Salamanca, 1812

by Rory Muir

  Wellington personally led his left wing in their advance, to the east initially, then north-east, although the order to move forward was brought by one of his aides – the Prince of Orange, according to one account.7 As usual when the Light Division was present, there is a good narrative of what followed:

  At seven, one of the Duke's aides-de-camp rode up and ordered our division to move on the left to attack. We moved towards the Table Mountain, right brigade in front, in open column; having passed it, we then closed to column of quarter distance. The enemy's skirmishers soon advanced and opened a brisk fire. The shades of evening now approached, and the flashes of cannon and small arms in the centre and on the heights were still vivid, while the enemy were making their last struggle for victory… .

  The enemy's light infantry increased, and retired very deliberately; the ascent was gentle. The first brigade deployed, supported by the second; the First Division was marching in reserve.

  Our skirmishers were obliged to give ground to the obstinacy of the enemy. The line of the 43rd was one of the finest specimens of discipline I ever saw, as steady as rocks, with Col. William Napier twenty yards in front of the corps, alone; he was the point of direction. Our skirmishers ceased firing, and the line marched over them, dead and alive. I expected to see our chief unhorsed, and carried away in a blanket.

  Appearances indicated a severe fight, for we were near the enemy's reserves. The Duke of Wellington was within fifty yards of the front, when the enemy's lines commenced firing. I thought he was exposing himself unnecessarily, the more so, as I heard he had put every division into action that day. The Duke ordered us to halt within two hundred yards of the enemy. They gave us two volleys with cheers, while our cavalry galloped forward to threaten their right flank. At this time I heard that a musket-ball had perforated the Duke's cloak, folded in front of his saddle. As we were about to charge, the enemy disappeared. This advance was beautifully executed.

  Night coming on, the firing died away… . Our line continued to advance until midnight. A French cavalry picquet fired on us at ten; the ruse de guerre would not do. We bivouacked round a village.8

  William Napier himself confirms the story of Wellington's being hit by a spent musketball: ‘After dusk … the Duke rode up alone behind my regiment, and I joined him; he was giving me some orders when a ball passed through his left holster, and struck his thigh; he put his hand to the place, and his countenance changed for an instant, but only for an instant; and to my eager inquiry if he was hurt, he replied, sharply, “No!” and went on with his orders.’9 Another Light Division source, although much briefer, confirms the first account and adds a further glimpse of Wellington:

  We were ordered to march about 7 o'clock & came up with the enemy about sunset. We never load until we come close up. When we came under the hill the enemy were upon, Ld. Wellington passed us & said, ‘Come fix your bayonets, my brave fellows.’ We did, and sent out skirmishers & advanced in a line that delighted Lord Wellington. I hear he talked of nothing else next morning at breakfast.10

  It seems fairly clear that, although the Light Division advanced confidently and in good order, it was unable to press Foy hard. The French rearguard waited at the ravine until almost the last moment as the British prepared a full-scale assault, but before it could be launched, the French infantry slipped away into the trees. In the whole battle the Light Division suffered only about fifty casualties, which indicates pretty plainly that most of the French fire was at long range. Foy's losses are impossible to determine, for both Martinien and Lamartinière's official returns combine them with casualties suffered on the following day at Garcia Hernandez. However, they would certainly have been heavier than those of the Light Division – for they had taken part in the morning's skirmishing – but still relatively light: perhaps about two hundred killed, wounded and missing.

  The Light Division's left flank was covered by the allied cavalry. Bock's German dragoons made no impression – they suffered no casualties and are not mentioned in any account of this part of the battle unless we include them in Foy's rather hyperbolic ‘1,500 [enemy] cavalry’. But Frederick Ponsonby, who was commanding the 12th Light Dragoons, told his mother, Lady Bessborough, that his regiment had been in action:

  it was getting very dark when Lord W. advanced the light division and first against their Right. I covered them with a squadron of the 12th and one of the 5th: we charged twice, and in the last went thro' two battalions of Infantry. I was unfortunate enough to lose Dickens in this charge; he was leading a Squadron, and received a ball in his left breast. Just as we came up to the enemy's columns the officer who commanded the other Squadron was also shot in the breast, but not killed.11

  It is difficult to know what to make of this. No other source suggests that any of Foy's battalions was broken by cavalry or otherwise seriously damaged in the retreat, although this does not mean that it is impossible. Equally it is unclear what Ponsonby means by a squadron of the ‘5th’ taking part in the charge: Le Marchant's brigade had assisted in the skirmishing on the left early in the day, but it would be very surprising indeed to discover that a squadron of the 5th Dragoon Guards had remained there all day. It is more likely that Ponsonby's words have been mistranscribed and that the reference is to the squadron of the 14th Light Dragoons which is known to have remained on the left when Arentschildt led the remainder of the brigade to the right flank. The identity of the anonymous wounded officer, which might solve the problem, remains impenetrable, and none of the officers of the 14th is listed as wounded. Dickens presents no such difficulty: he was Captain Frederick Dickens of the 12th Light Dragoons and, incidentally, nephew of the Archbishop of Canterbury.12 The regiment also lost two men killed and two wounded: five casualties from 340 all ranks, which does not suggest that it met with any very serious opposition.

