‘Not a pretty sight, is it?’
Somerset shook his head. ‘A beaten army never is, sir. All the more unfortunate that this was avoidable in the first place.’
‘That it was,’ Arthur replied with feeling.
Having failed to make a co-ordinated attack on Marshal Victor six days earlier, General Cuesta had waited three days before continuing the advance alone to try to run down the French. The result was predictable, Arthur mused. The garrison of Madrid had advanced to join forces with Victor and the French had turned on Cuesta and broken his army, sending it reeling back in confusion. The crisis had almost turned into a complete disaster when the Spanish commander had ordered his men to turn and fight with a river at their back. On hearing this Arthur had galloped forward from the British camp outside Talavera to persuade Cuesta to fall back to a less dangerous position. The old general, still bitter over their previous confrontation, had at first refused to listen. Fearing that Cuesta’s obstinacy would allow the French to destroy each army in turn, Arthur had swallowed his pride and begged Cuesta to reconsider.
Cuesta had sneered as he had made his reply via O’Donoju.
‘On your knees, Sir Arthur.’
Arthur could not hide his astonishment. ‘What?’
‘His excellency wants you to beg on your knees. You have humiliated him enough by refusing to accept his command. Now he wants to see you humiliated.’
At first Arthur was too surprised to react. Surely the man must be mad. With his army facing certain defeat if it stayed where it was, and a powerful French army only hours away, Cuesta was wasting time settling such a petty score. For the first time Arthur fully appreciated the depths of the man’s vanity, selfishness and arrogance. If Arthur refused to do as the Spaniard demanded then thousands of his men would die unnecessarily, and the British army would be left hopelessly exposed in the heart of Spain with almost no supplies left to sustain the men as they were pursued back into Portugal. He swallowed his distaste for the Spanish general. What did it matter if he suffered a moment of humiliation if it saved the men of two armies?
He swallowed bitterly and eased himself down on one knee as he stared straight into Cuesta’s mocking eyes and spoke steadily. ‘Tell his excellency that I beg him to fall back to defend Talavera with my army.’
The memory of that moment burned in Arthur’s soul. It was only partly shame; the rest was anger and disgust at his ally. But at least his humiliation had bought time for the men of the Spanish and British armies as they prepared to turn and make a stand against the French.
Arthur had chosen the ground carefully. Between the Tagus and the steep hills of the Sierra de Segurilla stretched an undulating plain. Closer to the hills there were two large ridges that created a narrow valley on the far side before rising up again into hills. A small stream, called the Portina, running from the hills cut across the plain to the Tagus and formed a natural line for the combined army. With the flanks secured by the Tagus and the hills all that the allies had to do was hold their line.
Mindful of the rough handling the Spanish had recently endured Arthur had left the right of the line to Cuesta. Here the Spanish would be protected by a line of ditches and walls stretching out from the town. More fortifications in the form of barricades of felled trees had been constructed by British troops. The defences were formidable enough to deter the enemy and therefore could be safely entrusted to Cuesta’s badly shaken troops. That left the more exposed part of the line to the British.
Once he was certain that the Spanish were indeed taking up the positions allotted to them, Arthur gestured to Somerset to follow him. They trotted across the plain towards the small force sent forward towards the Alberche river to cover the retreat of the Spanish. The twin towers of an old fortified manor house rose above the olive groves and small oak trees that grew along the near bank of the Alberche and Arthur followed the road that ran through the trees towards the building. He passed through one of the brigades spread out through the trees and nodded a quick greeting to their commander, General Mackenzie, as he saw him in a clearing. When they reached the manor house Arthur saw a number of his men resting around the walls, with their muskets stacked as they talked quietly. More men were visible, spread out through the trees. Those closest to the entrance to the manor hurriedly rose and stood to attention when they spied their general and his aide approaching. Arthur dismounted and went inside.
The manor was built round a courtyard, and seated on the edge of a small pool into which a fountain trickled was the officer charged with guarding the route through the surrounding olive groves.
