Read The Fields of Death Online
Authors: Simon Scarrow
The Fields of Death (73 page)
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.’
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.
‘Glad to see you, sir.’
‘Lucky, more like.’ Arthur gestured to his wounded leg.
‘Indeed, sir. I went forward to Barroilhet the instant I heard the French had attacked. They were on us in a trice. My staff and I had to fight our way out.’
Arthur was tempted to comment that such an escape would not have been necessary if Hope had obeyed his orders. But there was no time for recrimination, and at least Hope had thrown himself into the fight the moment he recognised his peril.
‘What strength have you available to counter Soult?’
‘The remains of the two Portuguese brigades holding the village, and Aylmer’s brigade. I sent for the First Division at once. They should reach us before two in the afternoon.’
‘Good.’ Arthur nodded. ‘Until then, we will have to make do with what is here. At least the ground favours us.’
As at Arcangues the French were obliged to attack on a narrow front. Half a mile either side of the muddy road lay two small lakes, surrounded by bogs. If the line could be held long enough for the First Division to arrive then Soult could be contained and his audacious plan would fail. For an instant Arthur felt his heart warming to the enemy marshal. It must have been sorely tempting to attempt an attack on the stronger half of the allied army as it crossed the Nive. But Soult had seen that his foes were playing into his hands by straddling the army across the river. Instead of fighting, he had lured Hill’s column away from the crossing, and then marched his forces across the bridges at Bayonne to achieve an overwhelming advantage against the allied soldiers remaining on the west bank of the Nive.
‘Clever,’ Arthur muttered under his breath. ‘Very clever. Soult is a man who knows how to wait.’
Then Arthur dismissed his opponent from his mind as he scrutinised the scene before him. The arrival of Aylmer’s brigade had put fresh heart into the Portuguese troops, who had been fighting valiantly all morning but had been close to being overwhelmed. Now they closed up in front of their colours and braced themselves for another French onslaught. The enemy infantry had moved aside to make way for a brigade of cavalry: dragoons, in heavy coats with flowing crests atop their gleaming helmets. They walked their horses forward and slowly spread out across the muddy ground in front of the ridge. Arthur was relieved to see no sign of the enemy’s guns, no doubt still stuck in the mud beyond Barroilhet.
‘Not the best conditions for cavalry,’ Hope commented.
‘And no need for your men to form square,’ Arthur responded. ‘I doubt that those dragoons will make any speed over that mud. A few volleys will see them off long before they pose any danger to our line.’
Hope stared at the ground and nodded before turning to one of his staff officers. ‘Campbell, ride down our line. Tell the colonels that their men are to remain where they stand.’
The officer saluted and then spurred his horse away to relay the order.
It took over half an hour for the French cavalry to deploy, and when at last the advance was sounded the heavy mounts struggled through the mud as they picked their way towards the bottom of the slope.
‘What I’d give for a battery of nine-pounders,’ Hope commented bitterly. ‘Case shot would make short work of ’em.’
Arthur turned his gaze away from the dragoons towards the nearest of his men. They stood their ground and waited, with not a backward glance. As Arthur had expected, the poor ground slowed the cavalry to a walk, and they were still moving no faster when the order to make ready to fire echoed along the allied line. The muskets were advanced, and then there was a brief pause before the order to cock the weapons was bellowed and a light clatter filled the air.
‘Take aim!’
Up came the muskets, and each man pulled the butt in tight against his shoulder, anticipating the savage kick as his weapon was discharged. Arthur saw that the dragoons were perhaps seventy or eighty yards away. A longer range than he would like, but the large targets would be easy enough to hit when the volley was unleashed.
‘Fire!’
The volleys of each company of British and Portuguese troops crashed out along the line, spitting over a thousand musket ball into the oncoming formation.
‘Reload!’ a sergeant cried out. ‘Reload your weapons, blast yer!’
Some of the men had paused to see what damage they had caused as the smoke slowly began to disperse, but now lowered their weapons, reached for a fresh cartridge and began to reload. From his position on the crest Arthur could see that scores of dragoons and their horses had gone down, some of the animals kicking and thrashing wildly in blind pain and terror. Their comrades picked their way past, edging closer to the thin line of men defending the ridge.
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