

‘We were given no such orders, sir,’ Alten protested.‘Just told to push the Frogs back and keep ’em busy. That’s all.’

‘I see. Would you happen to know where I might find General Hope?’

‘Yes, sir. He is headquartered at Bidart, with a Portuguese brigade.’

‘And where is the First Division?’

‘Last I heard, they were billeted at St-Jean-de-Luz.’

Somerset started. ‘But that’s almost ten miles from Barroilhet! Good God, what are they doing so far to the rear?’

General Alten shrugged. ‘Best ask Hope, eh?’

Arthur felt an icy dread grip the back of his neck. The left flank of his army was far too extended in depth. If Soult threw his men into the attack they would roll up the allied formations and then turn on the Light Division, cutting Arthur’s left flank to pieces before Hill could intervene. Such a defeat would wreck every success that Arthur had achieved since the campaign began. He turned hurriedly to Somerset.

‘Ride to St-Jean-de-Luz. If the First Division isn’t already on the road to Bayonne then get them moving, on my express orders. If they are marching, then hurry them. They must reach Barroilhet before our position folds. Go now.’

Somerset nodded and hurried down from the tower as Arthur gave orders to Alten. ‘Hold your position here. If Soult breaks through to your left, then you may fall back on Hill. Keep your men closed up, in square if need be. Inform me at once if you are obliged to shift your position.’

‘Yes, sir. Where will you be if I need to send word to you?’

Arthur took a deep breath. ‘I am going to find General Hope.’

He reached the ridge behind the small village of Barroilhet at noon, just as a single brigade of redcoats rushed into line to reinforce the Portuguese soldiers who had been holding off a series of French attacks all morning. The enemy had already gained possession of the village and were pouring forward, ready to assault the ridge. Arthur found General Hope sitting on a bench outside an inn giving orders for the defence of the new position. A bloodstained dressing had been tied round his left calf and his uniform jacket and hat had been shot through by musket balls. He rose stiffly to his feet to greet Arthur as he dismounted.

‘Glad to see you, sir.’

‘Lucky, more like.’ Arthur gestured to his wounded leg.

‘Indeed, sir. I went forward to Barroilhet the instant I heard the French had attacked. They were on us in a trice. My staff and I had to fight our way out.’

Arthur was tempted to comment that such an escape would not have been necessary if Hope had obeyed his orders. But there was no time for recrimination, and at least Hope had thrown himself into the fight the moment he recognised his peril.

‘What strength have you available to counter Soult?’

‘The remains of the two Portuguese brigades holding the village, and Aylmer’s brigade. I sent for the First Division at once. They should reach us before two in the afternoon.’

‘Good.’ Arthur nodded. ‘Until then, we will have to make do with what is here. At least the ground favours us.’

As at Arcangues the French were obliged to attack on a narrow front. Half a mile either side of the muddy road lay two small lakes, surrounded by bogs. If the line could be held long enough for the First Division to arrive then Soult could be contained and his audacious plan would fail. For an instant Arthur felt his heart warming to the enemy marshal. It must have been sorely tempting to attempt an attack on the stronger half of the allied army as it crossed the Nive. But Soult had seen that his foes were playing into his hands by straddling the army across the river. Instead of fighting, he had lured Hill’s column away from the crossing, and then marched his forces across the bridges at Bayonne to achieve an overwhelming advantage against the allied soldiers remaining on the west bank of the Nive.

‘Clever,’ Arthur muttered under his breath. ‘Very clever. Soult is a man who knows how to wait.’

Then Arthur dismissed his opponent from his mind as he scrutinised the scene before him. The arrival of Aylmer’s brigade had put fresh heart into the Portuguese troops, who had been fighting valiantly all morning but had been close to being overwhelmed. Now they closed up in front of their colours and braced themselves for another French onslaught. The enemy infantry had moved aside to make way for a brigade of cavalry: dragoons, in heavy coats with flowing crests atop their gleaming helmets. They walked their horses forward and slowly spread out across the muddy ground in front of the ridge. Arthur was relieved to see no sign of the enemy’s guns, no doubt still stuck in the mud beyond Barroilhet.

‘Not the best conditions for cavalry,’ Hope commented.

‘And no need for your men to form square,’ Arthur responded. ‘I doubt that those dragoons will make any speed over that mud. A few volleys will see them off long before they pose any danger to our line.’

Hope stared at the ground and nodded before turning to one of his staff officers. ‘Campbell, ride down our line. Tell the colonels that their men are to remain where they stand.’

