The Fields of Death

by Scarrow, Simon

  ‘They reached headquarters at noon, sir. I haven’t had a chance to open them. Do you wish me to see to it now?’

  ‘No, bring them in as they are, then start drafting my orders concerning that invitation from Masséna.’

  Somerset bowed his head and left the office. Arthur stared blankly into the hearth for a moment and then laughed drily. ‘A play indeed! Strange fellows, these French.’

  He built the fire up while he waited for Somerset to return. Outside, the winter sky was grey over Lisbon, and through the long windows Arthur could see the harbour below, packed with cargo ships plying their trade between the Portuguese capital and their colonies and customers scattered across the world. There was also a convoy of ships from England unloading military supplies for the army. The supplies were welcome enough,Arthur mused, but he needed reinforcements far more urgently. More men, as well as more money. The army’s pay was already three months in arrears, and the debt owed to Portuguese farmers and grain merchants continued to grow. The Portuguese civilians regarded their redcoat guests with guarded enthusiasm. The same ships that brought supplies to the army could just as easily be used to evacuate the soldiers if the French broke through the lines, or the British government lost heart and ordered their army home.

  The latter was a very real possibility, Arthur knew. The Prince of Wales and his Whig friends were all for abandoning Portugal, arguing that it was a waste of thinly stretched resources and did little to unseat Bonaparte. The thought made Arthur feel weary and frustrated. While his army held its ground in Portugal, and offered inspiration to the Portuguese and the Spanish, the enemy was obliged to commit over two hundred thousand soldiers in the Peninsula - soldiers who would not be available for Bonaparte to use elsewhere. The constant erosion of his forces by partisans, disease, hunger and battle required a steady flow of replacements, slowly bleeding the enemy to death. It was a long-term strategy, and Arthur prayed that the British government was wise enough to understand its efficacy.

  The door to the office opened again and Somerset entered, clutching a thick leather folder under his arm. Arthur nodded to the low table in front of him and Somerset crossed the room to lay the folder down. Flipping it open, he cleared his throat and briefly summarised the contents.

  ‘Correspondence from London, official and personal - unopened; the latest reports from our cavalry patrols, weekly strength returns from each brigade, and more requests for payment from Portuguese suppliers. Will that be all?’

  ‘For now.’ Arthur nodded towards the door. Once his aide had left and quietly closed the door behind him Arthur briefly glanced over the bills presented by the Portuguese. There was sufficient gold in the army’s war chest to pay a proportion of the bills, enough to keep the suppliers happy for another month. He dipped his pen into the inkwell and made a note at the bottom of the first bill, then placed them to one side. The strength returns offered some good news. Despite the winter, many of the sick and injured from the last season’s campaign had recovered and re-joined the ranks, bringing his army up to thirty thousand effectives. With his Portuguese units, Arthur had over fifty thousand men ready to take the fight to the enemy the moment the opportunity arose.

  He turned his attention to the correspondence, opening those letters marked official first. These were from the various departments dealing with the provision of engineers, supplies and artillery, all of whom claimed to be doing their utmost to meet his requisitions. While they recognised the urgency of his situation, they reminded the general that his was not the only call on their resources and his needs would have to be weighed against those of other commanders. Arthur shook his head irritably. It should be clear to the dunderheads in England that his army was the vanguard of the entire nation’s effort against the Corsican Tyrant. Resources should flow to the very tip of the sword that was lodged in Bonaparte’s side, not languish in warehouses far from the field of battle. He made a note to Somerset to send more requests, couched in far more robust language, and then turned his attention to the last letter.

  As he picked it up he felt his heart sink. It was from Kitty. On the eve of Busaco he had written her a terse note detailing his finances back in England. He had come to have little faith in her ability to manage the family’s affairs and had spelled out what she must do if he was killed. Since then he had received a steady flow of letters asking his advice on all manner of minutiae. This time, she wanted to know if she could buy new curtains for their house in London.

  ‘Curtains?’ Arthur muttered. ‘Bloody curtains be damned!’

