Текст книги "The Fields of Death"

Автор книги: Simon Scarrow

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‘Yes, sir.’

‘Oh, and tell him that all Spain will rejoice in today’s victory and that the name of Cuesta will be remembered for ever in the hearts of his people.’

Somerset was silent for a moment. ‘Isn’t that a bit vainglorious, sir?’

‘Of course, but if it helps to spur the old man into action then it’s worth it.’

‘Yes, sir. I’ll send the message at once.’

‘Thank you, Somerset.’

When his aide had left him Arthur again surveyed the lines of his men, and once more he recalled the ground he had seen late in the afternoon, when he had ridden forward in a plain brown coat and broad-brimmed hat to inspect the lie of the land. Leaving his small escort out of sight in a small grove of olive trees he had approached the bank of the river and casually trotted along its length to the junction with the Tagus. The French sentries on the far side had watched him, but paid no great attention to the lone horseman. Once he had identified the location of some of the fords, as well as the best routes to approach them without being detected, Arthur returned to the army and drew up his plan of attack.

Now, in the cool night air, all was calm and still. It was hard to believe that nearly twenty thousand men were poised to fight. At the moment they would be sitting in their companies, with their unloaded muskets at their sides. There was no talking as the order had been given for them to wait in complete silence so as not to alert the enemy as to their presence. The corporals and sergeants paced quietly up and down the lines ready to pounce on any man who uttered a word. Elsewhere the cavalry would be standing by their mounts, and aside from the odd scuffle of hooves and faint whinny, they too waited in quiet anticipation. The gunners, still hot and sweaty from their effort to wheel the guns into place as noiselessly as they could manage, stacked their ammunition a short distance from their cannon and carefully loaded the first round. Most men found the waiting intolerable, as every faint sound and movement of a shadow seemed threatening, and wore away at their nerves. Only a handful of fatalistic veterans, and a small number of men who had managed to suppress their nerves through surreptitious consumption of spirits, waited calmly.

Half an hour had passed when Arthur next checked his watch. With a click of his tongue he turned his horse to his right flank and made his way down the line, pausing every so often to exchange a quiet greeting with one of his officers and offer them a few words of encouragement. There was still no sign of the orderly who had been sent to find General Cuesta by the time Arthur reached the end of his battle line. He stopped his horse and strained his eyes to try to detect any sign of movement from the direction of Salcidas, but there was not enough light to make out anything more than the vaguest detail.

‘Damn, where is he?’ Arthur muttered. ‘Has the fool lost his way, I wonder?’

‘I doubt that, sir,’ Somerset replied. ‘I chose a good man to deliver the message. Cornet Davidson was confident he knew the ground well enough.’ He paused a moment. ‘It’s possible that General Cuesta may not have reached his position.’

Arthur turned to his aide. ‘By God, I hope you’re wrong. General Cuesta would have to be a consummate fool to let such an opportunity come to naught.’

He was about to continue when both men heard a distant clop of hooves and they turned to stare into the night. A figure on horseback emerged from the shadows.

‘Ours?’ Somerset whispered.

‘Only one way to tell,’ Arthur replied. He cleared his throat and called out, ‘Halt. Who goes there?’

The other rider reined in and hurriedly responded. ‘Cornet Davidson, of the Light Dragoons.’

‘Davidson, come here, man!’ Arthur called back.

The cornet spurred his horse forward and a moment later he reined in before his commander and saluted.

‘Did you find Cuesta?’

‘No, sir. I looked for him at Salcidas, but there was no one there, not even one of his advance patrols. So I tracked across the route he should be taking for a mile, perhaps two, and still saw no sign of him, sir. That’s when I decided I had better report back to you.’

Arthur’s jaw tightened with frustration. Where the hell was the Spanish army? By this time they should have completed deploying for their attack. He lowered his head for a moment and thought. Even if Cuesta was still moving up towards Salcidas he could not possibly be ready for at least another three hours. That would mean delaying the attack until four in the morning. It would still be dark then, and there was still a chance of surprising Marshal Victor’s men in their camp. Arthur looked up.

‘Davidson, I want you to go back and try to find Cuesta. Tell him that I have decided to delay the attack until four. He is still to give the signal we agreed on. Make sure that he understands the urgency with which he must act if we are to succeed.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Davidson nodded.

‘Off you go then.’

