The Man Who Broke Napoleon's Codes
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THE MAN WHO BROKE NAPOLEON’S CODES
The Story of George Scovell
MARK URBAN
for my beloved Madeleine
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Illustrations,
Maps,
Preface,
PART I From Corunna to Talavera: the Campaigns of 1809
One The Retreat to Corunna,
Two The Battle of Corunna,
Three Interlude in England, January–March 1809,
Four Northern Portugal, May 1809,
Five From Oporto to Abrantes,
Six From Talavera to the End of the 1809 Campaign,
PART II The Campaign of 1811 and the Evolution of French Codes
Seven The Battle of Fuentes d’Onoro,
Eight King Joseph’s Crisis of Confidence and the Arrival of a Great Cipher,
PART III The Campaign of January–November 1812
Nine Winter Quarters and the Attack on Ciudad Rodrigo,
Ten The Storm of Badajoz,
Eleven From Lisbon to Fuente Guinaldo, April–June 1812,
Twelve The Salamanca Campaign Opens,
Thirteen Marmont and the Great Cipher under Attack, June–July 1812,
Fourteen Breakthrough,
Fifteen The Battle of Salamanca, 22 July 1812,
Sixteen The March to Burgos and Marshal Soult’s Letter,
PART IV Winter Quarters, the Vitoria Campaign and Afterwards
Seventeen Frenada, December 1812 to January 1813,
Eighteen The Vitoria Campaign, April–July 1813,
Nineteen Waterloo and Scovell’s Later Life,
Notes on Sources,
The Leading Players,
Index,
Plates
About the Author
By the Same Author
Copyright
List of Illustrations
1 (a) Wellington as Field Marshal and Duke in 1814
(b) King Joseph of Spain
2 A French general reading a military dispatch
3 King Joseph’s deciphering table
4 (a) George Scovell in 1813
(b) FitzRoy Somerset, Wellington’s military secretary
(c) Sir George Murray, Quartermaster-General of the Peninsular Army
(d) Wellington in 1813
5 (a) Marshal Nicolas Soult, Duke of Dalmatia
(b) Marshal Auguste Marmont, Duke of Ragusa
(c) General Maximilien Foy
(d) Marshal Jean Baptiste Jourdan
6 The Battle of Vitoria, 1813
7 Napoleon and his staff at the Battle of Waterloo
8 George Scovell aged 85 or 86
The illustrations are reproduced by kind permission of: The V&A Picture Library, London (1a, b; 7); The Trustees of the Wallace Collection, London (2); The National Portrait Gallery, London (4a, b, c, d); Stratfield Saye House, Reading (6).
List of Maps
Portugal and western Spain,
The Battle of Fuentes d’Onoro,
The Storming of Ciudad Rodrigo,
The Storming of Badajoz,
The Battle of Salamanca,
The Vitoria Campaign,
The Battle of Vitoria,
Preface
I first discovered the Napoleonic code-breaking battle a few years ago, when I was reading Sir Charles Oman’s epic History of the Peninsular War. In volume V he had attached an appendix, ‘The Scovell Ciphers’. It listed many documents in code that had been captured from the French Army of Spain, and whose secrets had been revealed by the work of one George Scovell. Oman rated Scovell’s significance highly, but at the same time, the general nature of his history meant that he could not analyse carefully what this obscure officer may or may not have contributed to that great struggle between nations or indeed tell us anything much about the man himself. Keen to read more, I was surprised to find that Oman’s appendix, published in 1914, was the only considered thing that had been written about this secret war.
I became convinced that this story was one every bit as exciting and significant as that of Engima and the breaking of German codes in the Second World War. The question was, could it be told?
Studying Scovell’s papers at the Public Record Office, I found that he had left an extensive journal and copious notes about his work in the Peninsula. What was more, many original French dispatches had been preserved in this collection, which, I realized, was priceless. There may have been many spies and intelligence officers during the Napoleonic Wars, but it is usually extremely difficult to find the material they actually provided or worked on.