  The role of the First Division in the final allied advance has been much misunderstood. For example, Sarramon states that ‘Campbell's division advanced to the east of the two Arapiles but soon halted in an intermediary position for no good reason’, while Fortescue damns Campbell for not obeying his orders and declares that, had Graham still been in command of the division, ‘the victory would have been far more decisive.’13 However, a hitherto unpublished letter, almost certainly written by Campbell himself, makes it clear that the First Division provided support to the Light Division throughout its advance:

  [The French] Right then formed on a Hill and made a last effort, where they were attacked, just as the Moon was rising, by the Light Division in two Lines supported by the 1st [Division]. They kept up a smart fire as we ascended the Hill, but on some Guns opening from a Hill on our Left they turned and ran for it, and must have made very good play for we followed them in the same order, the Light Division in two Lines, and the first [Division] in two Columns, one on each of its Flanks to support it, till near 1 o'clock in the Morning, going all the time at a rate of near 4 miles an hour, without overtaking more than a very few stragglers and wounded, but as a great deal of our way was thro' a very thick wood, we must have passed a great many that were picked up by others in our Rear. It is the first time I suppose, that ever Troops marched in Line for four hours across Country in the night, and they were in a very good Line when they halted, and our Columns also were in order to have wheeled into Line directly. We halted about one near the Village of Calvarrasa de Abajo.14

  Except for a little exaggeration – the total distance covered by the division was only about six miles, so they were not moving at four miles an hour for four hours – this account carries conviction. Other sources also confirm it, such as a letter from Colonel Jackson to Sir Thomas Graham, the previous commander of the division:

  Lord Wellington with wonderful celerity collected together the German Brigade of the 1st Division (no part of the 1st Division but the Light Companies having been engaged) & the Light Division supported by the Guards and Gen. Wheatley's [brigades], and pushed Foy's Division upon Calvarrasa de Abajo and towards Huerta
where it crossed the River. Our Troops halting at 12 at night at Calvarrasa de Abajo.15

  It is interesting that even a couple of days after the battle, when Jackson wrote this letter, he still believed that Foy's division had crossed the river at Huerta rather than Alba de Tormes – proving that Foy had not only made a clean break with his pursuers, but had left them, literally, in the dark as to his line of retreat. A Guards officer in the First Division, John Mills, admits as much in a letter home: ‘Our division was first in the pursuit. We were for some time at their heels, but they desisted from firing, and the wood was so thick we could not see them, so we lost them.’16

  The human side of this night march is expressed in the Recollections of Robert Eadie, a private in the 79th Regiment:

  I declare that never before, or since, have I felt so perfectly tired. – We had so many large fields, covered with white stones, to pass, that our feet were much hurt; a great many prisoners, however, fell into our hands, but I confess, I thought the best thing to be taken alive, would be a sheep from the many flocks we passed on our way. Wearied as I was, I succeeded in catching a pretty fat one, which I got upon my back, and carried along in the march for nearly four miles till we halted. The captain of the company repeatedly called me to let go my prize, but his mind was changed when the savory smell of mutton curled up from the cooking fire. – I could then almost have refused him a mess, for which he anxiously asked, but he partook along with some of my comrades.17

  Relations between officers and men in the army on active service were far from the simple world of the parade ground, drill books and official regulations.

  The main body of Wellington's weary advanced guard camped for the night a few miles short of the Tormes, but Cotton pressed on to the river and established some cavalry picquets at the ford of Huerta. This done, he rode back to the army with a small party; they were not recognized in the dark, and when Cotton failed to respond to the challenge of the Portuguese picquet, the sentries fired and both Cotton and his orderly were wounded. Despite being badly hurt, Cotton managed to ride on to Calvarrasa de Abajo, where ‘he was carried from his horse into a miserable pillaged hovel, and placed in a pig trough, the most comfortable place that could be found.’ The bullet had shattered one of the bones in his left arm and the surgeon of the 14th Light Dragoons, who inspected the wound, urged an immediate amputation. But Cotton determined to wait for Dr McGrigor's opinion and was rewarded, after an extremely painful night, with the news that the arm might be saved. And so it was, although it remained partially disabled for the rest of his life and he had to give up playing the violin which he loved.18

  Meanwhile, the great majority of the French army, including Foy's division and all the units which retained any order, retreated by Alba de Tormes. We know almost nothing about how this retreat was managed: who gave the order to head for Alba, or how the troops – who had not passed through it in their advance – found their way there in the dark. There were paths, even roads, through the woods which headed in the right direction, and staff officers may have been placed at junctions to point out the direction. Marmont himself was carried to Alba when he was wounded and this may have acted as an example; or the baggage, reserve ammunition and similar supporting services may have been directed there earlier in the day, before the fighting began, as a routine precaution: we simply do not know. Indeed, no aspect of Napoleonic battles is as poorly understood as the immediate consequences of defeat, simply because soldiers naturally did not like writing about it. Fortunately, there is one first-hand description of the chaos in the French rear. It is by Lemonnier-Delafosse – not the most reliable source, and his account may be exaggerated, but it gives a vivid impression of the panic and confusion which could grip a defeated army:

  What a spectacle I found on the road through the middle of the forest. What did I see? A formless mass of men, flowing like a torrent! Infantry, cavalry, artillery, waggons, carriages, baggage, the artillery park, mixed with cattle pell-mell; the soldiers crying, swearing, altogether without order, each seeking his own safety. A true rout, it was an inexplicable panic to me, who had just left the field of battle …

  No enemy pursuit could explain such terror. But alas! I know well that if the French have boldness and extreme impetuosity in attack, if they fail they are shameless and irresponsible in flight. All my experience teaches me that it is only the fear of being captured that gives our soldiers wings.

  … Officers, soldiers, all were swept away and I had to keep to the sides to avoid the same fate.19

  This suggests that the entire French army dissolved in panic into a formless mass of fleeing men, but Lemonnier-Delafosse also claims that his own regiment spent the night only a few hundred yards from its final position on the battlefield. While this is implausible, Sarramon argues that Foy's division, Fririon's brigade of Sarrut's division and Lemonnier-Delafosse's 31st Léger all retreated in fairly good order, providing a shield for the broken troops who had preceded them.20 This seems quite likely, although the sources appear insufficient to confirm it clearly, and in such a situation fear and panic might spread even among soldiers who had suffered little. If the British cavalry had been directed to pursue them vigorously towards Alba de Tormes, it is possible that they might have increased the French panic and collected thousands more prisoners; but it is also possible that they might have been repulsed by the French rearguard or lost their way in the difficult country. With his customary caution Cotton had ordered the allied cavalry to retire when darkness fell, and Ponsonby's light dragoons were the only allied horse which took part in the final stage of the battle.21 While this may have been a missed opportunity, there were few allied cavalry left in any position to act: Le Marchant's, Alten's and D'Urban's brigades must all have been exhausted by this time, while Bock's was too far away on the extreme left. This left only the 11th and 16th light dragoons of George Anson's brigade, neither of which lost a man all day. They might perhaps have done more, but it would need exceptional boldness to lead the pursuit of an entire army at night, through broken wooded country, with only 650 British light dragoons.

  In any case, Wellington and, presumably, Cotton assumed that the French were making for the fords and that the pursuit could best be conducted by the left wing of the army. Two days later Wellington wrote privately to Lord Bathurst:

  If we had had another hour or two of daylight, not a man would have passed the Tormes; and as it was, they would all have been taken, if Don Carlos de España had left the garrison in Alba de Tormes as I wished and desired; or, having taken it away, as I believe before he was aware of my wishes, he had informed me that it was not there. If he had, I should have marched in the night upon Alba, where I should have caught them all, instead of upon the fords of the Tormes.22

  Unfortunately, this statement has too often been taken at face value, with no allowance made for Wellington's weariness or his understandable exasperation with España's compounded offence of not only withdrawing the garrison, but also failing to inform Wellington that he had done so. If Wellington had known that the bridge at Alba was unguarded, he would have directed his pursuit towards it, but even so he would not have ‘caught them all’. The nearest allied troops to Alba were the exhausted men of the Sixth and Third Divisions who were in no state to mount a vigorous pursuit. Fresh troops might have been brought up: the Seventh Division and España's own division, or the allied left might have advanced south-east rather than north-east, but they could not have reached Alba before the bulk of the French army had crossed the river. Such a pursuit would have been useful: it would have increased the disorganization and demoralization of the French, and might have yielded several thousand additional prisoners – stragglers who crossed the bridge after the main part of the army – but probably no more than this. Equally, if España had not withdrawn his garrison, the result would have been rather worse for the French, but not dramatically different. Their retreat to the fords would have been longer and more exposed, running against, rather than with,
the lie of the land. More men would have been lost to exhaustion and straggling, and Foy's division might have been forced into serious combat in order to cover this line of retreat. But their escape would probably not have been intercepted, for as we have seen the First and Light Divisions spent the night bivouacked near Calvarrasa de Abajo, several miles short of the fords, and while their men slept, the fleeing Frenchmen would have made their escape. España's mistake was, as Wellington himself put it, ‘a little misfortune’, which only slightly reduced the exceptionally thick icing on the cake of victory. Such ‘misfortunes’ are common in war, and the well-directed, sustained pursuit, idealized in theory, was extremely rare in practice.

  Night had long since fallen, and most of the allied soldiers were settling down to get some sleep if thirst and the excitement of the day would let them. The French, urged on by fear, made their way to Alba and so across the river, which gave them a reassuring sense of security. The wounded called out for help or struggled towards the camp fires, while the dying slipped in and out of consciousness, and the dead grew cold. The battle was over.