The Fields of Death

by Scarrow, Simon

  ‘Are you certain there is no other way, sir?’ asked Somerset as he lowered the draft order Arthur had penned for him.

  ‘I have made my decision,’ Arthur replied firmly. ‘The only Spanish division that we can rely on is that of Morillo. The rest will be sent back across the border. If the Spanish government refuses to see to the sustenance of their own soldiers then I am damned if I will do their job for them.’

  ‘But, sir, this will reduce the army by twenty thousand men.’

  ‘That is so,’ Arthur conceded. ‘But I must have men I can rely on. Men who will do as they are ordered. Otherwise we provide a rod for our own backs, Somerset. If you had only borne witness to the scenes in Ascain you would have no doubt that we cannot afford to have such men march with us. They must be sent home. At once.’

  Somerset puffed out his cheeks. ‘As you wish, my lord.’

  Left alone in the mayor’s office, Arthur turned to stare out of the window. Outside, the sky was covered with dark grey clouds and an icy sleet was falling on the port. At a stroke he had reduced his numerical advantage over Marshal Soult to parity, and there would be a hard fight before the French were compelled to surrender.

  Chapter 46

  Villefranque, 10 December 1813

  The right flank of the allied army had crossed to the east bank of the river Nive at Ustaritz with little trouble, brushing aside a small force of infantry. After the exchange of a few shots the enemy had hurriedly retreated north towards the main body of Soult’s army in camp close to Bayonne. By nightfall five divisions had crossed the river using a hastily repaired bridge and advanced four miles downriver towards the enemy. After a detailed inspection of the French defences to the south and west of Bayonne in the last days of November, Arthur had quickly realised that a frontal assault on the town would be too costly. Instead he had decided to shift his main strength across the Nive and attempt to trap Soult against the sea. There was a risk that the enemy might attack the allies as they crossed the river, so Arthur had tasked his remaining three divisions with making a feint along the west bank to distract Soult.

  Arthur had given command of the right flank to General Hill and had joined Hill at dusk to survey the enemy positions in front of Bayonne. It had rained hard during the early days of December and the ground was waterlogged, quickly turning to mud as the allied columns trudged through the glutinous slop that covered the surfaces of the roads and tracks crossing the countryside between the sea and the Nive.

  General Hill fastened the clasp at the top of his coat as a fresh shower spattered down around them. ‘This is foul ground to manoeuvre an army over.’

  ‘True,’ Arthur conceded. ‘But it applies to both sides. Soult and his men are as mired in this as we are. There will be precious little chance to spring any surprises on each other. If we can push him back and contain him in Bayonne, then the army can go into winter quarters while the French are besieged. Even if we don’t starve them out, they’ll be in poor shape once spring arrives.’

  ‘I trust you are right,’ Hill said gently and then turned to one of his aides.‘Pass the word to the leading formations. We’ll halt here and camp for the night. Have strong outposts sent forward to keep an eye on the enemy.’ He turned back to Arthur. ‘If you’ll excuse me, sir, I must make arrangements to establish my headquarters.’

  ‘Of course,’ Arthur nodded.

  The two men touched the brims of their hats and then Hill and his staff wheeled away and made for a cluster of farm buildings a short distance away. Arthur sat for a while, watching as Hill’s columns began to spread out across the countryside. Half a mile in front of them stood the rearguard of the French army, formed up and ready to ward off any attacks that their enemy might make before night closed in. A cough to his side distracted Arthur’s attention.

  ‘What is it, Somerset?’

  ‘Might I ask what your plans are for tonight, sir? Are we to stay with Hill, or return to General Hope’s side of the river?’

  Arthur thought for a moment. General Hope had only recently arrived from England and Arthur had yet to form an impression of his abilities as a field commander. As long as Hope carried out his orders and did not pursue his feint too far, and then withdrew and dug in, he and his men should not come to any grief on the other bank of the Nive. In any case, the latest reports from Arthur’s cavalry patrols indicated that the bulk of Soult’s forces were east of the river, facing Hill.

