The Fields of Death (43 page)
Read The Fields of Death Online
Authors: Simon Scarrow
The enemy were not slow to react and thousands of Marmont’s soldiers rushed forward, drums beating, as they fired freely down the slope at the silent redcoats. As the dragoons began to withdraw the infantry advanced up the slope and, on reaching the crest, loosed off the first volley into the milling ranks of the leading French division. There was a brief exchange of fire, the French responding with an ill-disciplined rolling musketry, while Pakenham’s men fired in volleys, discharging over a thousand muskets at a time. Arthur knew the morale effect of such a devastating blow. The leading ranks of both sides were obscured by smoke and dust, and then Arthur saw the first of the French break away, running back along the ridge to the east. Moments later he saw the redcoats emerging from the smoke as they charged and shattered the leading French division.
General Alava clapped his hands together with delight. ‘Fine work! Ah, Marmont has already lost! I know it.’
Arthur kept his concentration on the action as his forces closed on the French line. The second enemy division had begun to move down from the ridge to avoid being thrown into confusion by their comrades fleeing back towards them. As they reached the floor of the valley they halted and began to adjust their formation.
‘What on earth?’ Somerset sat up straight in his saddle and squinted as he watched with growing disbelief. ‘They’re forming squares. Madness . . .’
Arthur felt a brief sense of pity for the men of the French division as the long lines of the redcoats closed on them. The key to winning a battle was using the correct formation to counter the enemy’s moves. Infantry in square might well be invulnerable to cavalry but they provided an easy target for artillery and muskets. Having seen the dragoons savage the flank of the division ahead of him, the French general had decided to be cautious, and now his caution was about to be punished.
The men of the Fourth and Fifth Divisions approached to within effective musket range and halted. Opposite them, the densely packed French squares stood their ground, and Arthur was impressed by their self-discipline: not one shot had been fired. A moment later, as the redcoats lowered their muskets to take aim, the foremost sides of the French squares spat flame and smoke and after a short delay the crash of the massed volley carried up the slope to Arthur. Scores of men went down along the British line, but the casualties were far fewer than they would have been if they had been more closely formed up, as were the French.
When the British fired back, it was hard to miss, and hundreds of the enemy were cut down in the first discharge. The following volleys tore the nearest faces of the French squares to pieces, and as smoke and dust engulfed the battered formations the redcoats charged home. The struggle was brief as the badly shaken French infantry suddenly saw faint figures rushing through the haze towards them, bursting into view with a deafening roar, eyes wide and wild, bayonets gleaming as they cut their way into the ruined French squares, stabbing and beating down all who stood in their path. Having already suffered murderous losses from musket fire and now faced with the savagery of a bayonet charge the French spirit broke and the squares fell apart as the men turned and ran back up the slope towards the ridge.
However, their suffering had only just begun. Into the gap between the Third and Fifth Divisions streamed the heavy cavalry of General Le Marchant. A thousand sabres glittered in the hot sunlight as the horsemen charged at full tilt in amongst the fleeing French. It was the ideal opportunity that every cavalryman hoped for and they set about their broken enemy with ferocious slashes and thrusts, cutting hundreds of them down as they struggled up the slope.
‘Glorious work!’ General Alava exclaimed. ‘Simply glorious.’
‘For now,’ Arthur replied evenly. ‘But unless they are reined in, Le Marchant’s men will be a spent force.’
The cavalry continued their pursuit in a swirling cloud of dust, cutting the second French division to pieces, until they came up against the third enemy formation. This time the French squares came into their own and the British cavalry were stopped in their tracks by the massed volleys of the enemy infantry. Arthur gritted his teeth in frustration at yet another example of his cavalry’s propensity to lose their heads. As the dragoons began to fall back Arthur quickly surveyed the battlefield. Already, two French divisions had been shattered, and now the three British divisions were closing in on the front and flank of the next enemy formation. Arthur frowned as he watched the Fourth Division advancing, its left just starting to pass the slope of the Greater Arapil. Arthur could see a French unit on top of the hill.
