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Authors: Simon Scarrow

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Chapter 45
 
Arthur
 
St-Jean-de-Luz, 10 November 1813
 
 
As he rode through the camp of the Light Division that night, Arthur could see the good humour in the faces of the men, lit warm and red by the glow of the camp fires. The week’s fighting had gone well and Soult’s line of forts barring the way into France had been successfully stormed with a combination of courage and audacity that had warmed Arthur’s heart. The allied army had crossed the Bidassoa and Nivelle rivers and crossed the enemy’s border. They were now settling in for the night on French soil, and the thought filled Arthur with pride. Even so, he was already planning the next stage of his campaign. Bonaparte was unlikely to tolerate the damage done to his prestige by the incursion across the border from Spain. The French Emperor would be sure to order his forces to hurl Arthur and his soldiers back across the frontier.
Arthur smiled to himself. What Bonaparte might order and what reality might permit were two very different things. His intelligence officers had picked up rumours from French prisoners that the Emperor had suffered a serious reverse at the hands of England’s European allies. Since the rumours came by way of letters received by the soldiers opposed to Arthur, it was difficult to know how much store to place in them. The enemy’s censors were well practised in concealing bad news from their people, and the French newspapers that had come into the possession of Arthur’s staff officers carried no hint of any setback. On the contrary, the cheaply printed news bulletins spoke only of Bonaparte’s continuing mastery over the hordes of the Tsar and his incompetent allies. Arthur had grown used to the lies, as indeed had most Frenchmen, he noted with a smile. It had even become a catchphrase amongst the French -
to lie like a bulletin
.
If Bonaparte had indeed suffered a serious defeat then he would be hard pushed to reinforce the army under Marshal Soult that was facing Arthur. Which was just as well, since Soult already had nearly as many men, and more artillery and cavalry, than Arthur. A few years before, Arthur would have been far more cautious about taking the war on to enemy soil before his lines of communication were securely guarded. As things stood, the enemy still held Pamplona, and Marshal Suchet and his army were still in the field in the region of Valencia. However, Suchet showed little sign of stirring from what had become his personal fiefdom, and the garrison of Pamplona was under siege by a Spanish army. Accordingly, Arthur felt the risks were acceptable. In any case, his political masters in London had allowed the allied army’s swift advance and spate of victories to go over their heads and had insisted that Arthur proceed with an invasion of France.
Thus it had always been during the war in the Peninsula, he sighed wearily as he crossed the bridge and entered the town gate of St-Jean-de-Luz, touching the brim of the oilskin covering his cocked hat in response to the salutes of the sentries. His caution and careful planning had ensured British success, so far. His country was grateful to him, and his army trusted him, the latter being by far the more valued by Arthur. No amount of titles, spoils of war and parliamentary votes of thanks ever made a better general of a man, nor a better man of a general, he reflected.
He stopped a civilian for directions to the
mairie
where Somerset had been sent to set up the army’s headquarters. The man briefly registered a look of surprise when Arthur addressed him in French, but he seemed almost unconcerned by the presence of so many English soldiers in his town. He turned and pointed towards the end of the street, where it appeared to open on to a small square. Arthur thanked him and walked his horse on. As he clopped into the square he noted with approval that a number of provosts were patrolling the area, keeping a watchful eye on the soldiers to ensure that they did not breach Arthur’s orders concerning respectful treatment of French civilians and their property. More than ever he was dependent upon the goodwill of the locals. The allied army was no longer liberating a people from an invader. Now the allies were the invaders and Arthur knew it was vital that his men did nothing that might provoke the French civilians.
Arthur entered the mayor’s reception chamber and handed his coat and hat to a corporal standing at the door. As soon as he saw that his commander had arrived Somerset rose from his desk and hurried over to greet him.
‘The battle reports indicate we have taken every one of our objectives, sir. The first news from our cavalry patrols is that Soult is retreating towards Bayonne.’
‘So we have won our foothold in France.’ Arthur nodded. ‘Which is as well. The army could never have survived for long in the Pyrenees. Now we shall have comfortable quarters for the winter, eh?’
‘Yes, my lord.’ Somerset could not resist a small smile. ‘That is, unless you give orders to continue the advance.’
‘I would, but first the men must be rested. Besides, there is no sure news of how Bonaparte is faring. For all we know he could have defeated his foes and be marching on us at this moment.’
Somerset pursed his lips and shook his head. ‘That’s not what our agents are saying. There is a wealth of rumour and scores of letters found on prisoners, or taken from the enemy dead, that make reference to a great defeat.’
‘Rumours, that is all. Would you have me gamble the outcome of this campaign upon the thin vapour of these rumours of yours? Well?’
‘No, sir.’
‘No. Then until we have more definite proof, we shall assume that the army may need to fight a battle, or fall back, at a moment’s notice. The men must not be allowed to become too comfortable.’
Somerset was chastened, but made one last effort. ‘What about the newspaper reports?’
Arthur shook his head.‘I’d sooner trust the words I read in an English newspaper than a French one. That is how little stock I put in your newspaper reports, Somerset. We need intelligence from a more reliable source. Speaking of which, have we taken any prisoners of note?’
‘Yes, sir. Several colonels, and the commander of a brigade, General Lapessière.’
‘Good.’Arthur tapped his fingers lightly on his lips for a moment and then nodded to himself. ‘Very well, I shall entertain Lapessière here tonight. I want Beresford, Hill and Picton to join us. Have the best cook in the port prepare the meal, and make sure there is ample wine.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Somerset nodded. ‘Is that all?’
‘For now.’ Arthur hardened his expression. ‘Bring me the butcher’s bill, and the enemy losses, as soon as you can.’
‘Yes, sir. Where shall I find you?’
‘The mayor’s suite. I take it he has a bath?’
‘Indeed, sir.’
‘Then I shall bathe.’ Arthur scratched his cheek. ‘And shave. I shall not provide General Lapessière with a poor model of an English gentleman. We have standards to uphold, Somerset. As much before the enemy as before our own men. I will not have some damned Frog looking down his nose at me, by God!’
 
