The Fields of Death

by Scarrow, Simon

  When Arthur had returned to the bench he saw that the other man was regarding him curiously. ‘General, not many of your compatriots would have acted as you did. Even fewer of my countrymen, and certainly no Spaniard.’

  ‘I told you, sir. There is nothing more important than victory. For any of us. We do what we must, or we are lost.’

  ‘That is true. Very true.’ Don Roberto rose to his feet and held out his hand. ‘The herd is yours, General. I will tell my steward to rouse my people to drive them to your camp.’

  ‘I thank you.’

  ‘If I may presume, I would be greatly honoured if you would dine here as my guest one day.’

  Arthur took his hand and smiled. ‘The honour would be mine.’

  Don Roberto lowered his hand and turned away, and then paused to look back at Arthur as the latter made for the door. ‘One last thing, General. Please ensure that you pay for the herd before you take delivery, eh?’

  Chapter 15

  April 1810

  ‘It seems that Bonaparte has chosen Marshal Masséna to crush us,’ Arthur informed his senior officers. They had been summoned to his headquarters and now sat in the shaded courtyard, cooled by a late afternoon breeze. He held up a copy of Le Moniteur.‘This was taken one week ago, together with other documents, by partisans north of Madrid. Masséna is appointed commander of the Army of Portugal, a force of some one hundred and fifty thousand men. Even allowing for garrisoning his supply lines, that means Masséna will still outnumber us by some margin.’

  Arthur paused as his officers exchanged glances at the size of the host opposed to them. The British army, together with the Portuguese regiments raised and trained under the command of General Beresford, numbered less than sixty thousand. After the retreat from Talavera the exhausted army had been ravaged by malaria and the blistering heat of the Mediterranean summer. It had taken the whole winter for the survivors to build up their strength, and for the new drafts of replacements to be trained for the next campaign. Yet Arthur was content that his army would be able to hold the enemy at bay. The men were more than a match for their opponents and they would have the advantage of a formidable line of defences at their back, should they be obliged to retreat.

  Having permitted his officers to reflect on the odds arrayed against them, Arthur continued his briefing. ‘Our latest intelligence reports indicate that the enemy is concentrating at Salamanca. Their forward elements have been probing General Craufurd’s outposts along the Portuguese frontier near Almeida since the first days of March. It is my judgement that Marshal Masséna will attempt to invade Portugal from the north. It is the best route. The alternative direction of attack is from the east, towards Elvas, but the roads there are atrocious. Bad enough for infantry, but impossible for artillery and wagon trains. Accordingly, I have ordered General Hill to march his corps to join the main army.’

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ General Hamilton interrupted. ‘But that leaves the eastern frontier unguarded.’

  ‘If you had permitted me to finish,’ Arthur responded coldly, ‘I would have said that Elvas will be defended by General Leite’s brigade. He’s one of the best of the Portuguese officers and I am confident that he will stand his ground - if the enemy should be unwise enough to attempt any attack from the east. The enemy will come from the north. Have no doubt about that. However, before Masséna can invade Portugal he will need to take the fortresses at Ciudad Rodrigo and Almeida as they guard the route along which he will advance. General Herrasti, the governor of Ciudad Rodrigo, has written to inform me that he has a strong garrison and plenty of supplies. He can hold out until he is relieved by a Spanish army.’ Arthur smiled. ‘I know we have not had the best of experiences at the hands of our Spanish allies . . .’

  Several of the officers who had served at Talavera muttered their agreement.

  ‘However,’ Arthur continued, ‘they may act with a greater sense of urgency since their compatriots will be in danger. But let us assume the worst. Ciudad Rodrigo will fall. We can only hope that it delays the French advance long enough for us to improve Almeida’s defences. There too we must attempt to delay Masséna, until we have cleared the land in front of the defensive lines at Torres Vedras and completed the fortifications.’ Arthur looked round the courtyard to make sure he had every officer’s close attention. ‘The opening stages of this campaign require us to buy as much time as possible. Every day we can delay the enemy is a day gained for the improvement of our defences. Every French soldier lost in assaults on the frontier fortresses is one fewer that our men will have to face. I will be blunt with you, gentlemen: we cannot win this campaign in the conventional sense. We cannot march to battle and face Masséna on an open field and hope to defeat him. He outnumbers us, and his cavalry are some of the finest in Europe. We could not stop them flanking us. Our cavalry is far too weak to oppose the enemy horse.

