The Fields of Death r-4, page 35
part #4 of Revolution Series
‘Then we don’t stay here,’ Ney responded. ‘If the Tsar won’t sue for peace when we have taken Moscow, then I say we march on St Petersburg instead. Let’s see how reluctant he is to talk when we burn down the most prized of his palaces.’
Napoleon smiled sourly. ‘I suspect that it would make no difference to his resolve. Besides, our communications are already stretched enough and it is four hundred miles from here to St Petersburg. It is out of the question.’ He drew a breath. ‘Our position in Moscow is already growing tenuous. The Cossacks have started attacking Murat’s patrols and they are gradually closing in around the city. The road to Smolensk was cut three days ago, and has only today been cleared by General Sulpice . . . The danger is clear enough. I have made my decision. We will quit Moscow and fall back to Smolensk. There are enough rations there to last the army through the winter. It is possible that General Kutusov might feel bold enough to try to block our retreat. If so, he will hand us another chance to crush his army. In any case, that must be the explanation that we give to the army. They must not be allowed to think of this as a retreat. As far as the soldiers are concerned, we are marching out to find and destroy Kutusov. Is that clear?’
The marshals nodded. Then Davout spoke.
‘Sire, whatever the soldiers believe, we can be sure that our enemies in Europe will present this as a defeat. We have to be careful that defeat is not turned into catastrophe.’
‘What do you mean?’
Davout folded his hands and stared down at them thoughtfully. ‘It is no secret that many of our allies contributed their contingents under duress. We know that we can’t trust the Prussians. If this campaign goes against us, then I fear that Frederick William may well change sides and join the Tsar. If he does, then he will not be the only one.’ He looked up.‘Sire, the overriding priority now is no longer to defeat the Russians. It is my conviction that that is no longer possible. What matters is survival. That means we must save as many men, horses and guns as we can. They will be needed to hold our ground in Europe when this campaign is over.’
There was a silence around the table, before Ney laughed. ‘Ever the optimist, Davout! Damn it, man, you paint the blackest of pictures.’
‘Sometimes the picture is black,’ Napoleon replied, glancing at the portrait at the end of the room. ‘In any case, the decision is made. The army is to abandon Moscow, on the nineteeth. Return to your commands and prepare your men to march. Berthier will send each of you your orders for your place in the line of march.’
Napoleon sat on his mount, surrounded by his staff, as the column trudged by under a leaden sky of gathering rain clouds. The army had set out at first light, but the days were growing shorter and dusk was settling over Moscow before the tail of the huge column had cleared the city. Marshal Mortier commanded the rearguard, and his men were busy spiking the guns that had to be left behind in the city because there were no longer sufficient horses to draw them. Mortier’s soldiers were also tasked with destroying any stocks of powder and weapons that might be of use to the enemy. Afterwards, they would set off, covering the rear of the army.
As Napoleon watched his men pass by, they still offered a cheer as they saw him, but they were no longer the men of the Grand Army that had crossed the Niemen nearly six months ago. They looked more like a procession of beggars in their tattered uniforms and the assortment of coats and jackets they had looted from Moscow. Many were laden down with the more burdensome spoils of war, and the route was already lined with discarded paintings, mirrors and laquered boxes, left in the mud.
In amongst the columns of infantry were wagons and carts filled with the wounded, whatever rations could be gleaned from Moscow, and yet more spoils. The vehicles, and the army’s remaining guns, were drawn by skeletal horses and mules, their ribs clearly delineated under the loose folds of their hides. It was the same for the cavalry, Napoleon noted sadly. The gleaming mounts that had been spurred on across the steppes were now mere shadows of the finest cavalry in Europe. Thousands of troopers no longer had mounts, and marched as infantry, their carbines slung over their shoulders.
He watched them for a while, then took a last glance back towards the Moscow skyline. His heart filled with a bitter hatred for the Tsar. Tugging the reins, Napoleon turned his mount to follow the column snaking back the way it had come as the first cold drops of rain began to fall.
Chapter 31
Arthur
Madrid, 12 August 1812
The bells of the great church of Nuestra Seсora de la Almudena rang out across the city, but were scarcely audible above the din of the crowd lining the streets down which the British troops marched as they made for the royal palace. Despite its being the hottest part of the year, the Spaniards had turned out in their tens of thousands to greet the liberator of Madrid. A battalion of the Coldstream Guards led the way, in carefully patched uniforms, fresh tripoli on their cross belts and buttons polished to a glassy shine. Next came a squadron of the German dragoons who had scattered the last division of Marmont’s army the day after the battle at Salamanca. And then, together with his staff, came Arthur, mounted on his favourite chestnut horse, Copenhagen. He had dressed for the event and left his plain coat and hat at headquarters. Instead he wore his red coat, adorned with gold lace. On his left breast he wore the medals and stars of the titles that he had won over the years. A new bicorne sat on his head, with a plume of white feathers lining it from front to back.
‘I feel like a damned stuffed goose,’ he called to Somerset, who rode to his side and slightly further back. ‘All done up for a Christmas banquet.’
Somesert laughed, doffing his hat to a group of Spanish ladies who were sheltering beneath parasols as they watched the procession from a balcony. ‘Just as long as you look the part, my lord. After all, the Spanish government has conferred upon you the title of the supreme commander of all Spanish forces.’
‘A measure that will be of supreme indifference to almost every Spaniard under arms, I can assure you.’
‘Be that as it may, my lord, you have won their hearts, and the Spanish deserve to see a conquering warrior, not some chap in a coat who might as well be a country doctor when all is said and done.’
‘Country doctor?’ Arthur sniffed. ‘Well, at least my appearance does not seem to concern our fellows unduly.’
He sat stiffly in his saddle as he rode with all the dignity he could muster, occasionally turning to one side or the other and raising a hand to acknowledge the crowd’s cheers, which only prompted a further burst of wild cries and frantic waving of strips of cloth in the red and gold of Spain. It was an impressive reception, Arthur mused. The previous day, Madrid’s population had greeted the army with hysterical joy, pressing bottles of wine and gifts of bread, pastries and dried sausage into the hands of the first soldiers to enter the suburbs. For their part the soldiers had grinned as they nodded their gratitude and responded with the few words of Spanish they had picked up. Today’s procession to the royal palace was a much more formal affair, but had taken on the air of a wild public holiday.
The hated French had gone. As news of the crushing defeat at Salamanca reached King Joseph, he hurriedly packed up his valuables, and a heavily guarded convoy of French officials left the city a few days before the arrival of the allied army. A large column of Spanish collaborators left with them, to avoid the growing bloodlust of the mob. The French were heading south-east to Valencia, where Joseph sought the protection of Marshal Suchet.
Even so, the allied army was short of supplies, the men were tired and many of Arthur’s senior officers were out of action due to injury and sickness. There was little more that could be achieved by pursuing Marmont, and the liberation of Madrid would be an effective blow to French prestige across Europe. It would also help to raise morale back in Britain, where the new Prime Minister, Lord Liverpool, was working hard to generate political support for Arthur’s campaigns in the Peninsula.
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.’