‘Good morning, Donkin,’ Arthur nodded as he strode up. ‘How is it with you?’
Major Donkin stood smartly and brushed away the crumbs of a pie he had been breakfasting on. ‘All’s well, sir. No sign of the French yet, but my lads will send ’em packing the moment they show up.’
‘Glad to hear it.’ Arthur pointed to the nearest tower. ‘Come, let’s see what’s happening.’
Stuffing the last morsel of the pie into his mouth and chewing ferociously, Donkin followed Arthur to the narrow staircase that ascended inside the tower. At the top they climbed out through the narrow opening into a square room with open arches on each side that afforded good views across the olive groves. A mile to the west Arthur could see the narrow course of the Alberche river, and on the far bank some swirling black clouds of smoke where several buildings were on fire. The smoke made it hard to see the river at that point and Arthur glanced further to the south, towards where the road from Madrid crossed a bridge. Clouds of dust indicated where the main French columns were closing on the river and with an anxious twist in his stomach Arthur estimated that the enemy must have some fifty thousand men.
He pointed towards the burning buildings. ‘What happened there?’
‘Mackenzie’s men set fire to them before they retreated back through my line.’
‘Why?’
‘To prevent the French from using them as strongpoints, sir.’
‘And what is the point of that?’ Arthur responded tersely. ‘Our line is over two miles back from the Alberche. All that he has done is deprived the local people of their homes. For which they will not be inclined to thank us.’
‘No, sir. I imagine not.’
Suddenly Arthur saw a movement through the distant smoke. A file of enemy soldiers was making its way down the bank and into the river, where they crossed and filtered into the trees. He turned to Donkin. ‘Best have your command stand to. The French will be on your pickets soon.’
‘Pickets?’ Donkin frowned, and then looked alarmed.
‘Good God, man, you must have posted them?’
‘Well, no, sir. I mean not yet.’
Arthur glared coldly at the major and was about to berate him for his reckless inattention to his duties when there was a shout from below the tower and a moment later a musket cracked amid the trees. Some of Donkin’s men sprang to their feet and peered into the nearest olive groves. As Arthur followed the direction of their gaze he saw blue-coated figures swiftly passing through the trees. He cupped a hand to his mouth and leaned over the parapet and bellowed down at Donkin’s men.
‘To arms! To arms! The enemy’s here!’
More shots were fired, and Arthur saw jabs of flame and puffs of smoke on three sides of the manor house. One of the British soldiers below doubled over and collapsed on the ground with a deep groan. The quicker-witted of the redcoats were sprinting for their stacked muskets, but several were cut down before they could take up their weapons. There was a crack and plaster exploded off the tower wall just below the parapet.
‘Damn!’ Arthur stepped back. ‘We’re in a damned bad fix, Donkin.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Without another word Arthur hurried back down the steps, the sound of boots ringing off the hard walls. At the bottom he ran through the courtyard and out of the main entrance. From the ground the position looked ever more desperate. French skirmishers were
rushing out from the trees, shooting down Donkin’s men who had no chance to form ranks, or look to their officers for orders. Most had gone to ground, and those without weapons crouched down low with fearful expressions as the enemy closed round them.
‘Sir!’ Somerset had grabbed the reins of Arthur’s mount and was riding towards his commander, ducking low over his saddle.
Arthur glanced round. ‘Donkin, get your men out of here at once. Get back to our line as best you can.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Donkin nodded, crouching and holding his hat down on his head as if that would prevent it from being shot off. There was no time for any more words, and Arthur sprinted towards Somerset. Seeing a prize target the nearest enemy skirmishers took aim and fired. A bullet whipped past Arthur’s head, while another spat up a divot of earth a yard in front of him. As soon as he reached his horse, he placed a boot in the stirrup and heaved himself into the saddle with a grunt, taking the reins from his aide.
‘Get you gone, sir!’ Somerset called out, drawing one of the pistols from his saddle holsters. He glanced down to ensure the percussion cap was in place and thumbed back the hammer.