  ‘Our goal is not to lose the campaign. If we achieve that, then we win.’ Arthur smiled sardonically. ‘Though the newspapers and other croakers in England may not be quite so accepting of this definition of victory. Do not expect to be the recipient of fine titles, pensions and other such spoils of war, gentlemen.’

  His audience responded with a mixture of smiles and laughter. The newspapers and letters from England that reached the Peninsula were all too full of the opinion that Lord Wellington’s army was doing nothing in Portugal, and the soldiers should be withdrawn.

  ‘So, I am resolved that we will only fight on advantageous terms. When we come to face Marshal Masséna in battle you will all be required to move your men swiftly so that we may be strong where the enemy is weak, and that we quickly reinforce any points on our line that come under pressure.’ Arthur paused. ‘Any questions, gentlemen?’

  One of the officers raised a hand, a stocky man in his early thirties, with piercing brown eyes and an almost completely bald pate.

  ‘Yes, Colonel Cox?’

  ‘Have you decided where to face Marshal Masséna, sir?’

  Arthur was silent for a moment, wondering if he should take his senior officers into his confidence. If anything should happen to him, then it might be as well for them to know his mind, and adapt to his strategy for facing the enemy. On the other hand, Arthur realised that much as it might benefit them to carry on his plan, they would be handicapped by constantly attempting to pursue his intentions too strictly and thus lack the flexibility that characterised effective leadership. He fixed Colonel Cox with a steady look.

  ‘I have a location in mind.’

  There was a brief, expectant silence, but Arthur said no more.

  ‘Where might that be, sir?’ Cox persisted.

  ‘All in good time, Colonel. You will find out soon enough.’

  Two days later, Arthur was riding in the company of Somerset and a squadron of light cavalry scouting the landscape north of the Mondego river, the route along which Masséna was likely to advance, once he had disposed of the frontier fortresses. Most of Arthur’s army had already crossed the river and was camped around the town of Coimbra. The officers and men were in high spirits, almost eager to close with the enemy after so many months of waiting in camp, with the unending routine of exercise and drilling that their commander insisted on. Arthur was well aware that the army was spoiling for a fight, but so far Masséna had defied his expectations. The French had invested Ciudad Rodrigo slowly and the latest report from Arthur’s scouts revealed that the enemy had not even begun to dig any approach trenches, or establish any siege batteries. It would be some weeks before Masséna was ready to assault the fortress. The danger was, by that time the English soldiers might have lost some of their edge. The greater danger was that the longer it took for the invasion of Portugal to begin, the greater the chance that the government back in London might lose its nerve and issue orders for the evacuation of Arthur and his army.

  As the small party reached the crest of a ridge on the road to Mortágua they came upon the whitewashed walls of a convent. Arthur turned to Somers
et.

  ‘What is this place?’

  Somerset twisted round and fumbled for the map in his saddlebag. Drawing it out he unfolded the map and ran a gloved finger over it.‘Ah, here we are. The convent of Busaco, sir.’

  ‘Busaco, eh?’ Arthur muttered as he raised a hand to shield his eyes and examined the surrounding landscape. Ahead of him the road crossed the crest of the ridge and then descended along a curved spur. The slopes on either side of the route were covered with copses of pine trees interspersed with heather. To the left the ridge continued for two miles or so to the north before dropping very steeply to the valley floor. To the right the ridge ran almost straight, in the direction of the Mondego, nearly eight miles away. The crest of the ridge hardly varied in height and afforded a clear view along its length.

  ‘A good position to defend, I’d say.’ Somerset nodded as he gazed round. ‘We’ve a good view of the approaches to the ridge, sir, and any attacker is going to face a pretty tiring approach up the slope.’

  ‘Yes, so I imagine.’Arthur took another quick look over the position. The steep slopes would cancel out the enemy’s superiority in cavalry since they could neither charge up the rising ground, nor easily flank Arthur’s battle line and fall on the rear. He nodded with satisfaction and then turned back to his aide. ‘Make a note, Somerset.’