Davidson turned his mount and spurred it into a trot as he headed off in search of the Spanish army.

Somerset let out a weary sigh.‘Our Spanish friends are proving to be somewhat unreliable, sir.’

‘Indeed.’ Arthur was furious, and it took some effort to keep his tone neutral as he continued. ‘There are times when one might think that they actually pose more of a danger to us than the French do. Anyway, we are where we are, Somerset. We must return to the army and pass the word for the men to stand down for a few hours. I need them alert and fresh for when the fighting starts.’

They made their way back to the flank of the British army, and were challenged by the pickets before passing on and returning to the command post behind the centre of the British line. As they arrived an officer hurried up to Arthur and saluted.

‘Sir, we have visitors. General O’Donoju and some of his staff are waiting for you, down by the headquarters tent.’

Arthur turned to look down the hillock into the small depression where a handful of lamps glimmered, hidden from French view.‘Did he explain why he is here?’

‘No, sir. I asked, but he said his message was for you, and not your underlings.’

‘He said that?’ Arthur shook his head. ‘Come, Somerset.’

They continued down the slope to the tent and dismounted alongside the Spanish horses being held by some of Arthur’s orderlies. O’Donoju was waiting inside, with four of his officers. He rose to his feet when he saw Arthur and bowed his head.

‘It is a pleasure to see you again, General Wellesley.’

‘Where is Cuesta?’ Arthur cut in. ‘He should have been at Salcidas hours ago.’

O’Donoju frowned at the informal use of his superior’s name. ‘His excellency has sent me to inform you that he has been delayed.’

‘Delayed? Why?’

The Spaniard shrugged. ‘The men were slow to break camp. The night is dark, and they do not march as fast as they do during the day.’

‘Then why did your general not take account of that, and start out earlier?’

‘I do not presume to know the mind of my commander, sir.’

Arthur puffed his cheeks irritably. ‘Where is he now?’

‘Perhaps three miles east of Salcidas. His excellency says that he will be in position to attack at six in the morning.’

‘Dawn will have broken by then. The French will be aware of our presence. We will have lost any element of surprise.’

‘Perhaps, sir,’ O’Donoju countered. ‘Even so, we can still proceed with the attack. After all, the odds are vastly in our favour.’

Arthur thought a moment. The Spaniard was right. Provided Victor did not react swiftly and break camp before the attack began, he would be obliged to stand and fight.

‘Very well then. General Cuesta must begin his attack at six. No later. Is that clear?’

O’Donoju stared back defiantly. ‘If that is the wish of his excellency, then yes. Now, I bid you farewell, sir. My officers and I must return to our army.’

‘Yes, you must, as swiftly as you can. There must be no further delay.’

The rest of the night passed slowly, and as the sun fringed the eastern horizon in a pale orange glow Arthur gave the order for his army to stand to. All along the line, the men wearily rose to their feet, stretching their muscles before forming ranks. As the light strengthened the French sentries on the other side saw the massed ranks of the British army and at once a warning shot was fired to alert the main camp.

‘There goes our surprise,’ Somerset said bitterly.

‘That can’t be helped,’ Arthur responded. ‘We just have to hope that Cuesta begins the attack before Victor can break camp.’

‘Sir, what is to stop us beginning the attack ourselves?’

Arthur turned to his aide. ‘My dear Somerset, if we attack across a river against defensive positions without support then we will suffer grievously. So much so that I doubt we could continue offensive operations in Spain. I would be obliged to fall back, and if we were pursued then I dare say we would be forced to repeat General Moore’s retreat to Corunna. England can endure only so many such defeats before being forced to kneel to Bonaparte.’ He paused to let his words sink in. ‘We must wait for Cuesta.’

Now even the minutes seemed to drag by, and as the first brilliant rays of the sun broke across the eastern horizon the first French battalions hurriedly marched forward to cover the fords, together with several guns. The opportunity to attack was fast slipping away and Arthur forced himself to remain still in his saddle, ears straining for the first sound of cannon fire that would announce Cuesta’s attack. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Somerset discreetly draw out his pocket watch, glance at it with a raised eyebrow, and then slip it back into his waistcoat.

‘You might as well tell me the time,’ Arthur muttered.

‘Ten minutes gone six, sir.’

