by Rory Muir
Salamanca destroyed Marmont's always fragile reputation. For years he had had to live with the suggestion that his promotion and opportunities had been the result of Napoleon's favour rather than proven ability. He had performed well in his previous independent commands, but suppressing brigands in the Balkans earned little fame or glory. Until 22 July he had showed marked ability and had had considerable success in his command of the Army of Portugal, yet if Foy can be believed he had not gained the respect of his subordinates. The reputation of a Soult, a Ney or a Masséna might have survived the defeat, but Marmont's name was not closely associated with any great victories and could not withstand the blow. Months later Napoleon told Caulaincourt, ‘Marmont shows a really high quality of judgement and logic in discussing war, but is not even moderately able in action.’13 When he recovered from his wound, Marmont commanded a corps, competently but without particular distinction, in the difficult campaigns of 1813–14. He would no doubt have been remembered as one of the more obscure and less successful of Napoleon's marshals had it not been for his fateful decision to order his troops to surrender to the allies after the fall of Paris in 1814, thus attracting the opprobrium – whether fairly or not – for betraying Napoleon in his greatest need.
Clausel's reputation, on the other hand, was enhanced by the battle. He has been praised for his quickness in conceiving, and boldness in executing, the counterattack in the centre following the repulse of Cole and Pack, and for his coolness and skill in organizing the retreat.14 Unfortunately, there is little contemporary evidence which either supports or casts doubt on this praise, or indeed which gives any information at all about his role in the battle, and much of what has been taken for granted appears to be based on little more than plausible supposition. The wisdom or folly of the counterattack, which saw the two strongest divisions in the army broken with nothing achieved and little prospect of success, could be debated at length, but it is by no means certain that there was any choice involved: the French troops may have been too far committed to make disengagement and withdrawal practical. On the other hand, Foy's warm praise for Clausel must be given considerable weight.
Wellington displayed great skill and judgment throughout the campaign and the battle, but even more remarkable than these was his subordination of his pride to his intellect. He had been outmanoeuvred on the Duero and had then submitted to the withdrawal to Salamanca because Marmont had given him no opportunity to attack with advantage, and because he reasoned that it was not in his interests to fight unless the odds were distinctly favourable. Few generals had such patience or determination; most would either have attacked Marmont sooner, or would have been so cowed in spirit by the afternoon of 22 July that they would have failed to recognize the opportunity when it finally came, and would have thought only of securing their retreat. But Wellington kept his ultimate object in view throughout the campaign. The aborted attack in the late morning of the 22nd probably reflected his frustration at the thought of abandoning Salamanca without a fight, but when Beresford showed that the French behind the Greater Arapile were stronger than Wellington had realized, and hence that the attack would involve more risk, he cancelled it rather than jeopardize the safety of the army.
Wellington's handling of his army during the morning and early afternoon was nearly perfect. He made excellent use of the cover provided by the undulating ground, and kept his divisions in good order – ready to move in one direction or another, to meet a sudden French attack or launch one of their own. And while it was obvious that Pakenham would be brought across the river at some point, the decision to send him to Aldea Tejada proved inspired, laying the foundations of victory. Possibly Wellington can be criticized for not occupying the Greater Arapile early in the day, although it may have proved almost as awkward to maintain in allied hands as it was in French hands. From Wellington's point of view, the hill was a considerable nuisance either way, and his task would have been much easier if the space it occupied had been a flat plain. The movements of the First Division are also a little odd; after he had brought it into the front line behind the village of Arapiles, on Cole's right, it is not clear why Wellington later drew it back into the second line behind the Lesser Arapile and subsequently brought the Fifth Division into the line next to Cole. With hindsight it certainly seems as if it would have been better had the First Division remained behind the village, extending part of the way towards the Lesser Arapile. Pack's brigade could then have been withdrawn into reserve, while Cole would have occupied a shorter, more compact line. The Sixth Division would still have supported this line, and Pack, the Light Division and Bock's heavy cavalry were surely enough to guard the left flank. However, we cannot reconstruct the manoeuvres of the morning and early afternoon with any precision, so it is both unfair and unwise to criticize movements which were probably undertaken for excellent reasons at the time.
When the moment came to launch the attack, the allied army was already in position, so that its plan of operations was relatively simple. Once Pakenham's division turned the French flank, the rolling attack along the line devoured almost half of the French army before finally losing its momentum. Wellington's orders to his subordinates were brief but sufficient, and the sequence of attacks was nicely staggered so as to gain the full advantage from Pakenham's advance. The fighting in the centre was less well handled, mostly because Cole's division was spread too thinly and expected to do too much, while it would have been better if Pack's brigade had held back and masked, not assaulted, the Greater Arapile. Still, it says much for Wellington's dispositions that the Sixth Division was perfectly placed to fill the gap and that he was present to order it forward at the critical moment. This was entirely characteristic: throughout the battle he was almost invariably at the vital point, personally giving his subordinates clear, concise orders which left no room for misunderstanding. Every Anglo-Portuguese division saw him in turn during the battle, and his presence and alertness strengthened the confidence of the troops.
