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Authors: Simon Scarrow

BOOK: The Fields of Death
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Perkins pursed his lips. ‘Two days to erect the gallery. Two weeks to tunnel up through the rock, a day to prepare the mine, and then it’s up to the infantry to storm the fortress, sir.’
‘Two and a half weeks, then,’Arthur mused.‘That’s cutting it fine. Do whatever you can to speed things up, Perkins.’
‘Aye, sir. I’ve had the necessary tools brought forward and I’ll set the lads to work as soon as the breach is cleared.’
‘Very well.’Arthur clapped him on the shoulder.‘Keep me informed.’
He was about to turn away when there was a sudden crackle of musket fire from close by. The two officers looked towards the sound. To their left the Portuguese were firing along the cobbled road as it bent round the corner. More shots were fired, this time to their right. Then there was a shout and the sound of boots echoing off the fortress walls and Arthur saw the first of the Frenchmen appear along the road. More came, filling the gap between the walls as they charged forward, pausing only to fire at the Portuguese troops in their way.
Perkins cupped a hand to his mouth and bellowed, ‘To arms! To arms! The Frogs are sallying!’ He turned to Arthur. ‘You’d better go, sir. Get back to the support trench and order some reinforcements up here.’
Arthur shook his head as he stood up. ‘No.’
Perkins reached inside his coat and pulled out a pistol. ‘As you will, sir.’
All around the breach, the men who had been working to clear the rubble scrambled for their weapons and rushed forward, past Arthur. There was a brief skirmish as the Portuguese company tried to hold their ground, thrusting their bayonets and clubbing the butts at the Frenchmen, but there were too many of the enemy and they were quickly swept aside and cut down before the French closed in on the breach from both sides. Perkins and his men rushed forward. Most had muskets, but some had snatched up shovels instead and now wielded them like hatchets. It was close work, and bloody, with no time for mercy. Arthur saw Perkins raise his pistol and shoot a Frenchman in the face, blowing out the back of his skull in a shower of blood, brains and bone fragments. Arthur felt a surge of fear as he realised he was unarmed. Looking round he saw a musket leaning against the outside of the wall and scrambled across the rubble to snatch it up, hoping that it was loaded. By the time he got back to the breach, his men were already being pressed back through it, as hundreds of Frenchmen surged forward. He saw Perkins double over as a bayonet plunged into his chest, piercing him through.
‘Get back!’ a voice called out. ‘There’s too many of ’em. Fall back!’
The soldiers gave ground, carrying Arthur with them. They reached the trench as the first of the enemy emerged from the breach, led by a huge officer with a thick moustache. He bellowed at them to charge, and kill all in their path. His men plunged towards the trench, driving the British back. Arthur had already been thrust some distance and turned to make his way down the slippery trench towards the camp. Then he saw a young lieutenant, wide-eyed with terror, pressed against the side. Arthur grabbed him by the arm.
‘Lieutenant! Rally these men. You must fight back. Here!’ He thrust the musket into the man’s hand and pulled him into the middle of the trench, blocking the way of those still scrambling back from the breach.
‘Stop there, lads!’ Arthur held up his hand. ‘Stop, I say!’
At the sight of their general the men drew up, unwilling to disobey him, yet afraid to turn and fight. Arthur pointed his gloved hand back up the slope. ‘The enemy have the breach! If we let them hold their ground then we will have to take it again! I will not waste lives unnecessarily. You must turn round and take it back! Come, lads, ’tis the only way!’
The lieutenant nodded, and then pushed through the throng of men, holding his borrowed musket at the slope. ‘After me, men!’ he shouted, a slight edge of hysteria to his cry. ‘Forward! For the King! For England!’
‘For England!’ echoed the sergeant who had urged Arthur to keep his head down. ‘Let’s gut those bloody Frogs, lads! Forward!’
The men let out a cheer and surged back up the trench. Arthur watched them go for a moment and then hurried back down the approach trench, slithering here and there in the mud. When he reached the flat stretch he splashed along until he came to the first of the assembly areas, where he saw Somers-Cocks and his volunteers.
‘What’s happening, my lord?’ asked the major.
Arthur did not answer, but thrust his arm towards the breach. ‘Take your men up there at the double. Clear the breach and hold your ground. Go!’
‘Follow me!’ Somers-Cocks bellowed, drawing his sword. He plunged into the opening of the trench, and his men ran after him, splashing through the muddy water that filled the bottom. Arthur turned and hurried on, making for the command post. There he found Somerset and gave orders for a brigade to be sent to support Somers-Cocks. Then, snatching up a telescope, he leaned against the sandbag parapet of the command post and braced his elbows to squint through the eyepiece. The French were hurriedly smashing down the makeshift walls on either side of the breach. Others were busy finishing off the allied wounded with their bayonets. An officer in a gold-braided uniform was directing some of his men to gather up the engineers’ tools and carry them back into the fortress. Arthur’s heart sank at the sight. The French defenders were as intelligent as they were brave, he thought bitterly. The capture of the tools would set Arthur back far more than the deaths of his men.
The French officer took a last look round the breach and then down the slope towards Somers-Cocks and his men, charging forward to join the survivors of the attack battling their way back up the final stretch of trench before the breach. With a wave of his sword the Frenchman ordered his men towards the gap and they withdrew in good order and disappeared from view.
 