  ‘We shall stay here tonight. I wish to observe Hill’s attack towards Bayonne in the morning.’ Arthur turned towards Somerset and in the failing light he saw that his aide was shivering. ‘If you feel the need for some shelter, I suggest that you find us some accommodation for the night at Hill’s headquarters.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’ll make arrangements directly.’ Somerset turned his horse away and spurred it after Hill and his staff. Arthur turned back towards the north and watched the enemy long enough to see them begin to light their camp fires. The French rearguard fell back over the brow of a low hill and left a thin screen of sentries to keep an eye on their enemy. There would be no fighting for what little was left of the day, and on into the night. The men on both sides were tired after months of campaigning, and the uncomfortable conditions of the winter months quenched any ardour for battle.

  Satisfied that his army was secure for the night, Arthur tugged his reins and trotted his horse towards the farmhouse. All around him in the thin light of dusk many of the men of his army searched for firewood while their comrades set about finding shelter, or erecting tents where the ground was dry enough to hold a tent peg in position. The rain was falling steadily now, short steel-grey rods plunging down from the dark sagging bellies of the gloomy clouds overhead. Already the wagons and artillery teams of the army were struggling to a halt in the thick mud, despite all the whip-cracking and curses of the drivers.

  Once he reached the farm buildings, Arthur dismounted outside the house and handed his reins to a groom with instructions to feed the horse and find it a dry barn for the night. Then Arthur climbed the short flight of steps to the door and entered. Inside he was greeted by a comforting wave of warmth and light and saw a small crowd of officers clustered round a large fireplace in which the farmer had lit a cheery blaze. As Arthur came in, he was offering his guests the chance to buy wine and food at premium prices.

  Having taken off his coat and hat, and scraped his boots, Arthur joined the others for a dinner of stew and then retired to the farmer’s best bedroom for the night, leaving Somerset with orders that he should be woken if there was any important news, and in any case an hour before dawn. As he settled beneath his warm coverings he let his mind dwell on the comforting prospect that the defeat of Soult and the fall of Bayonne would mark an end to the long years of campaigning that had begun in Portugal and Spain before finally extending into the enemy’s own lands.

  ‘Sir.’ A voice broke into his slumber and Arthur grumbled and turned away, until a hand took his shoulder and shook it gently. ‘Sir, it’s Somerset. You asked me to wake you.’

  Arthur blinked his eyes open and then rolled on to an elbow, facing his aide. ‘What is it? What has happened?’

  ‘Our outposts report that the French have gone, sir.’

  ‘Gone?’

  ‘Their sentries have pulled back, and when some of our lads followed them up they saw that there was no one left around the camp fires. Nor any sign of wagons or cannon.’

  Arthur swung his legs over the side of the bed and reached for his boots, giving his orders as he struggled to pull them on.‘Tell Hill to send some cavalry patrols out to find the enemy. Soult may have fallen back to Bayonne, or he’s trying to get round our flank and cut us off from the bridges over the Nive.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Is there anything else?’

  ‘Shall I send word to General Hope about these reports?’

  Arthur thought a moment and then shook his head. ‘No. There’s little point. Whatever Soult is playing at, his atte
ntion is sure to be firmly fixed on Hill’s divisions. They’re the main threat. We can inform Hope once we have a more certain grasp of Soult’s intentions.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Once Somerset had left him, Arthur stood and pulled on his dark blue jacket and fastened the buttons. The rasp of his stubble on the collar reminded him that he needed a shave, but he decided that there could be no delay in finding out what Soult was up to. Snatching up his hat, he left the sleeping chamber and strode downstairs to join Hill and his staff in the main reception room. The officers were gathered about a map table, illuminated by candles as it was still dark outside.

  ‘What is the position?’

  Hill glanced up from the map table and nodded a greeting as he replied. ‘There’s no sign of the Frogs, aside from a few patrols a short distance from Bayonne.’

  ‘Any activity inside the town?’

  ‘Hard to tell. We’ll know more when dawn breaks.’ Hill stroked his chin anxiously. ‘Frankly, sir, I don’t like it. We’ve lost contact with the enemy and our army is divided by a river. It could be a dangerous situation.’