  His hand spasmed momentarily as he clutched the letter, threatening to crumple the paper with its spidery writing into a tight ball. He took a deep breath, smoothed the paper out and laid it down on the table. Thoughts of Kitty and her inability to cope with the household in his absence weighed on his heart with the dull mass of a lead ingot. Their marriage was the gravest mistake he had ever made, Arthur accepted. But it had been his choice, and he could not reverse the decision, nor indeed was he prepared to admit to his error in public. Therefore he was bound to her while they both lived, for better or worse. He sighed. Then he reached for a fresh sheet of paper, dipped his pen in the ink, and composed his reply.

  Through the rest of the month, and on into February, the officers of both armies met frequently, enjoying their social and sporting events. Arthur kept his distance from such activities as he deemed it inappropriate for the commander of the British army to become involved. It took little imagination to picture the scandal that would result in London if it was reported that Arthur and Masséna had met socially. Accordingly, Arthur limited himself to offering an exchange of newspapers with the enemy general. The pages of the Paris press were filled with accounts of the activities of the imperial court as Bonaparte showed off his new bride to his people and to dignitaries from across Europe. At first Arthur had been surprised by the news of the marriage. Then he realised that the Austrians had little choice in the matter, following their humiliating defeat by Bonaparte at Wagram. Now it was rumoured that Bonaparte might be expecting an heir in the spring. That was ill news, Arthur reflected. If Bonaparte could establish a dynasty then there was no knowing how long his poisonous influence would endure on the continent.

  The temperature rose in the first days of March and thick fog and mists lingered over the Portuguese landscape. Arthur rode to the front line to inspect the forts and lost his way several times as he struggled to follow the crude communication roads prepared by the engineers to link them. Most of the forts were garrisoned by Portuguese troops commanded by British officers. The British infantry were in camp a few miles behind the first line, ready to respond to any attack the enemy made. A short distance to the east of Torres Vedras he stopped at a post commanded by an officer in his forties. Colonel Cameron was typical of those who had transferred to the Portuguese army. Previously, he had been a British captain without any useful connections or enough income to buy promotion. By taking the transfer he had rank and a higher income, as long as the war lasted. He saluted as Arthur entered the fort, and Arthur touched the brim of his hat in response. ‘Good day to you. Colonel Cameron, isn’t it?’

  ‘Aye, sir. My apologies for the lack of protocol, sir.’

  ‘It is no matter,’ Arthur replied as he dismounted. ‘The visit is informal. How many men have you here, Colonel?’

  ‘A battalion, sir. Almost at full strength. The lads are in good spirits, though they’d be happier if the Frogs had some fight in ’em and tested our defences.’

  ‘That decision is down to Marshal Masséna, alas. After Busaco I suspect that he is in no hurry to be repulsed again.’

  Colonel Cameron grinned. ‘If he comes, the lads will send him on his way soon enough, sir. They’re game all right.’

  He gestured proudly round the interior of the fort and Arthur noted that his men were well turned out and their wooden shelters were neatly set out by companies. Most were clustered around their camp fires quietly talking or cleaning their k
it. Up on the ramparts and in the towers those on duty were keeping watch on the dense banks of fog below for any sign of the enemy.

  ‘Your battalion looks like a fine body of men, Colonel.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Cameron smiled proudly.

  ‘Anything to report?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Have you noticed any sign of any unusual activity by the enemy?’

  ‘No, sir. In fact they’ve been quiet today. Usually, our pickets exchange greetings in the morning, but there was no sign of them this morning. Either they’ve been ordered to keep silent, or they have been posted further back.’

  Arthur felt a vague twinge of anxiety at the colonel’s words. Cameron’s explanations might be sound enough, but the failure to contact the enemy’s pickets could equally well indicate something else.

  ‘Colonel, I want you to send a patrol towards the French lines. They are not to engage anyone, but keep going until they see some sign of the enemy, then report back.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Somerset!’ Arthur turned round and strode towards his aide. ‘What’s the nearest cavalry unit to here?’

