Read The Fields of Death Online
Authors: Simon Scarrow
The Fields of Death (12 page)
‘Advance!’ he ordered and the men, two deep, marched forward to add the weight of their fire to that of Mackenzie’s brigade.
The first volleys had caused the French to stop and now they began to fill out their flanks as they formed a firing line. The quicker they could do it, the quicker they could overwhelm the firepower of the last line of British infantry standing between them and victory.
‘Keep moving there!’ Arthur called to his right as one of the companies began to lag slightly behind the others. The men obediently quickened their pace and pulled back into position. Ahead of the regiment Arthur could see the faces of the men on the right of the French column, glancing anxiously towards the new threat closing on their flank. He had time to reflect that this was further proof of the inferiority of the French system. Once their columns were unleashed they were unwieldy giants lumbering forward and unable to manoeuvre freely enough to cope with threats from either flank or the rear.
The two sides closed, and all the while Mackenzie’s brigade continued to exchange fire with the head of the column, pinning the French in place while Arthur came up with the Forty-eighth Foot. A handful of French skirmishers had run forward to interpose themselves between the column and the approaching British line, and opened fire. A handful of men went down, one after another, and Arthur heard the faint whip of a bullet close by as they closed to within a hundred yards of the enemy. This was the moment, he decided, and filled his lungs.
‘Forty-eighth will halt! Make ready to fire!’
The line ceased its advance and the front line shifted a pace to the right to present a staggered wall of men, all of whom could now bring their muskets to bear. As soon as he saw they were ready Arthur called out, ‘Take aim! Fire!’
Those skirmishers still standing were struck down, and then their comrades in the flank of the French column, wheeling round under the impact, toppled. As the redcoats hurriedly lowered their muskets and reached for the next round, Arthur heard a faint groan of dismay and fear from the French ranks.
‘Pour it on, boys!’ shouted the colonel of the Forty-eighth. ‘Pour it on!’
The flank companies of the French column began to shuffle round, their progress being held up by the bodies underfoot, but another volley swept into them, striking down more men and creating further chaos, and the attempt to present a firing line to Arthur and his men collapsed. The men of the Forty-eighth methodically loaded and fired with a ruthless efficiency, cutting down swathes of Frenchmen with each volley. Yet the column stood its ground, hemmed in by the bodies of its fallen. At the front their losses had been grievous, but then so had the losses amongst Mackenzie’s brigade, Arthur saw. Perhaps a third of his men were down already and Arthur knew they could not stand much more punishment. If the French could hold their nerve for a few more minutes then victory was surely theirs. Behind Mackenzie’s men the remains of Cameron’s brigade were still re-forming, and could play no part in the action at this critical moment. Arthur was seized by frustration at his powerlessness to affect the outcome. All now depended on which soldiers endured this terrible punishment for longest.
Then a movement caught his eye. From the saddle he could just see over the mass of the French column to the ground beyond. Through the thin smoke wafting back from the men firing along the front, something flashed. And then again, and more - sunlight reflecting off polished steel, he realised. Fresh hope stirred in his heart as he saw a line of cavalry sweeping in against the far side of the column.
‘By God, it’s the Light Dragoons!’ he exclaimed through gritted teeth. ‘Ride on. Ride on and break them!’
Attacked from three sides now, the less spirited of the Frenchmen began to back away, seeking escape from the sweep of British bullets and the slashing of the dragoons’ swords as they carved at the enemy’s left flank. More men backed away, and despite the frenzied encouragement and fury of their officers the contagion spread and the column lost what little cohesion it had left as the men broke, falling back in a frightened mass towards the Portina and the greater safety of the far bank. The battered regiments of Mackenzie’s brigade followed up, pausing to fire volleys whenever the enemy retreat showed any sign of slowing. The sight of the fleeing enemy gave heart to Cameron’s survivors, who hurried forward to join the flanks of Mackenzie’s line.
Arthur left orders for the Forty-eighth to remain on the plain and then, when he was satisfied that the danger had passed, turned and galloped back up to his vantage point on top of the ridge. The rest of the line had held off the French, who had pulled back to re-form their savaged columns. Looking over his own men,Arthur was shocked to see how many had fallen. Almost every battalion had closed its ranks, leaving large gaps along the line. If the French launched another attack then it would surely smash through the exhausted and bloodied redcoats.
When he returned to the crest he heard the sounds of fresh fighting coming from the valley on the other side of the ridge. Fearing a new threat Arthur anxiously rode forward until he had a clear view of the fighting below. Three large squares of French infantry were slowly picking their way back towards the Portina, followed up by the cavalry of the King’s German Legion, and a Spanish regiment that Cuesta must have sent to aid the British. The artillery further down the slope was taking advantage of the large targets being presented by the enemy and firing roundshot through their ranks as they retreated, leaving a scatter of blue-uniformed bodies in their wake.
As the French passed out of range of the British guns, they fell silent one after another and the cavalry withdrew and re-formed further down the valley to wait for the next French attack. Somerset joined his commander shortly afterwards, his face ashen and streaked with grime from the powder smoke of the desperate fight down on the plain.
Arthur greeted him with a faint smile. ‘I was beginning to fear you might have become a casualty. Where have you been?’
‘I stayed with Mackenzie’s brigade through the attack, sir.’
‘Ah, yes, I must remember to tender my thanks to him. That was a fine stand he and his men made.’
‘Mackenzie is dead, sir.’
