Fire and Sword r-3

by Simon Scarrow

  Once the first two battalions had crossed the river and had begun to climb the streets leading from the quay into the heart of the city, Arthur handed his horse over to a soldier. Beckoning to Somerset, he climbed into a small launch and gestured towards the north bank. There were two civilians at the oars, and they nodded eagerly, bending at once to their work and stroking across the Douro as swiftly as they could. Somerset ducked as a round shot whirred close by and slapped into the water fifty feet upriver.

  ‘Close,’ he muttered.

  Arthur’s heart was pounding in his chest but he forced himself to keep his expression calm as he arched an eyebrow. ‘But not too close, eh?’

  Somerset stared at his general a moment before glancing away and shaking his head.

  As soon as the boat thumped up against the base of the quay, Arthur stepped out on to the stone steps and ran to the top. On either side, redcoats were forming up in companies and being led up the streets into Oporto. Arthur and Somerset joined a company of men from the Twenty-Ninth Foot and the small force marched up a wide street, fronted by the counters of fish merchants and chandlers. The windows of the buildings on either side of the street were filled with women fluttering their handkerchiefs and crying out in shrill delight as they caught sight of their liberators.

  ‘Viva Ingleses! . . .Viva Ingleses!’

  Somerset waved back with a broad smile, but Arthur kept his gaze fixed ahead, watching for the first sign of the enemy. But they only encountered more and more of the excited inhabitants as they penetrated further into the city. When they reached the great plaza in front of the cathedral Arthur encountered a colonel of one of the first battalions to cross the river with the Portuguese. His men had occupied the square and were guarding the streets that led into it. In the centre, around a fountain, sat several hundred French prisoners.

  ‘Hughes! Your report, if you please.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’ve got patrols searching the streets, but most of the frogs have gone. They’ve left their sick and injured behind, as well as wagons and supplies. Any Frenchmen we’ve encountered have just fired a shot and fled, or laid down their muskets and surrendered.’

  ‘Very well.’ Arthur nodded happily. ‘Then I want you to take four of your companies to the east of the city. There’s a track leading down to a convent held by our men. It’s under attack by a French column. Have your men block the track and call on the French to surrender.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘One last thing. Have you found Soult’s headquarters yet?’

  ‘Yes, sir, over there.’ Hughes turned and pointed to a large building with an ornate facade that stood on one side of the square.‘Seems to be the seat of the local government.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Arthur and Somerset made towards it, accompanied by the men who had escorted them up from the quay. They entered the building cautiously, but there was every sign that it had been abandoned in a hurry. Bundles of bedding lay strewn across the entrance hall. Paintings that had been stripped from the walls were propped in the corner, Soult’s staff presumably not having time to load them into wagons before leaving. From a balcony on the second floor Arthur had a clear view over the roofs of the city towards the north and east. Beyond the walls he could see the dense column of Soult’s retreating column beneath a pall of dust. There was little sign of an organised rearguard, just a long tail of stragglers and overloaded wagons. For the moment the French were safe. There was no chance of mounting a pursuit until the next day, when the rest of the allied army would have crossed the river. Unlike Vimeiro, there would be no letting the enemy escape,Arthur resolved.This time he would harry the French all the way to the frontier with Spain.

  Chapter 57

  Throughout the night the people of Oporto celebrated their liberation and pressed food and drink on any redcoats they encountered in the streets. Arthur had paused only long enough to enjoy the meal that was still set for Marshal Soult on the table at the headquarters he had abandoned.Then he had returned to the quay to supervise the crossing of the rest of his army. All through the night, boats continued to ferry the rest of the infantry, the artillery and supplies over to the north bank. The cavalry had been sent upriver to find a crossing and do what they could to harry the enemy before rejoining the main body of the army in the morning.

  Late in the night Somerset presented Arthur with the official casualty list.

  ‘Twenty-three killed, ninety wounded and ten missing at present, sir,’ Somerset read from his notes.

  ‘Good!’ Arthur responded with relief. Given the risks that had been taken, the cost had been light. Caught by the surprise crossing to the convent, Soult had panicked and abandoned the city, and much besides. So much for the myth of French invincibility, Arthur mused contentedly. ‘What of French losses?’

  ‘So far, four hundred dead and eighteen hundred prisoners, including the wounded they abandoned in the churches of the city. We’ve also taken twelve guns, two hundred wagons and a store of powder and artillery supplies.’

  ‘Quite a haul,’ said Arthur. ‘Something for our people to celebrate back home.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Somerset nodded his head towards the centre of the city. ‘And the locals seem rather pleased.’

  ‘Good. Now we must prepare for the final stage of Soult’s defeat. Send word to every battalion commander. I want their men ready to march at first light. There will be no drinking tonight. No one is excused duties, nor may they leave their formations.’

  ‘The men won’t like that much, sir. They’ll feel they’ve earned the right to indulge themselves.’