  Somerset thought briefly. ‘The Light Dragoons, sir. At Mafra.’

  ‘Ride to them. I want them out across the lines as soon as possible. They are to confirm the location of the French and report back here at once. And send a messenger to headquarters. I want the order to go out to the army to be ready to concentrate and advance directly.’

  ‘Yes, sir. But in this fog we’re going to find it hard to manoeuvre.’

  ‘That may be,’ Arthur conceded. ‘However, if Masséna has stolen a march on us then the army will need to move swiftly to close up on him. Let’s hope that it’s a false alarm and that the French have merely fallen back a short distance. My concern is that Masséna may elude us and retreat to Spain.’

  ‘Surely, if he retreats, then we have won our victory without having to shed a drop of blood, sir?’

  Arthur looked at him sharply. ‘You fail to understand the wider strategy, Somerset. If we allow Masséna to retreat then we merely prolong the struggle. It was my intention to starve his army before our lines and then attack him when I judged that the moment was right. If Masséna has begun to retreat, then that means that his men have reached the end of their endurance. We must not let him escape. We must pursue him and defeat his army utterly. Then we will have a victory that will shorten the war. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good. It is important that you grasp the need for speed in our reaction to Masséna’s moves. You must impress that on the commanders of every brigade in the army. Now go.’

  Once Somerset had left, Arthur made his way up into one of the watchtowers, together with Cameron. From their elevated position the view over the ground in front of the fort was still obscured by fog, above which only the tops of hills were visible, like great leviathans rising from a milky sea. Arthur strained his eyes and ears but there was no movement, and not even the faintest sounds from the enemy camp. Where he might expect to hear the sounds of horses, farrier’s hammers or the thud of axes, there was silence, broken only by the cawing of crows.

  He turned to Cameron.‘I can’t see a thing in this fog. Assemble your Light Company. By the way, do you have a pocket compass?’

  ‘A compass, sir? Why yes.’

  ‘Good; we shall need it. Leave word for my aide that we have headed due north. If he returns before we get back he is to follow on and report to me.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  A quarter of an hour later Arthur, Cameron and the men of the Light Company filed quietly out of the fort and down the slope of the rise on which it had been constructed. All unnecessary kit had been left behind and each man carried only his musket and ammunition in a haversack. Ten men spread out ahead of the rest of the company as they advanced into the fog, keeping in sight of each other. They advanced cautiously, alert to any sound or movement ahead as they crept over the ground that had been cleared the previous year to deny any cover to the enemy. They had gone perhaps a mile when the grey outline of a burned farmhouse emerged from the fog. The company halted while two men went forward to investigate. They were gone for a few minutes before they returned and reported to Cameron. He listened, nodding, and then translated for Arthur.

  ‘The farm has been abandoned. There are the remains of a fire there, but it appears to have been built up and then allowed to burn itself out. They left a wagon to burn as well.’

  ‘A wagon, you say.’ Arthur thought briefly. The wagon might have been awaiting repair, or it might have been abandoned if there were insufficient draught animals to pull it. The fact that it had been burned meant that the enemy did not want the vehicle to fall into the hands of the British. ‘Let’s continue forward.’

  Cameron struggled to contain his anxiety and nodded. As they passed through the farm Arthur noted that the fire in the yard between the buildings was fringed by the charred remains of other equipment: the spokes and timbers of a gun carriage, and what looked like the carcass of a horse, or a mule. Further on they came across a deserted camp site. Flattened grass gave way to latrine ditches and then a broad expanse of muddy ground, churned up by nailed boots, horseshoes and heavy iron-rimmed wheels. There were the remains of more fires where the remnants of equipment and looted furniture still smouldered.

  Arthur turned to Cameron. ‘I’ve seen enough. Masséna is retreating. There’s no question of it.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Cameron paused a moment before he continued.‘What will you do, sir?’

  ‘I shall pursue him. I shall outmarch him and then, by God, I will destroy him.’