Both men were still for a moment, then Arthur took up his reins and slowly turned his horse. ‘The army is not to move until I return. If the enemy opens fire, then have our fellows fall back to cover and leave our guns to their work. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, sir. Might I ask where you are going?’

‘To find Cuesta. It is time to speak plainly to his excellency.’

General Cuesta was taking his breakfast in a large open carriage when Arthur rode up to him near Salcidas. The leading units of the Spanish army had downed their packs and some were already busy foraging across the surrounding countryside for the day’s meal. The following columns were still strung out along the road, cloaked in the dust kicked up ahead of them. Arthur regarded the scene in a cold rage for a moment before he approached Cuesta. The Spanish commander regarded him warily. He bowed his head briefly in greeting and called for O’Donoju to attend him.

Arthur touched his hand to the brim of his hat. ‘Good day, sir. Or at least it would have been, had the battle begun. It was my understanding that we should attack at two in the morning. Where were you, sir?’

Cuesta shrugged and then made a curt comment to his translator.

‘His excellency says that you asked the impossible of our soldiers. The distance was too great to march in the darkness. Your plan was flawed.’

‘Nevertheless, my army has been in position since midnight. After having marched through the night to take up its appointed position. If my men could do it, then why not yours? It was not the fault of the plan.’

General Cuesta lurched forward as Arthur’s comments were passed on to him. He stabbed a fleshy finger towards Arthur and launched into a bitter tirade which O’Donoju struggled to keep up with.

‘His excellency says that he tires of the demands you make of him and his army . . . Who do you think you are to order him to provide you with food? To tell him where and when to wage his battles? The English are every bit as arrogant as he had heard. He will not endure this any longer.’

‘Enough!’ Arthur raised a hand. He drew himself up to his full height on his saddle and tilted his head slightly to look down his nose at Cuesta before he continued. ‘I’d be obliged if you tell General Cuesta that I have never heard of a situation where an ally has been so ill-treated. You gave me your word that my army would receive supplies and yet my men are forced to march on half-rations thanks to your broken promises. And now you have failed to grasp the chance to strike a humiliating blow at the enemy. Hear me clearly, O’Donoju. As soon as Marshal Victor realises that he is outnumbered he will fall back. I tell you now that I will not lead my men one step further towards Madrid until you hold good to your word, and give me the supplies I was promised. Moreover, I am not prepared to extend any further military co-operation until General Cuesta concedes overall command to me.’

Cuesta’s mouth sagged open as O’Donoju translated. Then his thick eyebrows knitted together and his expression tightened into a scowl. When the last of Arthur’s remarks had been heard he made his reply in an umistakably furious tone.

‘His excellency says that you and your soldiers can stay here and rot for all he cares. Why should he feed you? You are parasites. The Army of Extremadura does not need you. We can defeat the French on our own. While you sit here, his excellency will pursue Marshal Victor alone. The glory will be his and you will be left to wallow in your mire of shame.’

Once the Spaniard had finished Arthur nodded. ‘It seems I am done here. I will return to my army and await your general’s apology at my headquarters.’

Arthur clicked his tongue, and turned his horse round before spurring it into a trot, anxious to quit the presence of General Cuesta. It would be rash in the extreme for Cuesta to act without support. Only a fool would contemplate such a course of action,Arthur mused bitterly. He had said his piece. Hopefully there were enough wise heads amongst the general’s staff officers to persuade him against the folly of advancing alone. If not, then disaster threatened and Arthur feared that he would not be able to do anything to prevent it.

Chapter 6

Talavera, 27 July 1809

Arthur watched as the long column of Spanish troops trudged into the town. Many were wounded and blood seeped through their hastily applied dressings and bandages. Hundreds of them carried no weapons, having thrown them aside as they fled back down the road from the direction of Madrid. There was little sense of order as men from different battalions blended into one long stream of rabble fleeing from the pursuing French army. A handful of guns had been saved and moved steadily along the column as a squadron of blue-jacketed hussars cleared the way ahead of them. Only a handful of senior officers were in evidence, marching with their men. The rest had accompanied General Cuesta as his mule-drawn carriage had led the retreat back to the banks of the Alberche where he had decided to rally his men and make a stand.

‘Not a pretty sight, is it?’

Somerset shook his head. ‘A beaten army never is, sir. All the more unfortunate that this was avoidable in the first place.’