As I researched Scovell’s story, I found far more of interest besides his intelligence work. His status in Lord Wellington’s Headquarters and the recognition given to him for his work were bound up with the class politics of the Army at the time. His story of self-improvement and hard work would make a fascinating biography in its own right, but represents something more than that. Just as the code-breaking has its wider relevance in the struggle for Spain, so his attempts to make his way up the promotion ladder speak volumes about British society.
The story of Wellington himself also gripped me. It may have been a central part of the British historical mythology spoon-fed to school-boys half a century ago, but recently this has not been the case and he is such a mesmerizing and complex historical character that I felt quite unashamed about giving him a central part in this narrative. One cannot think of a person less in tune with the emotional openness and social inclusiveness of our own time, but his results were spectacular, and this paradox fascinates me. He was certainly one of Britain’s greatest military leaders, but without doubt one of the most difficult men to work for.
It was apparent to me that I should try to construct this book in an accessible way, telling the tale as a story. Although I have done this, the reader should rest assured that nothing significant has been invented to make it a better read. When Scovell is described, for example, walking to the top of a lighthouse in Corunna in January 1809 at the very beginning of this book, this is not invention. It comes from a detailed description in his journal of that campaign. The notes at the end of the book will hopefully provide the curious with a better idea of where much of the material came from.
Although this may be narrative history, it is history none the less and there were many occasions when I resisted the temptation to put thoughts into Scovell’s head or those of the others in Wellington’s Staff. Much of Scovell’s emotional life remains a closed book to me. His partnership with his wife was a strong one, but, alas, I have not been able to find letters between them or other documents that would really fill out this aspect of the story. Scovell’s journal barely mentioned her; it concentrates instead on his professional concerns, and he was a very focused officer. Similarly, he did not leave us an account of his childhood. It was not poor, we know, but it was not rich either and it seems that Scovell regarded his life as a struggle to escape his origins and become a financially independent gentleman.
Did he ‘change the face of history’? The reader can decide. To me, what is important is that Scovell did extraordinary work but has languished in obscurity for too long.
*
I must, of course, give thanks to the researchers who assisted me in this substantial task: Helena Braun (for transcribing the journal written in Scovell’s often painful hand); Roger Nixon (for certain parts of the Scovell family story); Denise Harman and Ronald Rigby (details of the Clowes family); and Cyril Canet, who delved into the French army archives for me. Martin Scovell, a great-great-great-grandson of George’s brother Henry, gave me valuable assistance on their family history.
One
word about style. I have used modern spellings in my own text, but often kept period ones in the quotes, notably when transcribing manuscript sources. Thus, most obviously, the modern word cipher is frequently rendered ‘cypher’. While mentioning this frequently used term, it is worth pointing out that the secrets Scovell uncovered were not protected by ‘codes’ in the strictly defined modern sense of the word. The tables used to convert letters or words into digits are properly called ciphers. I hope cryptographers will permit me the liberty of using the two words ‘codes’ and ‘ciphers’ fairly much interchangeably in this work: I am doing no more than accepting modern usage. I agreed with the publishers that a book entitled The Man Who Broke Napoleon’s Ciphers might be misconstrued to be about the humbling of a series of nobodies.
During my labours, the library staff at the Public Record Office, National Army Museum and British Library were indefatigable. Andrew Orgill, librarian at the Royal Military Academy, Sandhurst, was especially helpful. He dug out many interesting items from the papers of Major-General John Le Marchant. Mrs Margaret Richards, the Duke of Beaufort’s archivist at Badminton in Gloucestershire, rallied to my assistance when I belatedly realized what an important source the letters kept there might be. John Montgomery, at the Royal United Services Institute, was also vital to the project, using RUSI’s collection and every inter-library loan imaginable to help. He is also the custodian of the Challis Index, an almost forgotten attempt (by a long-deceased civil servant) at a complete biographical record of British officers serving in the Peninsular War. As can be imagined, it was most useful for checking details of service, dates, etc.
