The Fields of Death r-4, page 25
part #4 of Revolution Series
Arthur was silent for a moment before he replied. ‘You are right. There is little more damage we can do to the walls of the fort. My men will settle the issue by cold steel.’
‘And if they fail to take the breach?’
Just beyond Alava, Somerset stirred irritably. ‘They will take the breach. Our men are amongst the best in Europe, and certainly the best in Spain.’
Alava did not react to the implied slight to his countrymen and nodded sombrely before he replied. ‘Of course. But, for the sake of argument, what would your intentions be if the attack failed?’
‘Then we will be obliged to give up the siege. Without ammunition for the guns we can do nothing, and by the time any more could be found Marmont and Soult would be upon us. Our only hope is to take the fort and turn its guns on the town to blast our way through the walls.’
‘I see.’ Alava nodded. ‘Then we had better pray for success.’
‘Pray if you like,’ Arthur said quietly. ‘But this matter will be settled by cold steel and stout hearts.’
The blast of a whistle pierced the cold dawn air. At once the volunteers of the Forlorn Hope clambered out of the trench and began to dash towards the wall, burdened down by their ladders. Their distant cheers carried thinly as they ran forward over the torn-up ground. Arthur felt his pulse quicken as he stared towards the fort, waiting for the inevitable reaction. Already a drum was sounding the alarm, a tinny rattle that brought the tiny figures of men scrambling up from inside the fort to man the wall. A tongue of flame leaped from the muzzle of a cannon mounted in the nearest bastion. Arthur saw a patch of earth ripped up as the blast of case shot tore up the soil and felled one of the attackers, who was slammed back on to the ground as if he had been kicked by some invisible titan. Another gun opened up, cutting down another two men. Then a series of small stabs of flame and puffs of smoke rippled along the wall as the defenders opened fire with muskets, adding the crackle of their shots to the booming roar of the cannon. More of the redcoats were struck down, some killed outright, while others lay wounded and a few began to crawl back towards the British trenches, desperate to escape the enemy fire that flayed the approaches to the fort.
‘Keep going forward,’ Somerset muttered through clenched teeth. ‘Forward, by God.’
The scattered figures of the assault party dashed on, gaining the foot of the slope leading up to the fort. There they bent forward, using one hand for support as they struggled up the steep incline. All around them were the abattis with their savagely sharpened wooden points waiting to impale the unwary. Arthur felt a surge of relief that the French guns could no longer be brought to bear on his men. But now the wall either side of the breach was bristling with muskets as the defenders continued to pour their fire on to the hapless figures struggling up towards the bottom of the breach. Arthur estimated that a score of men had fallen on the slope, in addition to another thirty or so who had been cut down after leaving the safety of the trench.
Those that remained had reached the foot of the wall, clustering against it for shelter while the lieutenant commanding the party helped to plant one of the ladders below the breach. Drawing his pistol he scrambled up the rungs. As he reached the breach he heaved himself on to the crumbling masonry filling the gap, only to be shot down the moment he stretched up to his full height. The body fell back, arms outstretched, and landed in a crumpled heap to one side of the ladder. But there was already another man on his way up, musket slung across his shoulders as he mounted the rungs. He was shot down even before he reached the breach. Five men were lost in this way before the rest refused to climb the ladder and crouched against the wall, occasionally risking a shot at the defenders above.
‘Damn them!’ Somerset balled his hands into fists. ‘Don’t just stand there. Get up the bloody ladder, you fools . . . you cowards.’
Arthur frowned. He turned to look at his aide with a flash of anger in his eyes. ‘I’ll thank you not to accuse our men of such a base sentiment. Especially as we are standing well out of range of their guns.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘In future you might care to endure what they do before you pass judgement on them. Now be so good as to have the recall sounded.’