‘Dead?’ Arthur’s expression hardened. ‘A pity.’
Somerset cleared his throat and continued hoarsely. ‘Together with seven hundred of his men. Cameron is dead as well. He was shot on the other side of the Portina.’
‘I see.’ Arthur nodded sadly.‘This is only the start of a long list, I fear. But we have no time to mourn them now. Later, after the battle. The French may still be game enough for another attempt to break us.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Somerset stiffened his spine and sat as erect as he could in his saddle. ‘I understand.’
As he spoke there was a ripple of flashes along the French line as their cannon fired again, bombarding the men on the ridge and spread across the plain towards Talavera. It was late in the afternoon, and Arthur was reeling with exhaustion and a blinding headache from the glare of the day’s sunlight. He knew that his men must share his condition and would be in poor shape to continue the fight. As the sun sank towards the horizon behind the British, the shadow of the ridge stretched across the rolling landscape and over the French troops massed opposite. Even though the enemy guns continued firing, there was no sign of another attack. The enemy simply stood and waited as the light started to fail.
‘Do you think they will make another attempt tonight?’ asked Somerset.
‘It is likely,’ Arthur replied. ‘Hill’s division must stay in position in case they do. I’d be obliged if you would ride to him and let him know that he may stand his men down, but they must be ready to fight again at a moment’s notice.’
‘Very well, sir.’ Somerset saluted and turned his horse down the slope to Hill’s command post.
The French guns continued firing while there was light, and then fell silent. An uneasy stillness fell across the battlefield, and men whose ears had rung with the sound of cannon and muskets all day seemed stunned by the quiet of the gathering night. Only the faint cries of the wounded and the occasional whinny of stricken horses broke the spell. Then, as the men of the British army sat on the ground in their regiments, a faint glow flickered into life at the bottom of the ridge. Flames licked up amid the dry grass, and the fire quickly spread across the lower slopes. Some wadding from one of the French guns must have caused the blaze, Arthur realised. At first he welcomed the fire. It would show up any attempt by the enemy to take the ridge under cover of darkness, and possibly impede them. But then a thin wail of terror reached his ears. There were more cries for help and then screams of agony from lower down the slope.
‘It’s the wounded,’ Somerset said quietly.‘There must be hundreds of men out there, ours and theirs. We have to send men to save them, sir.’
‘No,’Arthur said firmly, and then swallowed to try to ease the dryness in his throat. ‘We cannot afford to have men looking for the wounded if there is another attack. There’s nothing we can do for them.’
As the fire spread the screams increased and cut through the night so that, even as exhausted as they were, few of the men on the ridge could sleep. Satisfied that there were no signs of a new attack being prepared by the enemy, Arthur made a quick tour of his command and offered words of encouragement to the gaunt figures he came across. Most of the men seemed too numb to continue the battle and when he returned to the ridge Arthur lay down on the ground and tried to rest. But his mind would not be still. When the morning came he had little doubt that his army would face another onslaught such as the one they had endured that day.
He rose just before dawn and stood, straining his eyes and ears for any indication that the French were preparing for another attack. As the eastern horizon grew more distinct the first bugles sounded from the French camp, and then the faint cries of command and the crack of whips as the artillery crews moved their guns.
The light continued to strengthen as Arthur tried to concentrate his thoughts on what needed to be done to prepare for the first attack. Then, as he stared towards the French positions, he frowned. The artillery batteries had gone. There were no lines of infantry and cavalry massing for attack. Only a handful of enemy horsemen remained on the far side of the Portina, keeping watch on the British line.
‘What the devil?’ For a moment Arthur was struck by a terrible anxiety as he wondered if the French were attempting to move through the hills to the north to try to cut him off from his lines of communication back to Portugal. Then, as the first rays of the sun filtered out across the landscape, he saw the French army. Dense columns of men, horses, cannon and wagons, marching to the east, back in the direction of Madrid. It was a while before his mind, dulled with exhaustion, finally grasped the truth.
‘They’re retreating . . . By God, they’re retreating,’ he muttered to himself. The British had won the battle after all. There was no elation in his heart. None. Only relief, and that soon faded as the morning light revealed the terrible cost of victory spread across the still smouldering lower slopes of the ridge and out on to the plain towards Talavera.
THE BATTLE OF WAGRAM
Chapter 8
Napoleon
Lobau island, July 1809
‘This will do,’ Napoleon nodded. ‘Mark it down, Masséna.’
‘Yes, sire.’ Masséna took his pencil from behind his ear and carefully noted the location on the folded map he was holding, then quickly tucked it away again before they attracted the attention of the Austrian sentries on the opposite bank, scarcely a hundred paces away. Napoleon and Masséna had borrowed the jackets and caps of two sergeants and set out without an escort in order not to provoke scrutiny of their reconnaissance work.
They were selecting the sites for the series of pontoon bridges that were to be thrown across the final stretch of the Danube. The first attempt to cross at the end of May had ended in a humiliating reverse that had cost thousands of lives, including that of Marshal Lannes. Napoleon’s enemies across Europe had been greatly encouraged by the news from Austria. The only way to retrieve the situation was to deliver a crushing blow against Archduke Charles and his army.
The difficulty was that the Danube separated Napoleon from his prey. In addition, the Austrian army had erected a formidable array of field fortifications in a wide arc that stretched across most of the bank that faced Lobau. The enemy had made no moves to carry the fight to Napoleon and seemed content to sit and wait for him.
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