The Fields of Death (25 page)
Read The Fields of Death Online
Authors: Simon Scarrow
‘I have a location in mind.’
There was a brief, expectant silence, but Arthur said no more.
‘Where might that be, sir?’ Cox persisted.
‘All in good time, Colonel. You will find out soon enough.’
Two days later, Arthur was riding in the company of Somerset and a squadron of light cavalry scouting the landscape north of the Mondego river, the route along which Masséna was likely to advance, once he had disposed of the frontier fortresses. Most of Arthur’s army had already crossed the river and was camped around the town of Coimbra. The officers and men were in high spirits, almost eager to close with the enemy after so many months of waiting in camp, with the unending routine of exercise and drilling that their commander insisted on. Arthur was well aware that the army was spoiling for a fight, but so far Masséna had defied his expectations. The French had invested Ciudad Rodrigo slowly and the latest report from Arthur’s scouts revealed that the enemy had not even begun to dig any approach trenches, or establish any siege batteries. It would be some weeks before Masséna was ready to assault the fortress. The danger was, by that time the English soldiers might have lost some of their edge. The greater danger was that the longer it took for the invasion of Portugal to begin, the greater the chance that the government back in London might lose its nerve and issue orders for the evacuation of Arthur and his army.
As the small party reached the crest of a ridge on the road to Mortágua they came upon the whitewashed walls of a convent. Arthur turned to Somerset.
‘What is this place?’
Somerset twisted round and fumbled for the map in his saddlebag. Drawing it out he unfolded the map and ran a gloved finger over it.‘Ah, here we are. The convent of Busaco, sir.’
‘Busaco, eh?’ Arthur muttered as he raised a hand to shield his eyes and examined the surrounding landscape. Ahead of him the road crossed the crest of the ridge and then descended along a curved spur. The slopes on either side of the route were covered with copses of pine trees interspersed with heather. To the left the ridge continued for two miles or so to the north before dropping very steeply to the valley floor. To the right the ridge ran almost straight, in the direction of the Mondego, nearly eight miles away. The crest of the ridge hardly varied in height and afforded a clear view along its length.
‘A good position to defend, I’d say.’ Somerset nodded as he gazed round. ‘We’ve a good view of the approaches to the ridge, sir, and any attacker is going to face a pretty tiring approach up the slope.’
‘Yes, so I imagine.’Arthur took another quick look over the position. The steep slopes would cancel out the enemy’s superiority in cavalry since they could neither charge up the rising ground, nor easily flank Arthur’s battle line and fall on the rear. He nodded with satisfaction and then turned back to his aide. ‘Make a note, Somerset.’
Somerset folded his map and tucked it back in his saddlebag before fishing out a pencil and his notebook. ‘Ready, sir.’
Arthur raised his arm and pointed along the ridge to the south. ‘I want our engineers to construct a road along there, in case we have need to move our men along the line to reinforce weak points. The route will have to be cleared of rocks so we can move the guns and ammunition wagons easily. Make sure that the road runs along the reverse slope. No sense in making our men a target for enemy guns.’ He turned to Somerset. ‘Got all that?’
‘Yes, sir,’ his aide replied as he finished writing the final words and looked up.‘Do you think we can beat Marshal Masséna on this ground, sir?’
Arthur pursed his lips briefly. ‘We may not win a decisive victory, Somerset, but we shall certainly give him a sharp and costly rebuff.’ He smiled. ‘That’ll be something to still the tongues of the croakers back in England, eh?’
‘Let’s hope so, sir.’
The siege of Ciudad Rodrigo proceeded as the spring gave way to summer. Arthur received regular reports of the enemy’s progress as the French sappers slowly dug their zig-zag trenches towards the walls of the fortress. Masséna’s siege guns began a steady bombardment of the outer works, gradually battering a series of breaches in the defences. Once the French came within mortar range, they began to construct a well-protected earthwork for a battery of the snub-barrelled weapons, which soon began to lob shells over the walls with deadly effect, cutting down swathes of General Herrasti’s men.
Towards the end of June one of the defenders succeeded in slipping out of the fortress on a moonless night. Picking his way carefully through the French lines, he made good his escape and was picked up by a British cavalry patrol a day later. The Spanish officer was at once escorted to Arthur’s headquarters in a tavern, arriving two nights after his escape. By the light of the lanterns hanging from the solid beams of the tavern the man’s exhaustion was evident to Arthur. He swayed slightly as he stood to attention and saluted. His uniform was filthy and torn and his face smeared with grime and scratches, incurred as he crawled through the siege lines.
Arthur bowed his head in greeting and glanced at Somerset who was standing at the Spaniard’s shoulder. ‘From Ciudad Rodrigo, you say?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘By God,’ Arthur mused as he looked the officer over again, admiringly. ‘That’s fine work. Somerset, I’ll need a translator. Send for Captain Hastings.’
‘Señor,’ the officer interrupted, ‘I speak English. So my general send me.’
‘Ah, good. Good!’Arthur smiled warmly.‘Might I know your name?’
‘Captain Juan Cerillo de Alimanca y Pederosa, sir.’
‘Yes, well, Captain, what news do you bring from General Herrasti?’
‘The general, he says that he asks you to bring your army and raise the siege. The French, they make a breach. The fortress will fall in no more than a week, if no help comes.’
‘I see.’ Arthur nodded. He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms as he regarded the Spanish officer frankly. ‘I must ask you to tell your general that there is little I can do to help him. My army is not strong enough to relieve Ciudad Rodrigo. The country around the fortress is open and flat. Perfect for the French cavalry, and I have too few mounted men to counter them. I am sorry, but I cannot afford to risk my army by coming to the aid of General Herrasti.’