‘That it was,’ Arthur replied with feeling.

Having failed to make a co-ordinated attack on Marshal Victor six days earlier, General Cuesta had waited three days before continuing the advance alone to try to run down the French. The result was predictable, Arthur mused. The garrison of Madrid had advanced to join forces with Victor and the French had turned on Cuesta and broken his army, sending it reeling back in confusion. The crisis had almost turned into a complete disaster when the Spanish commander had ordered his men to turn and fight with a river at their back. On hearing this Arthur had galloped forward from the British camp outside Talavera to persuade Cuesta to fall back to a less dangerous position. The old general, still bitter over their previous confrontation, had at first refused to listen. Fearing that Cuesta’s obstinacy would allow the French to destroy each army in turn, Arthur had swallowed his pride and begged Cuesta to reconsider.

Cuesta had sneered as he had made his reply via O’Donoju.

‘On your knees, Sir Arthur.’

Arthur could not hide his astonishment. ‘What?’

‘His excellency wants you to beg on your knees. You have humiliated him enough by refusing to accept his command. Now he wants to see you humiliated.’

At first Arthur was too surprised to react. Surely the man must be mad. With his army facing certain defeat if it stayed where it was, and a powerful French army only hours away, Cuesta was wasting time settling such a petty score. For the first time Arthur fully appreciated the depths of the man’s vanity, selfishness and arrogance. If Arthur refused to do as the Spaniard demanded then thousands of his men would die unnecessarily, and the British army would be left hopelessly exposed in the heart of Spain with almost no supplies left to sustain the men as they were pursued back into Portugal. He swallowed his distaste for the Spanish general. What did it matter if he suffered a moment of humiliation if it saved the men of two armies?

He swallowed bitterly and eased himself down on one knee as he stared straight into Cuesta’s mocking eyes and spoke steadily. ‘Tell his excellency that I beg him to fall back to defend Talavera with my army.’

The memory of that moment burned in Arthur’s soul. It was only partly shame; the rest was anger and disgust at his ally. But at least his humiliation had bought time for the men of the Spanish and British armies as they prepared to turn and make a stand against the French.

Arthur had chosen the ground carefully. Between the Tagus and the steep hills of the Sierra de Segurilla stretched an undulating plain. Closer to the hills there were two large ridges that created a narrow valley on the far side before rising up again into hills. A small stream, called the Portina, running from the hills cut across the plain to the Tagus and formed a natural line for the combined army. With the flanks secured by the Tagus and the hills all that the allies had to do was hold their line.

Mindful of the rough handling the Spanish had recently endured Arthur had left the right of the line to Cuesta. Here the Spanish would be protected by a line of ditches and walls stretching out from the town. More fortifications in the form of barricades of felled trees had been constructed by British troops. The defences were formidable enough to deter the enemy and therefore could be safely entrusted to Cuesta’s badly shaken troops. That left the more exposed part of the line to the British.

Once he was certain that the Spanish were indeed taking up the positions allotted to them, Arthur gestured to Somerset to follow him. They trotted across the plain towards the small force sent forward towards the Alberche river to cover the retreat of the Spanish. The twin towers of an old fortified manor house rose above the olive groves and small oak trees that grew along the near bank of the Alberche and Arthur followed the road that ran through the trees towards the building. He passed through one of the brigades spread out through the trees and nodded a quick greeting to their commander, General Mackenzie, as he saw him in a clearing. When they reached the manor house Arthur saw a number of his men resting around the walls, with their muskets stacked as they talked quietly. More men were visible, spread out through the trees. Those closest to the entrance to the manor hurriedly rose and stood to attention when they spied their general and his aide approaching. Arthur dismounted and went inside.

The manor was built round a courtyard, and seated on the edge of a small pool into which a fountain trickled was the officer charged with guarding the route through the surrounding olive groves.

‘Good morning, Donkin,’ Arthur nodded as he strode up. ‘How is it with you?’

Major Donkin stood smartly and brushed away the crumbs of a pie he had been breakfasting on. ‘All’s well, sir. No sign of the French yet, but my lads will send ’em packing the moment they show up.’

‘Glad to hear it.’ Arthur pointed to the nearest tower. ‘Come, let’s see what’s happening.’