  Marshal Masséna had gained over a day’s march by the time Arthur’s army took up the pursuit. The cavalry raced on ahead of the main column, tracking the line of retreat. The passage of the French army was not difficult to trace since they had left a now familiar trail of abandoned equipment and small bands of stragglers and wounded eagerly waiting to be taken into captivity rather than face the wrath of the local peasants. Further on the allied army came across the first of the villages devastated by the retreating French. Everything of value that could be carried away had been stripped from the houses. All the food was gone. Mutilated bodies lay sprawled in the streets. Three blackened bodies, a woman and two children, still hung from a tree over the remains of the fire that had been lit beneath them. The only survivor, an old man, bleakly informed Arthur that the dead had been tortured by the French in an attempt to discover any hidden supplies of food.

  Thereafter the Portuguese battalions stopped taking French prisoners, and their British officers stood by in silence as the enemy’s throats were cut and their bodies left for the buzzards.

  As the pursuit continued both armies crossed the frontier. Ahead lay the fortress town of Salamanca, where Masséna would be safe from his pursuers. That night, Arthur and Somerset rode to a small hill and surveyed the twinkling fires of the enemy sprawling across the rolling landscape half a day’s march to the east.

  ‘Frustrating, is it not?’ Arthur muttered as he stared towards the enemy. ‘To have chased them so far, but not quickly enough to force them to turn and fight.’

  ‘I suppose so, sir,’ Somerset replied. ‘But Masséna’s army is a spent force. It is a victory all the same.’

  ‘Victory?’ Arthur rubbed the bristles on his jaw. ‘No. Just a step on a very long road. But we shall reach the end by and by. Now we have to take the war into Spain. To do that we need to take the frontier fortresses of Ciudad Rodrigo, Badajoz and Almeida. It will be a bloody business, Somerset. Laying siege will take some time, and cost many lives.’

  Arthur was about to turn his horse back towards the British camp when a cannon boomed out from the direction of the French camp, followed a moment later by another gun, and then more in a regular series of thuds that carried clearly to the ears of the British general and his aide. Arthur’s weary eyes scoured the ground between the two armies but there was no tell-ta
le flicker of shots to indicate a fight, just the steady report of French guns, firing into the night, one after another.

  ‘What the devil are they up to?’

  Chapter 18

  Napoleon

  The Tuileries, Paris, 20 March 1811

  ‘Sire?’ The doctor stood away from the bed where the Empress lay moaning through gritted teeth. ‘May we talk?’

  ‘There is no time for talk,’ Napoleon said tersely as he sat on the edge of the bed, holding his wife’s hand.‘Just do your duty. See to it that my wife delivers the baby safely.’

  The doctor glanced anxiously at Marie-Louise. She lay on her back, knees raised and arms flung out to each side. While Napoleon held one hand, one of her ladies in waiting held the other. Her face was waxen and gleamed in the shaft of light that entered the chamber through a tall window. Perspiration had matted her fair hair to her scalp, and as the doctor watched she let out another prolonged cry of agony before the contraction passed.

  The doctor cleared his throat and then spoke softly.‘Sire, her imperial majesty has been in labour for nearly twenty hours. She is growing weaker all the time, and there is little sign of dilation. I must speak to you about the possible complications that may arise from a protracted labour.’

  Napoleon stared at him for a moment and then nodded. He leaned across the bed and kissed his wife’s clenched brow. ‘My dearest, I must talk to the doctor. I’ll return in a moment.’

  Following the doctor to the window Napoleon stood to one side, out of sight of the crowd that had been swelling outside the palace all day. Rumours concerning the Empress’s labour had swept through the capital all afternoon and now tens of thousands waited expectantly for the signal that a birth had occurred. Already a battery stood ready on Montmartre waiting for the pre-arranged signal. The guns would fire a steady salute to announce the birth. If it was a girl there would be twenty-one rounds fired; if a boy, then one hundred. If there was a tragedy there would just be silence.