Somerset looked up as Arthur entered the office, late in the evening. ‘How did you get on with our guest, sir?’
‘He was amenable to a somewhat indirect approach, once he was well into his cups,’ said Arthur. ‘He told us what we needed to know. It seems that the rumours are correct. Bonaparte has received a bloody nose and we have him on the run. Better still we know that he will not interfere with our operations here in the south of France. Indeed, it is likely that he will denude Marshal Soult of forces in order to build up his main strength to face the advance of the Russians, Austrians and Prussians. That leaves us a free hand against Soult. Just as well, since we have but a small numerical advantage over him. If he continues to fight defensively then it is likely that we shall suffer casualties at a higher rate than the French.’ Arthur thought a moment and shook his head. ‘I do not wish to become drawn into such a process of attrition.’
‘Then what do you propose, sir?’
‘We hold our ground for the most part, and take what small gains we can until the spring. If we can coincide our advance with that of our northern allies, then what is left of Bonaparte’s forces will be stretched to breaking point.’
There was a loud knock at the door, and an officer entered. He looked nervous and strode quickly towards the table. By the light of the candles flickering in the candelabra Arthur saw that it was Colonel Whitely, the commander of the army’s provosts. Whitely was a thickset officer, one of the rare men who had risen from the ranks. He cleared his throat as he addressed Arthur.
‘Begging your pardon, sir, but I think you need to come with me.’
‘Why, what on earth has happened? Out with it, man.’
‘Yes, sir. It’s the Spanish troops. They’re looting one of the local towns. Their officers are doing nothing to stop them, and I don’t have enough men to restore order. It’s turning right nasty, sir, so it is.’
Arthur sighed heavily. He closed his eyes briefly and then stood up. ‘Come, Whitely, you’d better take me there directly.’
 
The streets of Ascain were crowded with Spanish soldiers as Arthur rode into the town, accompanied by Whitely and twenty of his men. Several of the houses were on fire, and nearly all the rest had been broken into and plundered. The ragged Spaniards had taken the opportunity to gorge themselves on food and wine, and now helped themselves to gold, silver and any other items of value that they could find. Some of the local people had clearly tried to resist and several bodies lay stretched out on the cobbled streets, beaten or bayoneted to death. As the small party of Englishmen rode into the town square Arthur saw a jeering mob gathered to one side. A shrill scream cut through the cold night air and he caught a glimpse of a woman trying to break through the soldiers surrounding her. One of them grabbed the torn dress she had clasped to her chest and wrenched it away, baring her breasts. There was a cruel cheer and then someone knocked her to the ground, out of sight.
‘Like I said, sir,’ Whitely muttered. ‘They’re out of control.’
Arthur reined in and looked round at the Spaniards. ‘It’s only to be expected. After enduring the depredations of the French invaders for so many years they now have the chance to turn the tables. The fact that the locals are blameless is irrelevant to them. Besides, their own government rarely pays or feeds them. They see this as their hard-won right, no doubt.’
Colonel Whitely looked warily at his commander. ‘Nevertheless, sir, your standing orders are that no looting is to be permitted, nor any violence to the locals.’
‘I know.’ Arthur sucked in his breath. ‘Where is the divisional commander, General Longa?’
‘He’s settled himself and his staff in the local hotel, sir.’Whitely raised his hand and pointed at a large, neatly whitewashed building fronting the square. ‘Over there.’
They rode across the square and dismounted. Leaving their horses in the charge of Whitely’s men, Arthur and Whitely entered the hotel. There were two soldiers guarding the entrance. One was already asleep, head slumped on his chest as he stood wedged into a corner to one side of the door. The other man brought his musket up to the salute, wobbling slightly as he fought to stay on his feet. He stank of wine, much of which had been spilled down the grubby white facings of his jacket. Inside the entrance hall they saw the torn remains of a tricolour on the floor, and a large painting of the French Emperor hanging above the counter had been slashed by swords. The sounds of shouting came through one of the doors leading off the hall and they made for that, entering a large dining room. The tables had been pushed together along one side of the room and General Longa and his officers were feasting from plates of cold meats and cured sausages, accompanied by wine poured into beer mugs. Some had already passed out, heads slumped on the table in front of them, but Longa, a tall, handsome man with thinning grey hair, was holding court at the head of the company. He smiled brilliantly as he caught sight of Arthur and rose to his feet so that he could bow elegantly in greeting.
‘My dear Duke, will you join us?’
‘Alas, no,’ Arthur replied evenly.‘My duties do not permit me to take pleasure at the moment. May I speak with you, alone?’
‘Alone?’ A frown flickered across Longa’s face before he nodded.‘But of course.’
Arthur gestured to Whitely to stay where he was and led the Spaniard to the far side of the dining room where there was a window overlooking the square. Arthur gestured to the men outside, their drunken expressions lit up by the impromptu bonfires they had made from furniture taken from the townspeople. ‘Your men are out of control, General Longa.’

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