Arthur dug his spurs in and wheeled his horse round, urging it into a gallop down the road leading back through the trees. Glancing back he saw Somerset steady his horse, raise his pistol and take aim. There was a flash and the dull detonation and then Somerset thrust the weapon back in his holster and galloped after his general. Behind them, Major Donkin was bellowing orders for his men to fall back on him and make for the road.
Keeping his head down, Arthur rose up in his saddle as his horse thundered down the dry track. The sound of firing steadily faded behind them but Arthur continued riding as fast as his mount would carry him. Then, a half-mile from the manor house, he came across the first of Mackenzie’s pickets at the side of the road and reined in.
‘Stand to! The enemy’s coming. Take care not to fire on Donkin’s men!’
A sergeant nodded and saluted, and then turned to relay the order down the line in a parade ground bellow. Arthur waved Somerset on and the two of them continued at a less breathless pace down the road until they came to the clearing where Mackenzie still sat with a handful of his officers. Arthur reined in and thrust his arm back down the track.
‘The French have surprised Donkin’s men! Have your brigade formed up at once. We have to stop them here, or they’ll press on right up to our main line. You must drive them off before re-joining the main army.’
‘Yes, sir!’ Mackenzie was on his feet at once, shouting out his orders. As they were repeated Arthur saw figures scrambling from under the low boughs of the olive trees and taking up their positions in each company. The sergeants paced down each line, dressing the ranks and shouting threats at those who were slow in joining their comrades in the line. Within five minutes the men of Mackenzie’s brigade stood ready, watching the trees ahead for sign of the French.
Arthur trotted over to Mackenzie’s side. ‘Make sure your men don’t fire until they are certain they see the enemy. Donkin, and what’s left of his men, will appear first.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Mackenzie hurriedly briefed two officers and sent them down the line in each direction to pass on the instruction. There was not long to wait. The uneven crackle of muskets quickly drew closer and then the first British soldiers could be seen, some helping wounded comrades while others fired their muskets and fell back to take cover behind trees where they reloaded and fired again at their pursuers. The first of the French skirmishers were not far behind, flitting through the sunlit shafts of powder smoke that hung in the still air of the olive groves. As the last of Donkin’s men passed though the gaps in the line, Mackenzie bellowed out the order.
‘Present arms! Make ready to fire!’
There was a muted shuffling as his men raised their muskets and waited for the next command.
‘Cock your weapons!’
A sharp clatter passed down the line as the men thumbed back the firing hammers of their primed muskets.
‘Take aim!’
Up came the muzzles as the soldiers pointed them in the direction of the enemy soldiers who had halted and now flinched as they faced the first volley.
‘Fire!’
The command merged with the crash of volleys fired by each company along the length of the British line. A dense cloud of smoke instantly filled the air beneath the trees. From his vantage point in the saddle Arthur saw the withering hail of lead slash the French ranks, cutting down a score of men and sending others reeling, while leaves, twigs and bark exploded off the trees.
‘Reload!’ Mackenzie shouted. ‘Fire by companies!’
The shaken French fired a few hurried shots in return before a second British volley struck home, and then Mackenzie gave the order to fix bayonets. There was a brief clatter as the men slid the bayonets over the end of their muskets and twisted them into the locked position.
‘Advance!’
The British line paced forward into the slowly dispersing powder smoke and became spectral figures in the gloom before they emerged on the far side, scarcely twenty paces from the nearest Frenchmen. The grim faces of the redcoats and the deadly glimmer of their bayonets were enough to send a ripple of mortal terror through the enemy ranks, and those nearest edged back, then turned and hurried away, despite the shouted encouragement and threats of their officers and sergeants.
Satisfied that Mackenzie had the situation in hand, Arthur let out a deep sigh of relief and nodded with satisfaction. ‘That will do for now. Come, Somerset.’