The officer saluted and then spurred his horse away to relay the order.

It took over half an hour for the French cavalry to deploy, and when at last the advance was sounded the heavy mounts struggled through the mud as they picked their way towards the bottom of the slope.

‘What I’d give for a battery of nine-pounders,’ Hope commented bitterly. ‘Case shot would make short work of ’em.’

Arthur turned his gaze away from the dragoons towards the nearest of his men. They stood their ground and waited, with not a backward glance. As Arthur had expected, the poor ground slowed the cavalry to a walk, and they were still moving no faster when the order to make ready to fire echoed along the allied line. The muskets were advanced, and then there was a brief pause before the order to cock the weapons was bellowed and a light clatter filled the air.

‘Take aim!’

Up came the muskets, and each man pulled the butt in tight against his shoulder, anticipating the savage kick as his weapon was discharged. Arthur saw that the dragoons were perhaps seventy or eighty yards away. A longer range than he would like, but the large targets would be easy enough to hit when the volley was unleashed.

‘Fire!’

The volleys of each company of British and Portuguese troops crashed out along the line, spitting over a thousand musket ball into the oncoming formation.

‘Reload!’ a sergeant cried out. ‘Reload your weapons, blast yer!’

Some of the men had paused to see what damage they had caused as the smoke slowly began to disperse, but now lowered their weapons, reached for a fresh cartridge and began to reload. From his position on the crest Arthur could see that scores of dragoons and their horses had gone down, some of the animals kicking and thrashing wildly in blind pain and terror. Their comrades picked their way past, edging closer to the thin line of men defending the ridge.

A second volley spat flame and lead at the dragoons at under thirty yards, point-blank range, and this time even more went down, collapsing into the mud where they were caught like wasps in jam, struggling futilely.

‘That’s the way!’ Hope cheered, breaking into a beam as he watched his men punish the enemy.

A third volley cut down yet more of those who had managed to find a path through the bodies, and they now added to the tangle of men and horses, dead and wounded, caught in the mud. The dragoons were brought to a standstill, and the fourth volley decided the issue. The strident notes of bugles sounded the recall and the horsemen turned their mounts round, not without difficulty, and headed back down the slope, rather faster and with less order than they had ascended it. The Portuguese brigades, down to a handful of rounds, held their fire, but Aylmer’s men fired two more volleys before the order to cease fire was bellowed out.

Arthur guessed that over a quarter of the enemy brigade had been cut down and now the survivors picked their way back through the lines of infantry to the rear. There was a short pause as the walking wounded struggled out of the mire and made their way down the slope, buying the defenders more time. Arthur turned round and scanned the countryside for any sign of reinforcements. Then he saw it, the dull gleam of red as a column of British soldiers emerged between two copses and headed down the road towards them, still a mile and a half away. The slender line of men on the ridge must hold their position for a while yet, Arthur realised.

The deep rumble of drums drew his attention back to the enemy. The French skirmishers were already moving forward in pairs, warily stepping out over the open expanse of churned mud. There would be no cover for them as they approached the waiting Portuguese and British infantry. Behind them three brigades of infantry advanced in column, urged on by their officers and the insistent rhythm of the drums. Hope had recalled his light infantry earlier and his men stood their ground as the French sharpshooters halted and opened fire, steadily picking men off. As each fell, dead or wounded, his comrades closed up to the right and stood firm. They did not have to endure the skirmishers for long, as the French columns steadily climbed up the gentle slope, boots weighted down by the clinging mud.

As the columns came up to the allied line the skirmishers fell back, and for a moment the sound of firing ceased. The French halted and discharged a ragged volley, striking down a score or so of the allies. An instant later Hope’s men returned fire in a massed volley. As the range was close and almost every musket could be brought to bear against the heads of the French columns the effect was devastating. Men toppled down and staggered back all along the leading ranks of the columns. Then there was a pause, filled with the hurried rattle of ramrods as each side reloaded.

‘Interesting,’ Arthur mused aloud. ‘Do you see how the French remain in column instead of forming into a firing line? Those men are clearly poorly trained. Their officers don’t trust ’em with battlefield manoeuvres.’

‘They don’t need to, as long as the enemy outnumber us as they do,’ Hope replied.

‘Not for much longer.’ Arthur pointed out the approach of the First Division. ‘Nevertheless, I think that quality rather than quantity will win the day.’