Somerset saluted and hurried away down the communication trench leading towards the fort. Arthur watched him for a moment, until he disappeared from view. Then he raised his telescope and examined the situation of his men at the foot of the wall. For the moment they were relatively sheltered from enemy fire, since the defenders had to lean out from the top of the wall to take aim on those below, and thus expose themselves to fire. Then Arthur saw one of the French near the breach drop something. A moment later there was the flash of an explosion close to the ladder and three of the redcoats were flung back down the slope, where they lay motionless.
‘Grenades,’ Arthur muttered distastefully. ‘Infernal devices.’
‘None the less effective, seсor,’ Alvara replied. ‘Let us hope your aide orders the recall before too many more men are lost.’
Arthur nodded and watched as two more grenades burst close to the wall. A short time later the shrill notes of the bugle signalled the recall and the men at the wall fell back, half running and half sliding down the slope as they sought to escape the renewed firing from the defenders. Several more were lost before they reached the bottom of the slope and began to sprint back across the open ground towards the shelter of the trench, pursued by renewed blasts of case shot from the guns mounted on the bastion. The last of the survivors of the attack dropped out of sight and the enemy guns fell silent, not deeming it worth the powder to kill the handful of wounded men who were still staggering or crawling back to the allied lines.
Arthur snapped his telescope shut and turned away from the scene. He strode through the battery towards the horse lines, swung himself up into the saddle and spurred the mount back towards his headquarters.
‘What was the butcher’s bill this time?’ Arthur folded his hands together as he looked up at Somerset.
The latter glanced down at his open notebook.‘A hundred and forty men this time, my lord.’
‘A hundred and forty? With the ninety casualties of the first attack and the two hundred and fifty that we lost while the men were digging the trenches, that’s nearly five hundred men.’ He sucked in a quick breath. ‘We have lost the best part of a battalion and achieved nothing here.’
Somerset kept silent. It was not his place to criticise Beresford’s plans for the siege.
There was little choice in the matter, Arthur reflected. The attempt to take Badajoz had failed. There was no shot for the siege guns, and without them the outwork of San Cristobal would continue to defy any attacks Arthur launched. Finally, a report from a cavalry patrol revealed that Marmont and Soult’s force was no more three days’ march away. Their combined armies outnumbered Arthur’s. No choice then. He looked up at his aide.
‘The army will break camp at first light. We will withdraw to the north. Have the orders drawn up, and make sure that the head of the commissary sends his men ahead to purchase rations.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘One final thing. I want the siege guns returned to Elvas. If they are moved quickly they should reach Elvas before the French can catch up with them.’
‘Why take the risk?’ Somerset shrugged.‘We could roll them into the river, to ensure that the French don’t capture them.’
‘I cannot guarantee that they would not be retrieved. Besides, the guns belong to our Portuguese allies. It would be unseemly for us to allow them to fall into French hands.’
‘Why not let the French have them, my lord? They are more of a hindrance than a help. Let the enemy have the burden of them.’
‘No.’ Arthur shook his head.‘We shall return the guns to their proper owners, if only as a token of our goodwill. Make sure the appropriate orders are given.’
Somerset nodded and made a note with his pencil.
Arthur sat back and wearily eased a hand through his close-cropped hair. ‘Next time I will be my own engineer, by God. There will be no more hasty decisions and half-measures. I will have a proper siege train, and when we lay siege to a fortress we will pound it to pieces and make damned sure that we take it. Once we have all the frontier forts securely in our grasp there is nothing that the French can do to force us out of Spain.’ He smiled at his aide. ‘Every small step matters, Somerset. No matter how long it takes, we will wear our enemy down and drive him back across the Pyrenees.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
Arthur picked up the report from the cavalry patrol.‘For now, we are obliged to retreat from Badajoz. Once we have rested the men and gathered enough force together we will turn and face the enemy.’
For the rest of summer, and on into the autumn, Arthur was powerless to intervene as the French resupplied and reinforced their frontier forts. The months passed in frustration for Arthur. While he was free to threaten the enemy at any point along the frontier between Spain and Portugal he was still obliged to retreat when the French gathered superior forces to repel the allied army. To add to his frustration the enemy seemed to have learned the lessons of earlier battles and now refused to attack whenever Arthur found a good defensive position and turned to fight.