  Arthur nodded. He felt a sick sense of dread in the pit of his stomach. Soult had slipped away and Arthur cursed himself for not pushing Hill’s men forward the previous evening, despite the muddy conditions of the road and the cold and weariness of the soldiers. The allied army might pay a bloody price for his complacency, Arthur realised.

  As the first light crept into the sky he waited for news of Soult. One by one the cavalry patrols reported in and confirmed that the enemy had successfully broken contact. The only indication of the direction Soult had taken was the churned mud along the road to Bayonne.

  ‘Why would he fall back to Bayonne?’ Hill wondered. ‘That would give us a free hand along the entire south bank of the Adour. Why abandon the attempt to contain us?’

  Before Arthur could respond there was a dull rumble away to the west. Several of the officers looked up and exchanged worried glances.

  ‘Cannon?’ someone suggested.

  ‘Of course it is,’ Arthur replied with forced calmness as he realised, all too clearly, what had happened. ‘It seems we have discovered where Marshal Soult has taken his army, gentlemen.’

  ‘Good God!’ Hill explained. ‘He’s gone after General Hope.’

  Arthur nodded. ‘It makes sense. I have underestimated Soult. Still, General Hope should be able to hold his ground well enough while we return across the river.’ He spoke calmly, belying his cold anger at himself for handing Soult this opportunity to attack the allied army in detail. ‘Hill, leave two of your divisions here to cover Bayonne. Send the rest back to reinforce Hope. I’ll ride there directly to take charge.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Arthur glanced round at the other officers, noting the nervous expressions. ‘Gentleman, Soult may have stolen a lead on us and now we must catch up with the old fox and wring his neck. We can do it if we just keep our heads and move swiftly. Is that clear? Good. Now, Somerset, come with me.’

  The bugles were calling the men to arms across the surrounding countryside as Arthur and Somerset rode out of Villefranque and galloped south, along the bank of the Nive towards the bridges at Ustaritz. To their right the sounds of cannon fire steadily increased in intensity and now there was a faint crackle of musketry that told of a sizeable engagement a mile or so to the west. From his personal reconnaissance of the country to the south-west of Bayonne Arthur knew that there were plenty of minor ridges and ravines breaking up the landscape. Thanks to the waterlogged ground Soult would be forced to advance on the two roads leading south from Bayonne. Arthur fervently hoped that the left wing of his army had obeyed the orders he had given and fortified their positions at Barroilhet and Bassussarry, blocking the roads. The scattered copses and hedgerows of the region would provide fine cover to conceal an advance and Arthur had little doubt that the enemy would have achieved a measure of surprise against Hope’s divisions. However, if they could hold on until they were reinforced then the situation could be retrieved.

  They crossed the repaired bridge, clattering over the cobbles. A handful of engineers recognised their commander in chief but he had galloped on before they could raise a cheer. Once on the far bank they took the road north towards Bassussarry, the sounds of battle growing louder as they approached. A few miles short of the village, they came across a small column of wagons hurrying south. Arthur reined in and spoke to a supply officer.

  ‘What is going on?’

  ‘French attacked at first light, sir. Thousands of ’em. General Alten ordered all wagons to the rear.’

  ‘Where is the Light Division?’

  The officer turned and pointed back down the road. ‘I heard they were making a stand at Arcangues, sir.’

  Arthur tugged his reins and urged his horse on, along the column of wagons, then back on to the road, increasing his pace to a gallop as the horse’s flanks bellowed with each ragged breath. Ahead the sound of guns boomed out and as the road emerged from a large copse Arthur saw a low ridge ahead, perhaps a thousand paces in length. At one end stood a small but solid-looking church, at the other a country house. Both structures had been garrisoned. In between, the rest of the Light Division was drawn up, two deep in the front line, with a reserve line on the reverse slope. As Arthur and Somerset rode up the slope they came across the first of the wounded, sitting on the damp grass as they tended to their wounds, while those too badly stricken to help themselves had to wait for a member of the division’s corps of bandsmen to treat their injuries.