  ‘Then it is just as well that they don’t have rights,’ Arthur responded tersely. ‘This is an army, not a democracy, Somerset. They will do as I damn well order.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.’

  ‘Never mind. Just see to it that the order is given. We cannot afford any delay in our pursuit if we are to make the most of what we have won here today. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then make sure that every man gets the message.’

  The next morning dawned grey and overcast and the first drops of rain began to fall as the British and Portuguese troops tramped out along the road to the east, following the trail of Soult’s corps. Almost from the outset there was clear evidence of the desperate state of the enemy. The British encountered abandoned equipment, scattered along the side of the road. Backpacks, broken muskets, and then the less valuable spoils that had been carried away from Oporto, and the heavier items. In amongst the detritus lay the wounded who had been left behind.At first Arthur gave orders for the enemy injured to be carried back to the city for care alongside his own casualties, but soon there were too many of them to tend to and he cancelled his order with a heavy heart, knowing their likely fate if they fell into the hands of the local peasantry.

  The Portuguese people had already suffered much under French occupation and now their torments increased as Soult’s retreating column pressed through their villages.The French soldiers were hungry and made free use of torture on any peasants they suspected of hiding food and drink. As Arthur’s soldiers marched along in the wake of the enemy column, squelching through the mud as they hunched down under the steady downpour, they came across frequent examples of the enemy’s cruelty. Bodies hung from trees. Mothers and infants had been bayoneted or shot in their hovels and young girls raped and left for dead. Villages had been burned so that faint columns of smoke and smouldering remains clearly marked the passage of Soult and his men. As he bore witness to these atrocities Arthur felt his heart grow heavy with a cold rage at the carnage endured by civilian bystanders of the war, and he vowed to do whatever he could to ensure that his own men did not follow the enemy’s example.

  Occasionally the British came across the bodies of French stragglers upon whom the Portuguese had wreaked their revenge. The luckiest had been killed out of hand, but others had been gutted, or partially flayed, and one officer’s body had been discovered sawn in hal
f, beside the bloodied blade of a tree-felling saw. In one village, during a brief lull in the rain, they came across a group of villagers standing round a circle of burning straw. In the middle a wounded Frenchman was screaming. Every time he tried to crawl out, the peasants drove him back inside the flames with their pitchforks, and threw more straw on to the fire. Before Oporto the British troops might have intervened to save the Frenchman, but they had seen enough of his comrades’ handiwork to spare him little more than a cold-hearted sideways glance as they marched by.

  Each night the sodden redcoats found what shelter they could and lit fires to warm their cold bodies and attempt to dry their clothes. Meanwhile Arthur read the reports of his scouts with a mixture of frustration and grudging satisfaction. Soult was marching at a faster pace than his own men could manage, but only at the price of steadily abandoning his guns and wagons. Soon all he would be left with would be his footsore infantry and the starving, lame mounts of his cavalry.

  In an effort to prevent Soult’s escape Arthur despatched a Portuguese column to try to march round the enemy’s flank and block their passage across the hills into Spain. Another column, led by Beresford, blocked any escape to Vigo in the north where Soult might join forces with Ney. At last, the desperate French commander abandoned the roads and led his forces over the mountains of Santa Catalina. As soon as he heard the news Arthur realised the chase was up. It was five days since they had set out from Oporto, and without abandoning his own guns and supply train he could no longer pursue Soult with the main body of his army. Riding on with his cavalry, he followed Soult’s tracks across the mountains and on the seventh day of the pursuit, as the cavalry descended towards the broken country of Galicia, Arthur halted his column.

  No more than five miles ahead he could see the remnants of Soult’s corps, moving like a band of beggars across the landscape.There was little sense of order in the straggling mass of humanity and only a handful of cavalry formations retained enough discipline to form a rearguard.

  ‘We have them, sir!’ Somerset said eagerly. ‘We have but to charge and they will scatter to the winds.’

  Arthur stared after his enemy for a moment and then shook his head.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Do you not know where we stand, Somerset?’ Arthur gestured to the ground before them. ‘That is Spain. I am forbidden from entering without the express permission of the Secretary for War.’

  ‘But sir,’ Somerset protested, pointing at Soult’s ragged column.‘One charge and they will break.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Arthur mused. He had seen enough of the British cavalry in action to know how hot-headed they were. Far in advance of the rest of the army it would be rash indeed to permit them to mount any wild charge against the enemy. Besides, Soult’s men were hardened veterans of the Grand Army. Even now they would still form square and repulse any attempt by the British cavalry to break their ranks. He stiffened his posture in the saddle and continued to address his aide. ‘There is much to be risked in an unsupported attack, and little to gain. Soult’s men are beaten; he has abandoned every one of his guns. It will be quite some time before those men of his are ready to fight again.We have done our work, Somerset. Now it is time to retire. Time to turn and deal with Marshal Victor should he attempt to advance across the frontier.’