Stuffing the last morsel of the pie into his mouth and chewing ferociously, Donkin followed Arthur to the narrow staircase that ascended inside the tower. At the top they climbed out through the narrow opening into a square room with open arches on each side that afforded good views across the olive groves. A mile to the west Arthur could see the narrow course of the Alberche river, and on the far bank some swirling black clouds of smoke where several buildings were on fire. The smoke made it hard to see the river at that point and Arthur glanced further to the south, towards where the road from Madrid crossed a bridge. Clouds of dust indicated where the main French columns were closing on the river and with an anxious twist in his stomach Arthur estimated that the enemy must have some fifty thousand men.

He pointed towards the burning buildings. ‘What happened there?’

‘Mackenzie’s men set fire to them before they retreated back through my line.’

‘Why?’

‘To prevent the French from using them as strongpoints, sir.’

‘And what is the point of that?’ Arthur responded tersely. ‘Our line is over two miles back from the Alberche. All that he has done is deprived the local people of their homes. For which they will not be inclined to thank us.’

‘No, sir. I imagine not.’

Suddenly Arthur saw a movement through the distant smoke. A file of enemy soldiers was making its way down the bank and into the river, where they crossed and filtered into the trees. He turned to Donkin. ‘Best have your command stand to. The French will be on your pickets soon.’

‘Pickets?’ Donkin frowned, and then looked alarmed.

‘Good God, man, you must have posted them?’

‘Well, no, sir. I mean not yet.’

Arthur glared coldly at the major and was about to berate him for his reckless inattention to his duties when there was a shout from below the tower and a moment later a musket cracked amid the trees. Some of Donkin’s men sprang to their feet and peered into the nearest olive groves. As Arthur followed the direction of their gaze he saw blue-coated figures swiftly passing through the trees. He cupped a hand to his mouth and leaned over the parapet and bellowed down at Donkin’s men.

‘To arms! To arms! The enemy’s here!’

More shots were fired, and Arthur saw jabs of flame and puffs of smoke on three sides of the manor house. One of the British soldiers below doubled over and collapsed on the ground with a deep groan. The quicker-witted of the redcoats were sprinting for their stacked muskets, but several were cut down before they could take up their weapons. There was a crack and plaster exploded off the tower wall just below the parapet.

‘Damn!’ Arthur stepped back. ‘We’re in a damned bad fix, Donkin.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Without another word Arthur hurried back down the steps, the sound of boots ringing off the hard walls. At the bottom he ran through the courtyard and out of the main entrance. From the ground the position looked ever more desperate. French skirmishers were rushing out from the trees, shooting down Donkin’s men who had no chance to form ranks, or look to their officers for orders. Most had gone to ground, and those without weapons crouched down low with fearful expressions as the enemy closed round them.

‘Sir!’ Somerset had grabbed the reins of Arthur’s mount and was riding towards his commander, ducking low over his saddle.

Arthur glanced round. ‘Donkin, get your men out of here at once. Get back to our line as best you can.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Donkin nodded, crouching and holding his hat down on his head as if that would prevent it from being shot off. There was no time for any more words, and Arthur sprinted towards Somerset. Seeing a prize target the nearest enemy skirmishers took aim and fired. A bullet whipped past Arthur’s head, while another spat up a divot of earth a yard in front of him. As soon as he reached his horse, he placed a boot in the stirrup and heaved himself into the saddle with a grunt, taking the reins from his aide.

‘Get you gone, sir!’ Somerset called out, drawing one of the pistols from his saddle holsters. He glanced down to ensure the percussion cap was in place and thumbed back the hammer.

Arthur dug his spurs in and wheeled his horse round, urging it into a gallop down the road leading back through the trees. Glancing back he saw Somerset steady his horse, raise his pistol and take aim. There was a flash and the dull detonation and then Somerset thrust the weapon back in his holster and galloped after his general. Behind them, Major Donkin was bellowing orders for his men to fall back on him and make for the road.

Keeping his head down, Arthur rose up in his saddle as his horse thundered down the dry track. The sound of firing steadily faded behind them but Arthur continued riding as fast as his mount would carry him. Then, a half-mile from the manor house, he came across the first of Mackenzie’s pickets at the side of the road and reined in.

‘Stand to! The enemy’s coming. Take care not to fire on Donkin’s men!’