I must also raise my hat to those established Napoleonic historians who encouraged the amateur: Dr David Chandler, Rene Chartrand, Paul Britten Austin and especially Dr Rory Muir, who checked my manuscript. My editors Julian Loose (Faber and Faber) and Dan Conaway (HarperCollins) deserve credit for licking into shape my sprawling tract. My editor at Newsnight, Sian Kevill, has my permanent gratitude for allowing me so much book leave. Lastly, I must applaud my beloved wife Hilary and daughters Isabelle and Madeleine for putting up with me (while writing and in general).
Any mistakes in what follows are mine alone.
Mark Urban
London, February 2001
Portugal and western Spain
PART I
From Corunna to Talavera: the Campaigns of 1809
711. 249. 1076. 718. 320. 1082. 365. 622. 699. 655. 699. 439. 669. 655. 1085. 398. 326. 13. 309. 711. 1085. 655. 249. 481. 320. 980. 985. 186. 320. 843. 688. 2. 718. 249. 1297. 536. 174. 1085. 1024 … 713. 320. 980. 854. 655. 326. 536. 700. 699. 171. 1015. 1003. 13. 320. 980. 1015. 131. 320.
CHAPTER ONE
The Retreat to Corunna
George Scovell brought the glass to his eye and searched the horizon for sight of sail. It was 14 January 1809 and, at the age of thirty-four, the course of his life was still as much of a mystery to him as that of the Fleet. He was a little breathless from climbing the long flights of stone steps yet again. For a week he had been going to the top of the lighthouse, sometimes several times a day. With each fruitless visit, he knew the anxiety of the Army was growing. Where were the ships?
Napoleon’s wars had transformed Scovell’s expectations beyond anything he could have imagined twenty years before, when his father had sent him off to learn the trade of engraving. But that great struggle had not yet cast him as the man who would unlock intimate secrets of the emperor and the brother he had sent to rule over Spain. All Europe knew that the Corsican ogre had perfected the mightiest armament since the legions of ancient Rome. They were steeped in science, and they were daring and cunning too. At any moment the French advance patrols would reach the outposts behind Corunna. Napoleon’s mighty host was bearing down on them, weaving its way through the Galician hills. If the ships did not come soon, the army would be smashed and its remnants swept into the dustbin of some hideous prison. British officers had begun speculating what the next few years might hold for them as prisoners of war.
They had expected to embark at Vigo, further south, down the coast. But General Moore had changed his mind. He had changed his mind about many things since marching the army out of Lisbon and up into the interior of Spain the previous November. Now it was mid-January and they were trying to get back to England. Word had been sent to the fleet to sail to Corunna. But what if there had been a misunderstanding?
Certainly the wind was just right, blowing across the cold, grey Atlantic and into Scovell’s face. A good wind for the ships to sail around from Vigo and set course again for home. He had no doubt he had chosen the best vantage-point. The Spanish called it the Tower of Hercules, a great lofty pillar of a lighthouse built by the Romans during the time of Trajan. But the transports and their escorts had not appeared.
As Scovell glanced through the telescope again, his patience was rewarded as sails appeared on the horizon. First the topgallants, the peaks of the first few masts cresting into view, then more and more spreads of taught canvas. General Moore’s staff officer was the most meticulous of men: before riding off to report the arrival of the Fleet, he had to make sure that he had spotted a large enough group of ships. Admiral Samuel Hood was bringing up a huge squadron: 112 vessels, far more than at Trafalgar four years before. But there was no great glory attached to this mission for a man like Hood, since the great majority of them were transports. Only twelve belonged to the Royal Navy, the rest were merchantmen chartered cheaply and packed with lubbers under poor captains. Attempting to embark an exhausted army in a crowded harbour, probably under enemy fire, would be a fraught business.