  Somerset folded his map and tucked it back in his saddlebag before fishing out a pencil and his notebook. ‘Ready, sir.’

  Arthur raised his arm and pointed along the ridge to the south. ‘I want our engineers to construct a road along there, in case we have need to move our men along the line to reinforce weak points. The route will have to be cleared of rocks so we can move the guns and ammunition wagons easily. Make sure that the road runs along the reverse slope. No sense in making our men a target for enemy guns.’ He turned to Somerset. ‘Got all that?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ his aide replied as he finished writing the final words and looked up.‘Do you think we can beat Marshal Masséna on this ground, sir?’

  Arthur pursed his lips briefly. ‘We may not win a decisive victory, Somerset, but we shall certainly give him a sharp and costly rebuff.’ He smiled. ‘That’ll be something to still the tongues of the croakers back in England, eh?’

  ‘Let’s hope so, sir.’

  The siege of Ciudad Rodrigo proceeded as the spring gave way to summer. Arthur received regular reports of the enemy’s progress as the French sappers slowly dug their zig-zag trenches towards the walls of the fortress. Masséna’s siege guns began a steady bombardment of the outer works, gradually battering a series of breaches in the defences. Once the French came within mortar range, they began to construct a well-protected earthwork for a battery of the snub-barrelled weapons, which soon began to lob shells over the walls with deadly effect, cutting down swathes of General Herrasti’s men.

  Towards the end of June one of the defenders succeeded in slipping out of the fortress on a moonless night. Picking his way carefully through the French lines, he made good his escape and was picked up by a British cavalry patrol a day later. The Spanish officer was at once escorted to Arthur’s headquarters in a tavern, arriving two nights after his escape. By the light of the lanterns hanging from the solid beams of the tavern the man’s exhaustion was evident to Arthur. He swayed slightly as he stood to attention and saluted. His uniform was filthy and torn and his face smeared with grime and scratches, incurred as he crawled through the siege lines.

  Arthur bowed his head in greeting and glanced at Somerset who was standing at the Spaniard’s shoulder. ‘From Ciudad Rodrigo, you say?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘By God,’ Arthur mused as he looked the officer over again, admiringly. ‘That’s fine work. Somerset, I’ll need a translator. Send for Captain Hastings.’

  ‘Señor,’ the officer interrupted, ‘I speak English. So my general send me.’

  ‘Ah, good. Good!’Arthur smiled warmly.‘Might I know your name?’

  ‘Captain Juan Cerillo de Alimanca y Pederosa, sir.’

  ‘Yes, well, Captain, what news do you bring from General Herrasti?’

  ‘The general, he says that he asks you to bring your army and raise the siege. The French, they make a breach. The fortress will fall in no more than a week, if no help comes.’

  ‘I see.’ Arthur nodded. He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms as he regarded the Spanish officer frankly. ‘I must ask you to tell your general that there is little I can do to help him. My army is not strong enough to relieve Ciudad Rodrigo. The country around the fortress is open and flat. Perfect for the French cavalry, and I have too few mounted men to counter them. I am sorry, but I cannot afford to risk my army by coming to the aid of General Herrasti.’

  The Spanish officer’s eyes narrowed. ‘If you are truly an ally of my country, then you would help us, señor. Even so, my general has sent for help from the army of Andalucia. General Alvarez, he promise to send his cavalry to help the English raise the siege. You need not have fear of the French horse, señor. General Alvarez deal with them.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Arthur’s expression hardened. ‘And what is the strength of General Alvarez’s cavalry?’

  ‘Five thousand sabres, señor.’ The captain stiffened his weary back and stared at Arthur haughtily. ‘The finest cavalry in Europe.’

  Arthur did not respond immediately. He had been promised much by Spanish generals in the past, only to be disappointed when their promises had proved worthless. Their bad faith had cost the British army dearly during the Talavera campaign and he had vowed not to make the mistake of taking them at their word again. It grieved him that the Spanish people, and the common soldiers, were patriots and prepared to defy Bonaparte whatever the cost, yet their senior officers were utterly unreliable. In all likelihood, General Alvarez would never make any attempt to raise the siege. Even if, by some miracle, they did march on Ciudad Rodrigo his men would be scattered by the first enemy formation that barred their way.