Even as the series of marches and counter-marches and bloodless confrontations became a source of discontent for the rank and file, Arthur was steadily preparing the ground for the following year’s campaign. His requests for more reinforcements, particularly cavalry, had been agreed by the government. A siege train of good-quality heavy guns was landed at Oporto and then laboriously hauled overland to Almeida where supplies of ammunition and rations were being stockpiled. When the time came for the allied army to advance again, they would be properly supplied, and ready to batter down the defences of any fortress that stood in their way.
Chapter 22
Paris, 2 December 1811
Even though the night was raw and cold, much of the population of the city had turned out to celebrate the anniversary of the emperor’s coronation. The crowds lined the banks of the Seine, waiting in excited anticipation for the fireworks display to begin. Three barges had been anchored in the middle of the river, opposite the Tuileries palace. By the light of carefully shielded lanterns the crowds could make out the dim figures making the final preparations. The display marked the end of the day-long celebrations to mark the eighth year of Napoleon’s reign. At dawn a battery of twelve-pounders had thundered out a salute from the heights of Montmartre. Each boom had echoed across the roofs of Paris, slick and glistening in the light mist that coated every surface with damp.
Early that morning, the battalions of the Imperial Guard had begun to march into the city from their billets in the suburbs. Their route was lined with crowds, cheering proudly as the elite soldiers in their towering bearskins marched past in neat ranks to the rhythm of the patriotic music played by each battalion’s band. Interspersed between the infantry were squadrons of Guard cavalry, large men in shining high boots and breastplates, mounted on powerful horses whose coats were brushed to a satin gleam.
A reviewing platform had been erected in the great courtyard of the Tuileries where a more select audience had been permitted into the palace grounds to witness the military parades that took place in the afternoon. On the platform sat Napoleon, his Empress, and senior members of the court, as well as guests from the courts of the other Euopean powers.
One by one the battalions of the Old Guard marched past with their muskets shouldered, campaign stripes adorning their immaculate uniforms and medals pinned to their breasts. After the guardsmen came a small party of junior officers, each man carrying one of the Prussian, Austrian and Russian standards captured in the campaigns of the previous years.
Napoleon turned his head slightly to glance at Prince Metternich, the Austrian Foreign Minister. Metternich’s normally curly hair was plastered to his head by the faint drizzle, yet his expression of resentment was clear to see and it warmed Napoleon’s heart. Never let the Austrians forget that they had been humbled by Napoleon whenever they had dared to wage war on France. Beyond Metternich sat the Russian ambassador, Kurakin, his head inclined towards Talleyrand as the two exchanged a few muttered comments. The Russian turned at that moment, and met Napoleon’s stare. He smiled faintly and bowed his head to the French Emperor before turning his eyes back to the captured standards passing by. Talleyrand pursed his lips and looked directly ahead as he slowly twisted his walking stick.
Napoleon turned his face back towards the passing flags, acknowledging the salutes of his officers automatically, but his mood had been soured by the sight of the two men conversing. What was that devil, Talleyrand, up to now, he wondered. It was possible their exchange of comments was innocent enough, but with the steadily growing rift between France and Russia Napoleon was inclined to be suspicious of every Russian, and those they chose to associate with. Only a few months earlier the Tsar had increased the import duties on French goods yet again, at the same time as he continued to turn a blind eye to the English goods that were being landed at Russian ports. And now the Tsar was protesting about the presence of French troops in Poland, and demanding that Napoleon agree to his annexation of some Polish territories that bordered Russia. This, on top of his demand that Napoleon give him a free hand in the crumbling Turkish empire. The reports from the ambassador to St Petersburg spoke ominously of the growing anti-French feeling at the Russian court. Increasingly, there was talk of war with France and a new alliance with England.