Scovell set off, anxious to get the news to Headquarters. The ride from the Tower of Hercules up into the hills would have taken him through the streets of Corunna itself. The port was on an isthmus. Viewed on a map, it looks a little like a head glancing over its left shoulder. The Tower of Hercules was on the top of that head. The harbour was in the space between the chin and the shoulder, with the buildings like a fuzzy growth around it. Corunna’s architecture betrayed its Roman, Moorish and more modern influences. In many places it was a warren of narrow streets, in others some demolition had started to create the grander avenues then becoming fashionable in Europe.
As Scovell rode through those streets, he passed hundreds of hussars standing next to their mounts, deep in foreboding. There were orders to get the heavy guns and cavalry embarked first, but they knew there was not enough room for everyone. As he went on, towards the port’s hinterland, groups of infantry rallied to their various colours. They had to occupy the shoulders of the Corunna peninsula, and in particular the shoulder which commanded the harbour, in order to stop the French shelling the embarkation.
General Moore’s regiments had begun arriving at Corunna four days earlier, after a terrible retreat through the snow-capped Galician mountains. They had been marched beyond endurance. Many had dropped dead from exhaustion; thousands had been left straggling behind. Of those who fell back, many had frozen to death, while others were slaughtered by French cavalry patrols whose energetic pursuit did not allow for prisoners. Small groups of those who had cheated a grisly fate now trickled into the town. As he rode up towards the hills, the staff officer passed many of these wretched soldiers. They had marched out of Portugal, the cream of the British Army: mainly first battalions of its finest regiments. Now their scarlet uniforms were stained and patched, their bodies crawling with lice, bellies empty and eyes sunk in their sallow faces. Scovell noted in his journal, ‘never did so sudden an alteration take place in men, they were now a mere rabble, marching in groups of 20 or 30 each, looking quite broken hearted, and worn out, many without shoes or stockings’.
Moore’s soldiers had become euphoric at the sight of the sea. It promised deliverance. Their sense of anticipation had soared as they hobbled into the hills just above the port. A few miles before they caught sight of the brine, they had noticed a warming of the temperature and lush vegetation; an abundance of trees bea
ring lemons, orange and pomegranates. After the barren wastes they had marched through in Lugo and Astariz, it must have seemed like the Garden of Eden. But the approach of the French and uncertainty about the Fleet had brought them quickly back to a state of nervousness. As word spread of Hood’s imminent arrival, all kinds of rumours coursed through the narrow streets of Corunna.
The cavalry knew the Army would not make a gift to Napoleon of thousands of highly trained mounts. In some armies, when capture was inevitable, they hobbled their horses, slicing through the tendons on the back of their legs so the poor animals could barely walk, let alone gallop to the charge. This was not the way that the British cavalry intended to conduct its affairs.
Rumours ran through the ranks that the horses were to be killed forthwith – whether they were standing in the cobbled streets of the town or in the fields behind it. None of the cavalry generals ever owned up to having given such a command, but an immense slaughter began. At first, it was decided to dispatch the animals with a pistol shot to the head.
One captain of the 10th Hussars kept a record. He wrote despairingly:
in executing the order for the destruction of these irrational companions of their toils, the hearts of the soldiers were more affected with pity and grief than by all the calamities they had witnessed during the retreat. On this occasion the town exhibited the appearance of a vast slaughter house. Wounded horses, mad with pain, were to be seen running through the streets and the ground was covered with mangled carcasses.
Worse was to come. Many of the troopers literally flinched from their duty as they pulled the triggers of their flintlock pistols, either maiming their chargers or missing them altogether. New orders were barked above the terrible din of dying animals. ‘In consequence of their uncertain aim with the pistol,’ the same hussar officer continued, ‘the men were latterly directed to cut the throats of the horses.’ Corunna’s cobblestones were soon running with ruby blood.