‘What is Cole doing?’ Arthur muttered. ‘Why doesn’t he cover his flank?’ He turned hurriedly to Somerset. ‘Send a message to General Cole and warn him to watch his left flank. And tell Pack to send one of his brigades forward to take the hill.’
‘Yes, sir!’
As Somerset wheeled away Arthur watched anxiously as the Fourth Division halted and began to exchange fire with the third of the French formations. So intent was Cole’s concentration on the target to his front that he had clearly missed the danger to his left. Arthur could see that the enemy had realised the chance they had to take sweet revenge on the redcoats in precisely the same manner as they had suffered. But before they could strike, General Pack’s Portuguese doubled forward and began to clamber up the slope towards the crest of the Greater Aparil. It was a desperate attempt to win time for their British comrades, and they were outnumbered by an enemy who held the high ground. The attack stalled as the French skirmishers unleashed a withering fire down the slope. Arthur watched with growing anguish as Pack’s men stopped and went to ground, and then started to fall back.
‘Time for the reserves,’ he decided. Wheeling his horse about, he galloped across the ridge to where the men of the Sixth Division were waiting on the reverse slope, hidden from the battle. General Clinton sat on his horse at the head of his men and tipped his hat as Arthur rode up and reined in breathlessly.
‘Clinton, I want your fellows to advance directly. They are to take the large hill to your front. The enemy must be driven from it and across the valley.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Clinton nodded. ‘You can rely on us. The boys have missed enough of the excitement as it is.’
‘Then I am glad to be of service,’ Arthur smiled. Then his expression hardened. ‘Remember, drive the enemy off the hill.’
By the time he had returned to his command post Arthur was shocked to see that fresh French formations were descending from the Greater Arapil, directly towards the left flank of the Fourth Division. General Cole was finally alert to the danger and had begun to wheel the battalion at the end of his line to face the danger. But one battalion would not be enough, Arthur could see at once. Within the next few minutes his fears were borne out as the French line halted and opened fire, cutting down swathes of men in the thin red line opposing them.
Arthur felt his stomach tighten as he watched. The battalion could not possibly hold its ground for long, and when it gave way the French could charge into Cole’s flank and begin to roll up the allied line. Another French volley ripped through the battalion, cutting down scores of redcoats. Now it seemed that more lay crumpled on the ground than still stood, steadily reloading and firing into the oncoming French formation.
Arthur was aware that General Alava was watching him, trying to gauge his reaction, and he determined not to show the Spaniard any sign of the anxiety that gnawed at his heart. He looked to his left and saw that Clinton’s men had reached the crest and begun to descend the slope. But they would not reach the hill in time to prevent the collapse of Cole’s division.
‘Who’s that?’ Somerset asked, then hurriedly lifted his telescope to examine a formation approaching the hill. It had been hidden from Arthur and his staff by a spur reaching out from the Lesser Arapil. ‘It’s a Portuguese brigade! Must be from the reserves, sir.’
Arthur was watching them now, and saw a general in a heavily gold-braided uniform leading them from the front. He smiled.‘Good for you, Beresford.’
The fresh Portuguese brigade marched swiftly across the intervening ground and formed a firing line on the flank of the French division that had been poised to crush General Cole and his men. With a dull crash the brigade fired into the the French flank, cutting it down almost to a man. The French advance abruptly stopped, and hurriedly began to swing back the right of its line to face the new threat.
Cole’s division had been saved and Arthur breathed a sigh of relief as he exchanged a quick glance with General Alava. ‘That was close.’
‘Indeed?’ Alava laughed. ‘I would never have guessed it from your demeanour, my lord.’
Arthur turned back to observe the battle and saw that Cole had withdrawn one of his brigades from the crumbling French line to his front and sent it to reinforce his flank, stabilising his position. Caught in the angle between two allied brigades, the French began to pull back towards the protection of the hill’s summit. Clinton’s men began to climb the hill, the red line wavering slightly as the soldiers struggled across the boulders and patches of scrub that covered the slope. Above them the enemy re-formed, and such was the gradient that Arthur could see that the rear ranks would have a clear shot over the heads of those before them.