  A colonel of the Fifty-second Foot hurriedly directed them to General Alten’s headquarters in the church tower before turning his attention back to his battalion as a fresh shot from the enemy guns smashed two of his men down before ploughing a muddy divot in the ground a short distance from the colonel’s horse. From the vantage point of the crest of the ridge Arthur could see the entire length of the Light Division’s battlefield. Before the front rank the ground sloped down for four or five hundred paces before flattening out. Rough lines of blue-uniformed bodies marked the extent of the earlier French attacks, while a few score men of Light Division lay sprawled in the trampled and muddy grass. The French columns had halted at the foot of the slope while behind them a dozen guns continued to fire on the defenders of the ridge. There were only two British guns on the ridge, light mountain guns, whose puny bangs were all but drowned out by the regular blasts of the enemy batteries.

  General Alten was in the church tower, calmly watching the artillery exchange, as Arthur and Somerset came panting up the narrow spiral staircase into the belfry.

  ‘How goes it?’ asked Arthur, straightening up and discreetly rubbing his buttocks, numbed after the hard ride.

  Alten pursed his lips. ‘Oh, they caught us napping right enough. Started drifting forward in ones and twos, and then made a dash at our pickets. I had my fellows pulled back at once to this position.’

  Arthur glanced along the ridge and noticed the boggy ground protecting the flanks at each end. He nodded approvingly. ‘A fine choice. They’ll not get through the Light Division in a hurry.’

  ‘I should think not,’ Alten replied stiffly. ‘In any case, as you can see, we have already thrown back one attack. The Frogs have been resorting to guns ever since, mostly trying to reduce our strong points.’ Alten patted the masonry. ‘They’ll not pound this to rubble in my lifetime. Mind you, their roundshot has played merry hell with the stones in the cemetery.’

  Arthur leaned forward and peered down. Several of the headstones had been smashed to pieces. As he looked up he saw movement to the rear of the French formations lined up opposite the ridge. Three columns had broken away from the force and were marching west, towards the other road. He pointed them out.

  ‘D’you see? I suspect that Soult has decided to press his luck against our left, having failed to break through here. It is a pity, though, that you had to abandon your fortifications and fall back at all, Alten.’
r />   The general looked at him with a puzzled expression. ‘Fortifications? ’

  ‘As per your orders. Make a feint towards Bayonne, halt and fortify.’

  ‘We were given no such orders, sir,’ Alten protested.‘Just told to push the Frogs back and keep ’em busy. That’s all.’

  ‘I see. Would you happen to know where I might find General Hope?’

  ‘Yes, sir. He is headquartered at Bidart, with a Portuguese brigade.’

  ‘And where is the First Division?’

  ‘Last I heard, they were billeted at St-Jean-de-Luz.’

  Somerset started. ‘But that’s almost ten miles from Barroilhet! Good God, what are they doing so far to the rear?’

  General Alten shrugged. ‘Best ask Hope, eh?’

  Arthur felt an icy dread grip the back of his neck. The left flank of his army was far too extended in depth. If Soult threw his men into the attack they would roll up the allied formations and then turn on the Light Division, cutting Arthur’s left flank to pieces before Hill could intervene. Such a defeat would wreck every success that Arthur had achieved since the campaign began. He turned hurriedly to Somerset.

  ‘Ride to St-Jean-de-Luz. If the First Division isn’t already on the road to Bayonne then get them moving, on my express orders. If they are marching, then hurry them. They must reach Barroilhet before our position folds. Go now.’

  Somerset nodded and hurried down from the tower as Arthur gave orders to Alten. ‘Hold your position here. If Soult breaks through to your left, then you may fall back on Hill. Keep your men closed up, in square if need be. Inform me at once if you are obliged to shift your position.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Where will you be if I need to send word to you?’

  Arthur took a deep breath. ‘I am going to find General Hope.’

  He reached the ridge behind the small village of Barroilhet at noon, just as a single brigade of redcoats rushed into line to reinforce the Portuguese soldiers who had been holding off a series of French attacks all morning. The enemy had already gained possession of the village and were pouring forward, ready to assault the ridge. Arthur found General Hope sitting on a bench outside an inn giving orders for the defence of the new position. A bloodstained dressing had been tied round his left calf and his uniform jacket and hat had been shot through by musket balls. He rose stiffly to his feet to greet Arthur as he dismounted.