He turned back to the battle just in time to see his men fire their second volley a few seconds before the enemy, and more men fell on both sides. Powder smoke wreathed the air between the line and the columns, slowly merging into one mass, illuminated from within by the orange flash of each volley as the soldiers fired blind. This was the test of each army’s mettle, thought Arthur. The side that took such punishment longest would win. As he watched, he noted with cold satisfaction that his men were firing three volleys to the enemy’s two. Before long the French were no longer firing volleys but in a constant rattle of musketry as each man reloaded and fired at a different rate.

There was a pounding of hooves as Somerset came galloping up. He reined in and dismounted, cheeks flushed from his exertions in the cold air. He touched his hat to Arthur and General Hope.

‘The First Division had already set out from St-Jean-de-Luz when I arrived, sir,’ he reported. ‘Caught ’em up on the road and been chivvying them on ever since.’ He turned and surveyed the battle lines, and then the massed formations of Soult’s army half a mile to the north. ‘Good God, we haven’t got a chance.’

‘You think so?’ Arthur smiled wryly. ‘We shall see.’

The figures of the lightly wounded trickled back down the sides of the French columns, and those in the ranks shuffling forward to take the place of those who had fallen glanced at them nervously. Then Arthur saw one of the men at the rear of the nearest column turn and creep away from his formation. More followed, brushing past an enraged sergeant who was shouting at them to return to their position. The men at the head of the column were starting to fall back, no longer filling the gaps of the fallen. Slowly, the French columns retraced their steps, away from the thick bank of powder smoke, leaving a tide mark of dead and injured lying in the mud. For a while their officers and sergeants tried to halt them, but there was no will to advance back towards the withering fire of the allied troops.

As soon as the British and Portuguese officers became aware that there was no longer any enemy fire they ordered their men to stop, remove casualties to the rear and re-form their ranks. While the smoke dispersed Arthur watched the battered French brigades re-forming at the foot of the slope. A figure on horseback, his coat richly embroidered with gold lace, rode down the line haranguing his men and pointing his arm at the ridge. Arthur smiled to himself. He could imagine Soult’s fury. The day had begun well for the French, but the drenched ground, the natural bottlenecks along the roads down which he had chosen to advance, and the steadfast courage of the allied troops had halted his attack in its tracks.

The beating of the drums began again, and this time Soult himself rode forward with his men, shouting encouragement as he drew his sabre and waved it forward. The muddy slope, already churned up by the cavalry and infantry of earlier attacks, was a glistening quagmire and the men had trouble keeping their footing as they struggled forward. Behind Arthur the leading brigade of the First Division had reached the ridge and was taking up position on the reverse slope. The succeeding formations were already breaking away from the road to form up on the flanks.

Arthur turned to General Hope. ‘Have them advance to the crest. They’ll be safe enough as there’s no enemy artillery on the field. Let Soult’s men see ’em.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The faltering French attack struggled up the slope a short distance while more and more British troops appeared on the crest of the ridge. Soult reined in, sheathed his sword and surveyed the growing number of the defenders. Then he turned away and plodded back towards the rest of his army, calling an order out to the nearest officers as he passed. A moment later the drums stopped, and the French brigades halted. Arthur and the other officers watched and waited, in tense silence. Then the French began to turn about face and tramp back down the slope.

A chorus of whistles and jeers rose up from the men on the ridge and Hope snapped to one of his aides, ‘I’ll not have such damned indiscipline! Get along there and pass the order for them to be silent.’

‘No,’ Arthur interrupted.‘Indulge them. They’ve earned it. Besides, it can only add to the enemy’s discomfort. Indulge your men, Hope.’

‘Yes, sir,’ he replied reluctantly.

As the rest of the First Division formed up on the ridge, the French began to fall back beyond Barroilhet, leaving a screen of skirmishers to defend the village. Arthur told Hope to send pickets forward and then stand his men down.

‘You might consider fortifying your position this time,’ he added drily. ‘I’m prepared to forgive a man his mistakes, provided he learns from them immediately. I trust I make myself clear?’

‘Perfectly. I will do all that is necessary, sir,’ Hope replied, momentarily chastened. Then he cleared his throat and continued in a bluff tone, ‘That was a close run thing. Soult is a fine commander. Almost a match for you, sir.’

‘If you say so,’ Arthur replied dismissively. He was irked by the comparison, and by Hope’s effort to pass the blame for his incompetence to his commander. Even so, Arthur relented. Hope’s brave example had steadied his men at the critical moment. ‘But let me tell you the difference between Soult and me. When he gets in a difficulty, his troops don’t get him out of it. Mine always do.’ He paused and continued under his breath, ‘Even if their officers don’t.’