‘General Clinton will find the going hard,’ Alava mused as he watched the redcoats slowly advancing upon the waiting French men.
‘We shall see,’ Arthur responded quietly as he glanced at his watch. It was nearly six. Less than three hours had passed since the first shots had been fired and the sun hung low to the west, bathing the dust and smoke of the battlefield in a ruddy red-brown glow. To the south Arthur could see thousands of the French fleeing over the crest of the ridge, pursued by cavalry. The British infantry had all but given up the pursuit, and were wearily re-forming their ranks amid the enemy bodies that littered the rising ground.
A sudden crackle of gunfire from the Greater Arapil drew all eyes to its slopes as the French opened fire on Clinton’s division. For once, the French firepower was massed in such a way as to permit more than just the front rank sight of the enemy, and Arthur saw the leading British brigade stagger to a halt as the leading ranks were decimated by enemy musket balls. The men steadily dressed to the right, lowered their bayonets and continued forward, closing the last hundred or so paces to the enemy. Another French volley ripped out, cutting down more men, and then Clinton swept his sword forward and with a harsh roar his men charged through the smoke and threw themselves at the French. There was a short struggle before the French fell back and retreated down the far side of the hill, closely pursued by Clinton and his men, who were intent on driving them from the battlefield.
Arthur nodded his satisfaction. There was just one section of the French army remaining now, still covering the road leading from Salamanca, where the first skirmishes of the day had taken place. Leaving Somerset with orders to organise the pursuit of the rest of the French army until midnight, Arthur and General Alava rode across the hill to the Light Division, which had not moved since the battle had begun. General Alten was forward of his front line watching his skirmishers exchange fire with the enemy as Arthur and Alava rode up. Occasional musket balls passed by with a dull whirr before they slapped into the ground.
‘How goes the battle?’ asked Alten.
‘It is won,’ Arthur replied. ‘All that remains is for your division to follow the French up. Engage the rearguard and drive it back.’
‘That will be a pleasure, sir.’
Arthur reached his hand up to touch the brim of his hat. ‘You have your orders, General. Hang on their heels. Give them no respite. We have Marmont beaten; now we must ensure that his army is destroyed.’
Arthur stayed to watch the Light Division begin to advance, and as soon as he saw the enemy begin to fall back, leaving a screen of light infantry to cover the retreat, he turned away and returned to headquarters with a feeling of exultation. That morning, he had been resigned to a wearisome retreat towards Ciudad Rodrigo. Now, at a stroke, and scarcely five hours later, the army of Marmont was scattered and little stood between the allied army and the Spanish capital of Madrid.
Chapter 28
Napoleon
Kovno, 24 June 1812
As the sun set on the first day of the invasion Napoleon sat in his campaign wagon reading through the latest intelligence reports. It had been a sweltering day and he was stripped to his shirt as he leaned forward over the small desk. The doors of the wagon were open and a lantern hung from an iron loop in the roof of the vehicle. Berthier sat at another table further into the wagon, busy collating the reports so that he could pass on only pertinent information to his Emperor. A cloud of mosquitoes and gnats had been drawn to the glow of the lantern and Napoleon continually swatted them away as he read. Outside the wagon a company of the Old Guard formed a cordon to keep the area clear of the long lines of soldiers tramping forward on the road to Vilna. A squadron of chasseurs had been detailed to carry messages and stood quietly in their horse lines waiting to be called forward. The wagon had stopped temporarily while the general in charge of the Emperor’s campaign staff arranged for the field headquarters to be set up in the chambers of the merchants’ guild of Kovno.
Other books
The Tale of Holly How by Susan Wittig Albert
Provoking the Spirit by Crista McHugh
Nursing in Northlake (At the Altar Book 9) by Kirsten Osbourne
Pictures of Emily by Weir, Theresa
Coming of Age: Volume 2: Endless Conflict by Thomas T. Thomas
The Trafalgar Gambit (Ark Royal) by Christopher Nuttall
Blood and Ice by Robert Masello
The Squire's Tale by Gerald Morris