They turned away and spurred their horses down the track, through the groves and back on to open ground. Ahead of them the allied armies had almost finished forming up between the Tagus and the hills and Arthur was struck by the thinly stretched British line, two men deep, that stood ready to hold their ground against the French without the benefit of the field defences afforded to Cuesta’s men. There was little doubt in Arthur’s mind where the main weight of the French attack would be launched. Leaving a small force to occupy the Spanish the French commander would send in upwards of forty thousand men against Arthur’s twenty thousand.
Arthur slowed his horse to a walk as he contemplated the coming fight. ‘This is not the battle I would choose to fight, Somerset.’
‘Indeed, sir?’ His aide urged his horse alongside. ‘Our position seems strong enough, and the French cannot outflank us. It will be our line against their column, just as it was at Vimeiro, and we won that day.’
‘Vimeiro was different. Junot’s army was no stronger than ours. If we had been worsted then the coast was a few miles away and the Royal Navy would have covered the shore while the army embarked.’ Arthur paused a moment. ‘If the Spanish break, or give up their position, then we will be outflanked and cut to pieces. If we attempt to retreat then the enemy cavalry will harry us all the way. The men are half starved as it is. If they are not able to forage, then any retreat will degenerate into a rout. So, my dear Somerset, we must fight here, and we must win. That is the only road open to us now.’
Chapter 7
In the thin light of the first hour of dawn Arthur gazed steadily towards the east as, column after column, the French army formed up ready to begin their attack. The Portina divided the two armies as it flowed, almost straight, across the plain to the Tagus and the pickets of both sides were already withdrawing, with a few men exchanging final, fatalistic farewells with their opposite numbers. The sight briefly moved Arthur, who could not help wondering at the nature of men that they could be so civil to each other one moment, and intent on each other’s destruction the next. His body felt stiff after sleeping the last few hours on the open ground, covered in his cloak. He stretched his back with a slight groan as he surveyed the enemy’s dispositions with grim satisfaction.
As Arthur had hoped, the main strength of the French army had been drawn opposite the British. Over forty thousand of them, he estimated, while a few thousand faced the Spanish. It was an odd thing to have wishe
d for, he mused, but the situation was such that the battle could only be won if the French were persuaded to concentrate their efforts on the British alone. Cuesta’s army was largely a spent force, and most of his men would only be onlookers in the day’s fighting.
‘Sir?’
He turned and saw Somerset approaching with a stoppered jug and a loaf of bread.
‘Thought you might like some breakfast, sir.’
‘Yes, yes I would. Thank you.’
As he watched the French gunners bring forward the first rounds of ammunition Arthur tore off small chunks of bread and chewed quickly. He swallowed, pulled the stopper out of the jug and took a swig. Instantly his face screwed up and he spat to one side. ‘By God, what is this?’
‘Wine, sir. I found it in a tavern outside the town. The French must have overlooked it when they passed through.’
‘Small wonder.’ Arthur put the jug down and nodded towards the enemy. ‘This is going to be a hard-fought battle, and the men know it.’ He glanced at Somerset. ‘I’ve seen their faces. They know the odds are against us.’
‘Then they will fight all the harder for it, sir.’
Arthur looked at him again and smiled. ‘I only hope they have as much spirit as you do. We shall know soon enough.’
A dull thud sounded and both men stared across the battlefield to where a plume of smoke eddied in the faint morning breeze as the French fired a signal gun. A moment later the main battery of enemy cannon sited opposite the ridge opened up, spitting flame and smoke before the roar carried up the slope like an uneven peal of thunder. The ridge was defended by General Hill’s division, formed up across the slope in two lines. The first shots began to strike home, smashing men into bloody fragments as they tore through the British ranks. The outnumbered British guns fired back, exacting a smaller toll of their own amongst the French infantry massed on the far side of the Portina. Arthur watched for a moment before he turned to Somerset.
‘Ride over to Hill and tell him to withdraw his men back over the crest of the ridge. Have them lie down, but be ready to rise up and advance at once.’
The Fields of Death Page 7