‘We lost ninety-four killed and thirty-two wounded, most of the tools that Perkins had brought forward, and twenty yards of the approach trench have been pushed in,’ Somerset reported that night. ‘The breach is back in our hands, and Major Somers-Cocks has established a permanent force of two companies of the Coldstream Guards to protect our foothold inside the fortress. Captain Morris has taken over the mining operation, my lord.’
‘Very well.’ Arthur nodded wearily. ‘We’ll proceed with the siege, for now. Did you read the latest report from our Spanish friends?’
The news was bad. The Spanish general charged with holding up any French advance fromValencia towards Madrid had taken umbrage at the appointment of Arthur to supreme commander and mutinied. Meanwhile Soult was marching to join Joseph Bonaparte. To the north of Burgos, General Souham had been confirmed in his appointment as Marmont’s replacement and had gathered nearly fifty thousand men on the far bank of the Ebro. Any day now, Arthur expected to hear that Souham had crossed the river and was making for Burgos. The final slice of misery was an intercepted message from the French Emperor to his brother announcing that he had won a great victory over the Russians at Borodino and was on the verge of capturing Moscow.
Somerset sat back in his chair despondently. ‘Unless our luck changes, it may well be prudent to cut our losses and retreat.’
‘From Burgos, perhaps,’ Arthur agreed. ‘But I fear that we may also have to abandon Madrid as well. What else can we do if this news is accurate? If I had the whole army here I could take on Souham and defeat him, at the price of leaving Madrid open to Soult. If I return to Madrid and combine Hill’s army with mine that would give us sixty-five thousand men with which to face Soult with as many as a hundred thousand, while Souham closes on us from the north. We would be caught in a vice.’ Arthur shut his eyes and forced his exhausted mind to think as clearly as possible. ‘The best we can hope for now is to take Burgos and put in a strong, well-provisioned, garrison. That will hold Souham up while we return to Madrid. Then? All I can do is pray that Soult is delayed.’
Somerset watched his general closely for a moment, noting how sunken his eyes looked and how exhausted he appeared. The cold, miserable weather of the past weeks and the mud and depressing landscape of Burgos had added to his burden and for the first time Somerset began to wonder how one man could endure the strain of command for so long. The campaign had begun at the start of the year and now, ten months on, the officers and men were clearly exhausted and their morale was low. If they were close to the end of their tether, then by what greater order of magnitude was Wellington close to the end of his? Only one man could have led the army to achieve all it had in the Peninsula, and looking on that man now, Somerset feared for himself, and for the whole army, far from a home some had not seen for years.
‘Sir?’ he asked quietly. ‘Shall I order you something to eat? Sir?’
There was no reply, just a deep, even breathing. Somerset smiled fondly, then rose to his feet and fed a few more logs into the campaign stove. After a moment’s hesitation he picked up the mud-stained cloak lying across one of the chests in the tent and carefully draped it over Wellington’s body.
‘Good night, sir,’ he said softly, and left the tent.
 
Four days later, the French attacked the sappers again, bursting into their works between the walls in the early hours. They killed the engineers who were cutting a small tunnel through the rock beneath the second wall; the men charged with protecting them had put up a short fight before fleeing back towards the breach. There they had encountered Major Somers-Cocks, barring their path. He was attempting to rally them and counter-attack the enemy’s raiding party when he was shot through the heart. His men’s spirit broke and they fled back down the trenches, leaving the enemy to seize yet more tools before they set a small charge in the mouth of the mine and blew it up, burying the entrance under tons of rock.
Later, when the first report of the attack reached headquarters, Arthur read through the details and then lowered the document, his face ashen as he turned to address Somerset. ‘Somers-Cocks is dead.’ Then he walked slowly outside to stare at the fortress where the tricolour flag was flying defiantly above the keep.
Major Somers-Cocks was buried that afternoon, in an icy downpour. As his body, wrapped in a length of canvas, was lowered into the ground the chaplain of the Coldstream Guards read out the service in the usual blank monotone. Arthur did not listen to a word of it. He had heard all the words before, read out in the same dry manner over the bodies of many such young men. Some had shown similar promise to Somers-Cocks, most had not. Some had been cheerful spirits, gamely entering the field of war, while a few had been nervous, fearful even, eaten up by the prospect of death yet forcing themselves on until death had claimed them by shell, bullet, blade or disease.
The chaplain closed his prayer book and bowed his head for a moment, and most of the officers and men followed suit. Arthur did not. He glared at the fortress for a long time, the rain running down the sides of his face in glassy rivulets. Then at last he turned to Somerset, cleared his throat and spoke harshly. ‘I’m lifting the siege. The army is leaving Burgos and will march back to Madrid. Issue the orders, if you please. I’ll be in my tent if I am needed.’
He turned and splashed away through the puddles, rippled by the heavy rain.
‘Needed?’ Somerset repeated quietly.‘Now more than ever, my lord.’
Chapter 33
 
Tordesillas, 31 October 1812
 
‘So, he’s done it then?’ Arthur shook his head in frank admiration of the achievement.
‘Yes, sir,’ Somerset replied, glancing down at the captured bulletin. ‘Bonaparte entered Moscow on the nineteenth of last month.’
‘And does it say anything about the Tsar coming to terms?’
Somerset scanned the rest of the item and tilted his head to one side. ‘Not exactly. It just says the Emperor is waiting for the Tsar to admit defeat.’
‘Hmph,’ Arthur snorted. ‘If the Russians make peace then Bonaparte will be free to switch the balance of his power away from the east and towards us. At which point our goose will be thoroughly cooked. Well, we shall just have to hope that the Tsar continues to defy him. Now then, what is the latest intelligence on the enemy’s movements?’
Somerset shuffled through his reports. ‘It seems the French have seized a crossing over the river Douro at Toro.’

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