Napoleon felt his stomach clench tightly as he was gripped by a familiar rage at the thought of his old enemy, defying him from behind the wooden walls of the Royal Navy. It was a perverse freak of geography that had separated England from the rest of the continent by that narrow, unbridgeable channel. From behind that cursed channel, England, a nation of petty businessmen, mocked him. But for that strip of water, it would all be over. England would be occupied, its fleets broken up, and Europe would be enjoying peace under the leadership of France, and Napoleon, and his heirs. Instead, the war continued, slowly eating away at the flower of French manhood down in Spain.
There was scarcely any good news from Madrid. Just endless lists of casualties and demands for more men, supplies and gold. Spain was like an open festering wound in the side of his empire, Napoleon decided. Worst of all, his marshals seemed to have got it into their heads that their English opponent was some kind of military genius. It was clear from their reports that they had begun to fear Lord Wellington. Even though the forces commanded by the marshals outnumbered the English, and could outmarch them, it seemed that when the English general was forced to fight the courage of Napoleon’s marshals withered and they were too nervous to finish off the fox that they had successfully cornered. If only there was time for him to go to Spain and face this English aristocrat himself, Napoleon thought bitterly. He would manoeuvre Wellington into a trap and crush him in short order. The thought of proving to his marshals how groundless their fears were was most appealing. He would triumph where they had wavered, and he would prove before all Europe that he was the finest general of the age, or indeed any age.
But there was little chance of finding the time to campaign in the Peninsula, Napoleon realised. There was an empire to rule, and enemies to be faced here in Paris, as well as the other great capitals of Europe. If there was going to be a war between France and Russia then he would need to bend his full concentration towards preparing for that conflict. It would be a struggle on a gigantic scale. As his mind grappled once again with the complexities involved in an invasion of Russia, Napoleon briefly wondered if it could be done. The distances concerned were greater than any he had led an army before. There would be a huge wastage of men, horses and wagons, long before he could engage the Tsar’s armies, or, failing that, seize St Petersburg or Moscow and dictate his terms for peace from one of the Tsar’s palaces.
Napoleon knew that there would not be enough men in France to fill out the ranks of the army he would need. He would be forced to depend upon contributions from his allies. Meanwhile, over a quarter of a million of his soldiers were tied down in Spain. It was maddening. Napoleon clenched his fist and frowned, and then he felt his stomach knot again, tightly, and the now familiar pain stabbed into his guts. Overwork and too much anxiety - that’s what caused the stomach pains, according to the imperial surgeon.
The last of the captured colours passed by the reviewing stand and the parade was over. He thrust all thought of war from his mind and turned to his Empress. He took her hand and squeezed it gently, smiling as she turned to look at him with a questioning arch in her finely shaped eyebrows.
‘I hope you are not cold, my dear. You have been sitting here for over two hours.’
‘I am warm enough.’ She smiled sweetly. ‘It pleases me to be at your side.’
‘Really?’ Napoleon shook his head. ‘I suspect you are being kind to me. I should think only soldiers, and those who want to be soldiers, enjoy such parades.’ He leaned closer to her and nodded in the direction of Kurakin and Talleyrand. ‘Others, however, evidently find such occasions a bore.’ Napoleon suddenly released her hand and straightened up. ‘Is that not right, Talleyrand?’
Talleyrand turned quickly, his face wearing its usual neutral expression. ‘Pardon, sire?’
Napoleon rose from his seat and gestured to Marie-Louise. ‘I was explaining to the Empress that not all men feel comfortable in the presence of soldiers. Men like yourself, and Ambassador Kurakin there.’
‘I am not uncomfortable, sire.’ Talleyrand gave the faintest of shrugs. ‘It is just that I find that my tastes, and manner of conversation, have little in common with the sentiments of those in the military.’
‘Is that so?’ Napoleon enquired frostily, then pointed towards Talleyrand’s deformed foot. ‘But for that I am sure you could have served your country in a more useful capacity than you have endured.’