General Hope nodded contentedly, grateful to have saved his reputation. Then he turned away to issue orders to his staff. Somerset stared towards the last of the French troops pulling back through the village ahead. ‘Is it your intention to pursue Soult?’

Arthur was silent for a moment. ‘No. It will do us no good. There is little to be achieved in this weather. Soult will retreat to Bayonne and settle into winter quarters. Our men are weary and need time to rest and re-equip. The issue will be decided next year. Both here and in the north.’ He smiled thinly. ‘The days of Bonaparte are numbered, Somerset. Make no mistake about it.’

Chapter 47

Arthur slid two five franc pieces across the desk towards Somerset and then leaned back in his chair.

‘Tell me which is the forgery.’

Somerset pursed his lips as he stared at the two silver coins, then he picked them up, one in each hand, and examined them closely, sensing their even weight as he did so. Both carried a minting date of five years earlier. The only distinction was that one was slightly less worn-looking than its companion. Somerset lowered the other coin and raised the shinier one up. ‘This one.’

Arthur slapped his hand down on the table and laughed. ‘Wrong!’

He was delighted with Somerset’s error. Earlier, he had been presented with the two coins by Wilkins, a sergeant in the Rifles, but formerly a resident of Newgate prison, who was in charge of the small team of conterfeiters. Wilkins had asked him to choose between the two coins and Arthur, like his aide, had failed to pick the forgery, and now took pleasure in passing on Wilkins’s explanation of the deception to Somerset.

‘You see, the coin has been stained with coffee. It gives the illusion of wear and will last long enough for the coin to pass through several hands before arousing any suspicion.’

Somerset picked up the coin and examined it again. ‘Very clever. Sergeant Wilkins and his men have done a fine job. We’re damn lucky to have such men with us.’

‘Lucky?’ Arthur raised his eyebrows. ‘In this instance, yes, but I have never been convinced of the wisdom of the army recruiting its men from the scum who infest our prisons.’

Somerset smiled. ‘Newgate’s loss is our gain, sir.’

‘True, but I shudder to think what use such fine skills might be put to in peacetime. In any case, Wilkins reports that he and his men have minted enough French coins for us to buy supplies for the next month at least. By which time, I hope that the promised gold arrives from England.’

Somerset puffed his cheeks and looked doubtful. His scepticism was probably justified, Arthur reflected. Almost every promise made to him by the government over recent years had been subject to alteration, delay or denial. The lack of gold posed the most serious threat to his campaign at present. The mule drivers who carried most of the army’s supplies had not been paid for over three months, and the soldiers for even longer.

Marshal Soult had his own problems, Arthur discovered from the locals. Unable to feed his army of sixty thousand and the population of Bayonne, Soult had been forced to leave a garrison and move the bulk of his army further inland. As the two armies settled into their winter quarters the civilians crossed freely between them, carrying wine, bread, meat and cheese from Bayonne and returning with sugar and coffee that arrived on the first English merchant vessels to enter the port of St-Jean-de-Luz. Even so, it was a seller’s market and the high prices charged by the peasants were made more aggravating by their refusal to accept the silver dollars the army had been using in Spain. Hence the small counterfeiting enterprise Arthur had set up in a closely guarded warehouse in the port where Wilkins and his men melted down the Spanish currency, added in a small measure of base metals, and then cast, finished and aged the French coins. As soon as they were mixed with the other French coins in the army’s war chest they would be ready to go into circulation. Arthur had managed to supplement his supply of French currency by trading coins for British treasury bills with some of the banks in Bayonne. He had been mildly surprised by the bankers’ willingness to enter into such deals with an enemy power, but then the venality of bankers surpassed their sense of patriotism by a considerable measure.

He put the coins in his drawer and turned to the next item on the list of administrative tasks that he and Somerset were working through. ‘Uniforms. Well? How is the replacement programme going?’

‘Slowly. Only a few consignments have arrived in the port. The winter seas are delaying the convoys from Southampton. So far we’ve been able to issue new kit to two of Hope’s divisions. He is sending one regiment at a time into the port to collect their new uniforms. What they leave behind is being laundered and issued to Hill’s men to use for patching.’