  Somerset’s expression was bitter and crestfallen as he stared longingly at the retreating enemy column. Then he composed himself and nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then give the order for the cavalry to turn back.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Somerset wheeled his mount round to ride over to the colonel of the nearest regiment of dragoons. Arthur remained alone for a moment, staring out across the Galician countryside. For a moment his heart was heavy with the thought of giving up the pursuit. But for his orders he might have contemplated charging Soult’s exhausted soldiers. He could imagine the excitement of the charge, the mad thrill of pounding across the open ground towards the enemy. Yes, it would have been exhilarating, he thought. But he was a general now and his army needed him.There was no one better able to defeat the French in the Peninsula. He had added to his reputation with victories at Vimeiro and Oporto, and had humbled two of Bonaparte’s most valued commanders.

  A fine start, he told himself.Yet there was more to do, much more, before Portugal and Spain were finally set free from their French oppressors.Arthur took one more look at the land of Spain and resolved in his heart that soon, very soon, he would lead his army into the heart of the Peninsula and succeed where General Moore had failed. He had no doubts about the magnitude of the task that lay ahead of him. Bonaparte had poured some quarter of a million of his men into Spain. But even though the British were outnumbered they had proved that they were the masters of Europe’s battlefields. They had shown the whole of Europe that the blue-coated legions that marched under Bonaparte’s eagles could be beaten time and again.

  Arthur smiled with satisfaction. It could be done, as he had told Pitt, Castlereagh and the others. Soon, the French Emperor, safe in his palace in Paris, would be casting his gaze towards Spain with a heavy heart and knowing the first stab of fear that his empire was starting to unravel. As he considered the future Arthur felt the unshakable conviction that his finest hour was yet to come. He allowed himself a moment of pride, in himself and his men, and then smiled self-consciously for a moment.

  Then, with a click of his tongue, Arthur eased his horse round and galloped back to re-join his army.

  Author’s Note

  Some historians consider the coronation of Napoleon, and his crushing victory at Austerlitz, as the high points of his astonishing career. Barely ten years earlier he had been a relatively unregarded artillery officer. At the time he became Emperor he was the master of Europe and commander of a formidable war machine.What is more, Napoleon had risen to the new throne on a combination of raw talent and plenty of luck. It is also important to remember that there was overwhelming popular support for Napoleon’s elevation from First Consul to Emperor. Armed with such a mandate Napoleon reformed the administration of France (and incidentally much of Europe) root and branch. Little escaped the attention of the workaholic Emperor who mastered a range of briefs to such an extent that he frequently surprised his ministers and experts with the depth of his knowledge of their specialities. There is no question that many of the changes that Napoleon made to the governance of France were effective and necessary. Along the way he ensured that meritocracy was given as much opportunity to flourish in civil society as in the military. I wish there had been space in this book to cover some of these changes in more detail but, as ever, there were decisions to be made about how much to include and in any case much of the positive legacy of Napoleon’s efforts only came to be fully appreciated in the years after his fall and are therefore outside the scope of this work.

  Of course, there was an ulterior motive for much of his work. Napoleon’s lust for glory meant that he needed an efficient and well-motivated society to support the French war machine. In pursuit of this aim Napoleon was not prepared to brook any opposition and there were severe sanctions for those that corrupted the system, or refused to play their part. There is also little doubt that the power vested in the new imperial throne exacerbated a deep-seated megalomania - a characteristic that Talleyrand correctly saw as the gravest danger posed to France. Napoleon had always considered himself to be singled out by fate for greatness.As a consequence he often had little regard for others, and the hardships he subjected them to. Such people were there to serve his interests. This included not only his wife, but also his brothers and sisters, who were the tools Napoleon used to extend his dynasty across Europe.

  Being destiny’s child had some unfortunate consequences for Napoleon. Firstly, it was increasingly difficult for him to accept that he could make a mistake. Accordingly, blame for his errors was lavished on his subordinates, instanced by the blaming of Berthier for the shooting accident with Masséna. Secondly, Napoleon believed so completely in his genius
that he could not delegate easily, and frequently had to race from one crisis to the next in order to hold his empire together. The consequences of these flaws were soon to be exposed to all in the Russian campaign of 1812.

  Unlike his rival, Arthur seemed to be as abandoned by destiny almost as often as he was favoured by it. After a gloriously successful series of campaigns that should have made a reputation that outshone that of Clive of India, Arthur returned from the subcontinent under something of a cloud, thanks to the political enemies of his older brother, Richard. That, coupled with the army’s rigid system of seniority, worked to deny Arthur the chance to demonstrate his brilliance in command. Those who knew Arthur were in no doubt about his talent, but there were few opportunities to put it to the test in the field against the armies of France. Until the decision was made to intervene in Portugal and Spain, that is.