The Spanish officer’s eyes narrowed. ‘If you are truly an ally of my country, then you would help us, señor. Even so, my general has sent for help from the army of Andalucia. General Alvarez, he promise to send his cavalry to help the English raise the siege. You need not have fear of the French horse, señor. General Alvarez deal with them.’
‘Is that so?’ Arthur’s expression hardened. ‘And what is the strength of General Alvarez’s cavalry?’
‘Five thousand sabres, señor.’ The captain stiffened his weary back and stared at Arthur haughtily. ‘The finest cavalry in Europe.’
Arthur did not respond immediately. He had been promised much by Spanish generals in the past, only to be disappointed when their promises had proved worthless. Their bad faith had cost the British army dearly during the Talavera campaign and he had vowed not to make the mistake of taking them at their word again. It grieved him that the Spanish people, and the common soldiers, were patriots and prepared to defy Bonaparte whatever the cost, yet their senior officers were utterly unreliable. In all likelihood, General Alvarez would never make any attempt to raise the siege. Even if, by some miracle, they did march on Ciudad Rodrigo his men would be scattered by the first enemy formation that barred their way.
Taking a deep breath, Arthur leaned forward and met the Spanish officer’s contemptuous gaze directly. ‘I would ask you to convey my profound regret to General Herrasti. Tell him that I am unable to lift the siege. Tell him that if I were to attempt it, then it is possible that our enemy would inflict a defeat on the one allied army in the Peninsula that stands any chance of defying Bonaparte. I cannot afford to squander what slim hope we have of driving French troops from Spain in the future. Is that understood?’
‘Yes, señor. I understand that perhaps the English are as Napoleon says - you cannot trust them. And that they will fight to the very last drop of Spanish blood.’
Somerset gasped. ‘Now, that’s—’
‘Quiet!’ Arthur snapped. He glared at his aide for a moment before turning his attention back to the Spaniard. ‘I apologise for my subordinate’s lack of self-discipline.’ He rose coolly and offered his hand. ‘There is nothing more I can say, Captain, except good luck, to you and your general.’
The Spaniard did not take his hand, but bowed his head briefly and turned to stride out of the tavern, stumbling slightly at the entrance as exhaustion got the better of his haughty demeanour. Then he was gone, and Arthur immediately rounded on Somerset. ‘What the devil did you think you were doing? British officers have a reputation for imperturbability and discipline, Somerset. I’d be obliged if you reflected on that and make sure that you do not damage that reputation.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Somerset shuffled uncomfortably. ‘Is that all, sir?’
‘Yes. Dismissed.’
Alone in the tavern, Arthur sighed wearily and then reached for the sheaf of maps on one side of the table. Fanning through them, he selected the map depicting the Portuguese border with Spain and tapped his finger on Ciudad Rodrigo. General Herrasti had done a fine job of delaying the French. He had bought Arthur several weeks in which to complete the system of defences defending the approaches to Lisbon. It was a pity that Arthur could do nothing to assist the Spanish commander. Except honour his sacrifice by defeating Marshal Masséna.
The French siege guns battered a practicable breach in the walls of Ciudad Rodrigo on the tenth day of July. Rather than subject the townspeople to all the horrors of having their city sacked, General Herrasti surrendered. It was a sad end to a valiant effort,Arthur reflected as he read the report, but there was no time for regret, as the French were already advancing on the border town of Almeida. General Craufurd’s division did what they could to hold them, but the enemy’s vanguard steadily forced the British back. Two weeks after the fall of Ciudad Rodrigo the French army reached Almeida. Craufurd had left behind one of his ablest officers, Colonel Cox, to command the Portuguese garrison. The town had been well provisioned and there was plenty of ammunition for the cannon that lined its walls. Arthur was confident that Cox would hold out for at least as long as General Herrasti, and so he turned his attention to the problem of persuading the Portuguese civilians in the line of Masséna’s advance to pack up their valuables and seek protection behind the lines of Torres Vedras.
Many had heard of the fate of those who had fallen victim to Soult’s army as it retreated from Oporto two years earlier, and willingly took their families south to Lisbon. Some refused, to defend their homes, and there were those who felt they could make a living out of selling their produce to the French just as easily as to the English. Arthur, still haunted by the memories of the burned villages and mutilated bodies of men, women and children that he had seen in his pursuit of Soult, tried his best to persuade the civilians to leave. However, there were still some who refused, placing the prospect of making money above the risk of being robbed and butchered by Masséna’s soldiers.
Three days after the enemy began their siege of Almeida, Arthur was in the small square of a village on the road to the town. The Portuguese officer who had been sent to tell the villagers to flee had failed to impress upon them the dangers of remaining in their home, so Arthur had decided to persuade them himself. The peril facing them all had been made clear to the local priest, who had rung the church bell to summon the inhabitants to the square. It was mid-afternoon and Arthur and Somerset sat on a bench in the shade of a dusty tree in front of the church. A short distance from them their translator sat cross-legged on the ground. The people were slow to emerge, disgruntled at the interruption to their siesta, and trickled into the square to squat down in whatever shade they could find as they waited for the priest to address them. They showed little interest in the two British officers, or in the six dragoons of Arthur’s escort, resting in the shade to one side of the square.
Somerset pulled the stopper from his canteen and took a swig as he glanced over the local people. ‘Hope our priest is a good performer, or this lot will be fast asleep before he speaks to them.’
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