Not everything went perfectly for the allies at Salamanca: the defeat of Cole and Pack in the centre and the ineffectiveness of the pursuit were both significant blemishes on the victory. Some might wonder whether, in the light of these flaws, Wellington's handling of the battle was really so masterly. The answer is simple: war is not chess, and operations seldom if ever go entirely according to plan, while the more ambitious the operation, the greater the number of accidents that will occur. None of Napoleon's victories was unblemished: at Marengo the day was almost lost when Dessaix's division arrived and turned the tide; at Jena, Napoleon fought only the lesser half of the Prussian army and, even so, Ney's corps got into difficulties; while at Austerlitz, Napoleon's greatest triumph, only part of his plan succeeded, for Lannes's corps, which was to lead the French attack, was held in check by Bagration's men. Some of Wellington's more limited actions came closer to perfection – Oporto, Busaco and the Crossing of the Bidassoa – but none achieved so much, or displayed such a marvellous combination of courage and skill. It was Wellington's finest victory. William Napier writes:
I saw him late in the evening of that great day, when the advancing flashes of cannon and musketry stretching as far as the eye could command showed in the darkness how well the field was won; he was alone, the flush of victory was on his brow and his eyes were eager and watchful, but his voice was calm and even gentle. More than the rival of Marlborough, since he had defeated greater generals than Marlborough ever encountered, with a prescient pride he seemed only to accept this glory as an earnest of greater things.15
Chapter Twelve
The Aftermath
Three days after the battle Sergeant Richard Davey, of the Royal Artillery Drivers, wrote home to his wife and children:
The engagement then begun to be very heavy. I expected my ammunition would be wanted, as they was firing so fast, so I marched up to them, and such a sight I never saw for the ground was strew'd with Heads, Arms, Legs, Horses. Wounded men lay bleeding and groaning, women s
creaming and crying for the loss of their husbands, guns roaring and the shot flying about our heads in such a manner, seemed to me a most dreadful spectical [sic], but God preserved me this once again.1
Davey's description is a salutary reminder that even a rapid, decisive victory such as Salamanca involved much hard fighting, and that this fighting was brutal, savage and horrible. The soldiers of the day understood this well, but they seldom emphasized it in their letters or memoirs, not wishing to distress their families or readers, or dwell on it over-much themselves. For, despite the horrors of the battlefield, most soldiers were proud of their trade and looked on battle, not as a necessary evil, but as the climax of the campaign and a moment of higher, more intense feeling than they might otherwise experience in all their lives. Naturally their feelings were a mixture of apprehension and fear, excitement and confident pride, and almost all agreed that the hardest part of the day was waiting passively, perhaps under distant artillery fire, for their part in the battle to begin. At the close of the day, the men would be both exhausted and highly stimulated: Captain Tomkinson heard that the men of the Sixth Division ‘were so tired when ordered to halt for the night that they could not possibly have marched much further, yet they sat up through the night talking over the action, each recalling to his comrade events that had happened.’2
The life of a Napoleonic soldier did not encourage squeamishness or delicacy, and Private Wheeler has no hesitation in recording that on the night after the battle he and his comrades ‘collected what dead bodies were near and made a kind of wall with them. We did this to break the wind which was very cutting has [sic] we were very damp with sweat. Under this shelter we slept very sound till morning.’3 Corporal Douglas of the Royal Scots found the bivouac almost as dangerous as the fighting:
We halted for the night on the ground occupied by the enemy during the morning (or during the action) and sent out parties for water, having nearly 5 miles to travel before it was found, and then it was as green as the water you may have seen during the heat of summer in a stagnant pond. However, it went down with a fine relish. The only piece of plunder either I or my comrade had got happened to be a leg of mutton off a Frenchman's knapsack, which I put down in a kettle to boil, having made a fire of French firelocks. I was sitting on a stone watching the fire, musing over the day's work, when, rising up to look into the kettle, one of the pieces went off, the ball passing between my legs. This was the nearest visible escape I had, for if providence had not so ordered it that I rose at the instant, the contents would have been through my body. The breaking up of the ammunition wagons might be heard at a great distance as the men wanted firewood for cooking.4
The Third Division was also short of water and the men suffered much as a result, for it had been a long, hot day and their natural thirst was exacerbated by the gritty dryness caused by the gunpowder when they tore cartridges open with their teeth. Lieutenant Grattan of the 88th remembered that the parties sent out for water had still not returned at 2 am when the sleeping men were roused by the arrival of the mules carrying rum. Inevitably the parched men drank far more than their allowance, which only made their thirst much worse.5
Private Green of the 68th, in the Seventh Division, was more struck by another aspect of the aftermath of battle:
we encamped on that part of the field where the carnage had been most dreadful, and actually piled our arms amongst the dead and dying. We immediately sent six men from each company to collect the wounded, and carry them to a small village, where doctors were in attendance to dress their wounds. It really was distressing to hear the cries and moans of the wounded and dying, whose sufferings were augmented by the Portuguese plunderers stripping several of them naked. We took a poor Frenchman, who had been stripped by an unfeeling Portuguese: the adjutant gave him a shirt, an old jacket and trousers, and sent him to the village hospital.6
Lieutenant Frederic Monro, who had only reached the army a few weeks before, was shocked by what he saw, and he too blamed the Portuguese: ‘The field of battle presented a sad spectacle as I rode over it … I found myself amongst the dead and dying, and, to the shame of human nature be it said, BOTH stripped, some half-naked, others quite so; and this done principally by those infernal devils in mortal shape, the cruel, cowardly Portuguese camp-followers, unfeeling ruffians.’7
But it was not only the Portuguese who plundered the fallen: T. H. Browne writes vehemently of the wives of British soldiers who, ‘in spite of orders, threats & even deprivation of rations’, had insisted on following the army:
All ideas of conduct or decency had disappeared – plunder & profligacy seemed their sole object, & the very Soldiers their Husbands evidently estimated them in proportion to their proficiency in these vices. They covered in number the ground of the field of battle when the action was over, & were seen stripping & plundering friend and foe alike. It is not doubted that they gave the finishing blow to many an Officer who was struggling with a mortal wound; & Major Offley of the 23rd Regiment, who lay on the ground, unable to move, but not dead, is said to have fallen victim to this unheard of barbarity. The daring & enterprize of these creatures, so transformed beyond anything we have heard of in man, is not to be described.8
It was easy to blame camp-followers and the Portuguese for this macabre plundering, less easy to admit that British soldiers took part. However, there is abundant evidence, from this and other battles, that many regular soldiers of all nationalities scoured battlefields looking for loot. Private Wheeler admits that at Salamanca he ‘examined a few dead Frenchmen for money etc’; while there is something plaintive about John Douglas's statement that the ‘only piece of plunder’ he or his mate secured was a leg of mutton from ‘a Frenchman's knapsack’, which suggests that he had hoped for richer pickings.9 This is a subject on which it is easy to feel indignation or repugnance in the well-fed comfort of a modern library, but which quickly becomes more difficult on closer examination. Only the harshest judge would blame hungry, thirsty soldiers for taking water bottles or provisions from the dead, whether friend or foe, at the end of the day when their own supplies might take hours to arrive, if they arrived at all. And is it realistic to expect that they would leave money on a corpse if they found it when looking for food or water? Clearly there is a great difference between using the water bottle of a dead comrade and wandering the battlefield at night, stripping the dead and dying of their clothes, and killing wounded men who might otherwise have survived. But this difference is made up of many fine gradations as impropriety becomes turpitude.
After such horrors it is pleasant to record that early on the following day many inhabitants of Salamanca ventured onto the battlefield, bringing fresh fruit, water and other provisions which they gave freely to the victorious soldiers. Having exhausted their supplies, they then loaded their carts with wounded, either leaving them at hospitals or taking them into their own homes and nursing them there.10
Unfortunately, the number of wounded overwhelmed all these efforts. The figures are uncertain, but it seems likely that the battle saw about two thousand men killed and approximately twelve or thirteen thousand wounded. Five or six thousand French wounded managed to retreat with the army, leaving about eight thousand wounded of all nationalities to be cared for in Salamanca and surrounding villages.11 Neither army stayed long in the vicinity after the battle – the French were in full flight and the allies were pursuing them. Consequently many of the wounded spent several days in the open before they were rescued or managed to make their way to the town. William Warre, a young officer who remained in Salamanca in attendance on Marshal Beresford, describes the result:
Owing to the Army having advanced and the few means of transport, many of the wounded, particularly of the French, have suffered horribly, for, three days after, I saw a great many still lying, who had received no assistance or were likely to till next day, and had lain scorching in the sun without a drop of water or the least shade. It was a most dreadful sight. These are the horrid miseries
of war. No person who has not witnessed them can possibly form any idea of what they are. Humanity shudders at the very idea, and we turn with detestation and disgust to the sole author of such miseries. What punishment can be sufficient for him! Many of the poor wretches have crawled to this. Many made crutches of the barrels of the firelocks and their shoes. Cruel and villainous as they are themselves, and even were during the action to our people, one cannot help feeling for them and longing to be able to assist them. But our own people have suffered almost as much, and they are our first care.12