A sergeant nodded and saluted, and then turned to relay the order down the line in a parade ground bellow. Arthur waved Somerset on and the two of them continued at a less breathless pace down the road until they came to the clearing where Mackenzie still sat with a handful of his officers. Arthur reined in and thrust his arm back down the track.

‘The French have surprised Donkin’s men! Have your brigade formed up at once. We have to stop them here, or they’ll press on right up to our main line. You must drive them off before re-joining the main army.’

‘Yes, sir!’ Mackenzie was on his feet at once, shouting out his orders. As they were repeated Arthur saw figures scrambling from under the low boughs of the olive trees and taking up their positions in each company. The sergeants paced down each line, dressing the ranks and shouting threats at those who were slow in joining their comrades in the line. Within five minutes the men of Mackenzie’s brigade stood ready, watching the trees ahead for sign of the French.

Arthur trotted over to Mackenzie’s side. ‘Make sure your men don’t fire until they are certain they see the enemy. Donkin, and what’s left of his men, will appear first.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Mackenzie hurriedly briefed two officers and sent them down the line in each direction to pass on the instruction. There was not long to wait. The uneven crackle of muskets quickly drew closer and then the first British soldiers could be seen, some helping wounded comrades while others fired their muskets and fell back to take cover behind trees where they reloaded and fired again at their pursuers. The first of the French skirmishers were not far behind, flitting through the sunlit shafts of powder smoke that hung in the still air of the olive groves. As the last of Donkin’s men passed though the gaps in the line, Mackenzie bellowed out the order.

‘Present arms! Make ready to fire!’

There was a muted shuffling as his men raised their muskets and waited for the next command.

‘Cock your weapons!’

A sharp clatter passed down the line as the men thumbed back the firing hammers of their primed muskets.

‘Take aim!’

Up came the muzzles as the soldiers pointed them in the direction of the enemy soldiers who had halted and now flinched as they faced the first volley.

‘Fire!’

The command merged with the crash of volleys fired by each company along the length of the British line. A dense cloud of smoke instantly filled the air beneath the trees. From his vantage point in the saddle Arthur saw the withering hail of lead slash the French ranks, cutting down a score of men and sending others reeling, while leaves, twigs and bark exploded off the trees.

‘Reload!’ Mackenzie shouted. ‘Fire by companies!’

The shaken French fired a few hurried shots in return before a second British volley struck home, and then Mackenzie gave the order to fix bayonets. There was a brief clatter as the men slid the bayonets over the end of their muskets and twisted them into the locked position.

‘Advance!’

The British line paced forward into the slowly dispersing powder smoke and became spectral figures in the gloom before they emerged on the far side, scarcely twenty paces from the nearest Frenchmen. The grim faces of the redcoats and the deadly glimmer of their bayonets were enough to send a ripple of mortal terror through the enemy ranks, and those nearest edged back, then turned and hurried away, despite the shouted encouragement and threats of their officers and sergeants.

Satisfied that Mackenzie had the situation in hand, Arthur let out a deep sigh of relief and nodded with satisfaction. ‘That will do for now. Come, Somerset.’

They turned away and spurred their horses down the track, through the groves and back on to open ground. Ahead of them the allied armies had almost finished forming up between the Tagus and the hills and Arthur was struck by the thinly stretched British line, two men deep, that stood ready to hold their ground against the French without the benefit of the field defences afforded to Cuesta’s men. There was little doubt in Arthur’s mind where the main weight of the French attack would be launched. Leaving a small force to occupy the Spanish the French commander would send in upwards of forty thousand men against Arthur’s twenty thousand.

Arthur slowed his horse to a walk as he contemplated the coming fight. ‘This is not the battle I would choose to fight, Somerset.’

‘Indeed, sir?’ His aide urged his horse alongside. ‘Our position seems strong enough, and the French cannot outflank us. It will be our line against their column, just as it was at Vimeiro, and we won that day.’

‘Vimeiro was different. Junot’s army was no stronger than ours. If we had been worsted then the coast was a few miles away and the Royal Navy would have covered the shore while the army embarked.’ Arthur paused a moment. ‘If the Spanish break, or give up their position, then we will be outflanked and cut to pieces. If we attempt to retreat then the enemy cavalry will harry us all the way. The men are half starved as it is. If they are not able to forage, then any retreat will degenerate into a rout. So, my dear Somerset, we must fight here, and we must win. That is the only road open to us now.’