‘Good.’ Arthur nodded. Hill’s men, being positioned furthest from the port, were the last to get any kind of supplies, since the roads across the country were largely impassable. The mules used to carry supplies were short of forage and soon wasted away due to the exertion of struggling through the mud to reach the right wing of the allied army.

‘See to it that some of Hill’s reserve formations are recalled to the port to get some new kit. Best not let the men get some fool idea that one formation is being favoured over another.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Somerset bent his head to make a quick note.

‘Now then, on to the requisition of shipping for the Adour crossing. How is Major Simpson faring?’

The engineering officer had been tasked with securing sufficient vessels to construct a pontoon across the mouth of the Adour river. Once the bridge was in position General Hope’s men could encircle Bayonne when better weather returned and the campaign could be continued, while the main column of the allied army drove Soult east.

‘Simpson sent requisitions to the ports as far as Santander, and to some of the nearest French ports. There’s no shortage of interest amongst ship owners. The only difficulty is that they want paying in gold or silver.’

‘No surprise there,’ Arthur replied ruefully. ‘Tell Simpson we can offer them a third now, a third on arrival and a third on completion of the bridge.’

Somerset looked up and sucked in a breath. ‘Can we afford that, sir?’

‘We can afford the initial payment. That will be enough to get them here. Then they’ll have to wait their turn for money, like the rest. Once the ships are under our guns there’s little they can do about the situation in any case. Not very ethical, I know, but needs must.’ Arthur shook his head wearily. ‘Is that all this morning?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then we’ll finish this. You may go. Tell Wilkins to have his men complete their work as soon as possible. The army needs to be provisioned. It may be on the march before long, depending on events.’

‘Events, sir?’

Arthur nodded at some French newspapers that had reached headquarters that morning. ‘Even Bonaparte’s bulletins admit that he is falling back towards the French border. If we are approaching the endgame, then it is vital that we do our duty here in the south of France, and prevent Bonaparte from drawing any reinforcements from Soult.’ Arthur fixed his aide with a determined expression. ‘The end is near, Somerset. Bonaparte cannot stave off the combined armies of his enemies. The war will be over before the end of the year.’

‘And then, sir?’

‘Then? Then we go home.’Arthur waved a hand.‘Now then, off with you.’

When the door had closed behind Somerset, Arthur rose from his seat and walked over to the window. It looked out over the port’s rainswept quays, now packed with shipping, much of it British, free to come and go thanks to the Royal Navy’s domination of the French coast.

What would become of Bonaparte when the war was over? Arthur knew that his army, almost to a man, would be happy to see the French Emperor dethroned and ‘decapitalised’ as they put it. For his part Arthur knew that there was little desire for a return of the Bourbons amongst the French people, and so he was prepared to countenance Bonaparte’s remaining on the throne, as long as his army and his ambitions could be safely contained. Arthur smiled to himself. Whatever he might accept, he doubted that England’s eastern allies would be quite so merciful.

The wet weather continued throughout the rest of December and into the New Year. Most of the allied soldiers had been billeted in the port and the small villages south of Bayonne and the Adour river. Some battalions were not so fortunate and had to make do with barns and whatever shelters they could find. The rest slept in their tents, now worn and leaky after months on campaign. Yet if their comforts were few, their days were filled with a familiar range of pleasures. There were many amenable women amongst the camp followers ready to serve their carnal appetites, rough games of football to be played across muddy pitches, and for the literate rankers too the chance to read whatever they could find, and write home to their families, and to those of the illiterate on their behalf for a small fee. The officers put on plays and recitals and hosted meals, each brigade trying to outdo the next as they acted as hosts. Christmas was celebrated with the fervent enthusiasm of men who knew that they might well never see another, and the carols that were sung around the camp fires carried a kind of warm melancholy to Arthur’s ears as he toured his army to present the season’s greetings to his soldiers.

While the men made the most of the enforced break in the campaign Arthur worked long hours at his desk, cajoling his supply officers into making sure that they prepared his army for the next, and he hoped final, campaign of the war. In addition to such burdens, he also had to send increasingly terse messages back to the government in London, explaining why he had been obliged to halt. Politicians seemed to have no understanding of the logistical handicap that mud presented to an army. To them mud was little more than the unsightly accretion on footwear that obliged a man to hand his boots to his servant for cleaning.

It was early in January, while Arthur was wearily drafting yet another reply to his political masters, that a message arrived on the regular mail packet from Southampton. The commander of the vessel, an excited young lieutenant, brought the message to him in person. After handing over the official sealed message he could not help himself from speaking.