  Taking a deep breath, Arthur leaned forward and met the Spanish officer’s contemptuous gaze directly. ‘I would ask you to convey my profound regret to General Herrasti. Tell him that I am unable to lift the siege. Tell him that if I were to attempt it, then it is possible that our enemy would inflict a defeat on the one allied army in the Peninsula that stands any chance of defying Bonaparte. I cannot afford to squander what slim hope we have of driving French troops from Spain in the future. Is that understood?’

  ‘Yes, señor. I understand that perhaps the English are as Napoleon says - you cannot trust them. And that they will fight to the very last drop of Spanish blood.’

  Somerset gasped. ‘Now, that’s—’

  ‘Quiet!’ Arthur snapped. He glared at his aide for a moment before turning his attention back to the Spaniard. ‘I apologise for my subordinate’s lack of self-discipline.’ He rose coolly and offered his hand. ‘There is nothing more I can say, Captain, except good luck, to you and your general.’

  The Spaniard did not take his hand, but bowed his head briefly and turned to stride out of the tavern, stumbling slightly at the entrance as exhaustion got the better of his haughty demeanour. Then he was gone, and Arthur immediately rounded on Somerset. ‘What the devil did you think you were doing? British officers have a reputation for imperturbability and discipline, Somerset. I’d be obliged if you reflected on that and make sure that you do not damage that reputation.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Somerset shuffled uncomfortably. ‘Is that all, sir?’

  ‘Yes. Dismissed.’

  Alone in the tavern, Arthur sighed wearily and then reached for the sheaf of maps on one side of the table. Fanning through them, he selected the map depicting the Portuguese border with Spain and tapped his finger on Ciudad Rodrigo. General Herrasti had done a fine job of delaying the French. He had bought Arthur several weeks in which to complete the system of defences defending the approaches to Lisbon. It was a pity that Arthur could do nothing to assist the Spanish commander. Except hono
ur his sacrifice by defeating Marshal Masséna.

  The French siege guns battered a practicable breach in the walls of Ciudad Rodrigo on the tenth day of July. Rather than subject the townspeople to all the horrors of having their city sacked, General Herrasti surrendered. It was a sad end to a valiant effort,Arthur reflected as he read the report, but there was no time for regret, as the French were already advancing on the border town of Almeida. General Craufurd’s division did what they could to hold them, but the enemy’s vanguard steadily forced the British back. Two weeks after the fall of Ciudad Rodrigo the French army reached Almeida. Craufurd had left behind one of his ablest officers, Colonel Cox, to command the Portuguese garrison. The town had been well provisioned and there was plenty of ammunition for the cannon that lined its walls. Arthur was confident that Cox would hold out for at least as long as General Herrasti, and so he turned his attention to the problem of persuading the Portuguese civilians in the line of Masséna’s advance to pack up their valuables and seek protection behind the lines of Torres Vedras.

  Many had heard of the fate of those who had fallen victim to Soult’s army as it retreated from Oporto two years earlier, and willingly took their families south to Lisbon. Some refused, to defend their homes, and there were those who felt they could make a living out of selling their produce to the French just as easily as to the English. Arthur, still haunted by the memories of the burned villages and mutilated bodies of men, women and children that he had seen in his pursuit of Soult, tried his best to persuade the civilians to leave. However, there were still some who refused, placing the prospect of making money above the risk of being robbed and butchered by Masséna’s soldiers.

  Three days after the enemy began their siege of Almeida, Arthur was in the small square of a village on the road to the town. The Portuguese officer who had been sent to tell the villagers to flee had failed to impress upon them the dangers of remaining in their home, so Arthur had decided to persuade them himself. The peril facing them all had been made clear to the local priest, who had rung the church bell to summon the inhabitants to the square. It was mid-afternoon and Arthur and Somerset sat on a bench in the shade of a dusty tree in front of the church. A short distance from them their translator sat cross-legged on the ground. The people were slow to emerge, disgruntled at the interruption to their siesta, and trickled into the square to squat down in whatever shade they could find as they waited for the priest to address them. They showed little interest in the two British officers, or in the six dragoons of Arthur’s escort, resting in the shade to one side of the square.