Read The Fields of Death Online
Authors: Simon Scarrow
The Fields of Death (63 page)
That would be the bridge that Dalhousie’s column would be using to launch its attack on the flank and rear of the enemy line, Arthur reflected. He glanced to his left but there was still no sign of any movement immediately to the east. He was aware of a distant flash out of the corner of his eye as the French gun fired again.
‘Ask Zarate if there are any—’
Arthur was interrupted by a wet crack and a splattering sound. He turned and saw the body of the Spanish farmer in the saddle, the hands tensed like claws. His head was gone, smashed apart by the second shot from the enemy gun. General Alava had caught the worst of the spray of blood and brains, which had spattered one side of his body and face. The corpse slowly toppled to the side and thudded on to the river bank.
‘Good God,’ Arthur muttered. ‘General, are you all right?’
Alava had raised a gloved hand to wipe the gore from his face, and was staring at the vivid crimson streak on the back of his kid leather gloves. He looked round at Arthur and nodded.
‘Then we’d best not continue to make a target of ourselves. Let’s be off.’
‘What about him?’
‘What? He can be buried later. I’ll see that his family has his reward. Come.’
They rode back to the bridge, where one of the battalions of the rifle regiment had already crossed and was hurrying up the hill as the rest of the brigade doubled over to the far bank. Arthur joined Kempt on the far bank and the latter looked anxiously at General Alava.
‘Are you injured, General?’
Alava shook his head. ‘We lost our Spanish guide. He was struck by a roundshot.’
‘Poor fellow.’ Kempt pursed his lips. ‘Bad luck, eh?’
Arthur pointed to the hill. ‘Have your men form up on the crest. It is likely that the enemy will see the danger to their flank and attempt to force your brigade back over the river. You must hold your ground until our cavalry crosses.’
‘You can depend upon my lads,’ Kempt replied grimly.
‘My lord,’ General Alava interrupted, gesturing towards the bridge where the infantry were pressing to one side as a mounted officer edged through. ‘One of your staff officers.’
No more than a minute later they were joined by the officer, a young dragoon cornet whom Arthur recognised as one who had recently joined the headquarters staff.
‘Williams, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Well?’
Williams swallowed and did his best to compose himself. ‘My lord, I was sent by Somerset to find General Dalhousie.’
‘You found him then?’
‘No, my lord. I came upon General Picton instead. He was approaching the river a mile to the east of here. He asked me if you had orders for him. I told him that my orders were for General Dalhousie, to tell him to cross the river and make his attack, and that Picton’s division was to support him.’ The cornet paused nervously. ‘Well, my lord, General Picton flew into something of a rage. He said that General Dalhousie had lost his way in the hills and would be delayed by as much as another hour before he could reach the river. He also said that he would be damned if the Third Division was going to support anyone. Then he gave me a message to deliver to you, my lord.’
‘Did he, by God?’ Arthur felt the familiar irritation that Picton so frequently roused in him. ‘Then tell me. His precise words.’
The young officer swallowed and did his best to recall. ‘Tell Lord Wellington that the Third Division, under my command, shall in less than ten minutes attack the bridge and carry it, and the other divisions may support me if they choose . . . That was it, sir. Then he sent me on my way and turned to order his men to advance.’ Cornet Williams paused. ‘I didn’t know what to do, my lord. I had orders to find Dalhousie, but General Picton had given me fresh orders, and I thought it best to find you directly rather than continue to search for General Dalhousie.’
Arthur nodded. ‘You did the right thing, Williams. Now report to Somerset and then go back to seek out Dalhousie.’
‘Yes, my lord,’ the cornet responded with evident relief, then turned his horse away and trotted back towards the bridge.
‘Picton . . .’ Arthur muttered the name through clenched teeth, furious at the man’s petulant belligerence. That was the very reason why he had given command of the third column to Dalhousie, but with the latter not yet on the scene it would be best to let Picton lead the attack on the enemy flank before it could be reinforced enough to prevent any more British troops from crossing the Zadorra from the north of the battlefield. A burst of small-arms fire sounded from the east and Arthur pushed aside his ill humour and spurred his horse up the hill to the crest to get a better view. Kempt and Alava followed him, joined shortly after by Somerset who had given the orders for the main attack and now returned to his commander.
From the elevated position Arthur could see most of the valley. Further along the river he picked out the leading formations of Picton’s division as they closed round the end of the bridge and engaged the small force posted to guard it. The fresh attack from a new direction had not gone unnoticed by Marshal Jourdan and already the right of the French line was falling back so as not to present its flank to Picton’s men, while a body of cavalry and a battery of horse guns galloped to support the men defending the bridge.
‘Picton is going to be given a good pounding when he tries to cross the bridge,’ said Arthur, ‘unless he is supported. General Kempt, you must take your men forward and cover Picton’s flank as he forces his way across the bridge. Have your riflemen do what they can to harass the enemy cavalry and those guns.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Kempt nodded. ‘But what of this hill? Are we to abandon it?’
‘It has served its purpose,’ Arthur replied. ‘It hid your brigade from view while you crossed the river. Now, get your men forward.’
Kempt bellowed his orders across the crest of the hill and the three regiments began to descend the far side and marched east, screened by two companies of riflemen. Arthur hurriedly assessed the positions of his forces to the south of the hill. Away in the distance the column on the Heights of Puebla was still grinding its way along the ridge, pushing past the left flank of the French line in the valley below. Closer to, from the crossing at Nanclares to the Villodas bridge, the men of Cole’s division and the bulk of Alten’s command had crossed the river and were forming a battle line across the gently rolling landscape between the Heights and the river. The allied army had won the advantage. Now it was time to press forward and deliver the decisive blow.
Kempt’s riflemen hurried forward and taking shelter in folds in the ground they opened fire on the battery of horse guns that were, in turn, firing grapeshot at any of Picton’s men who attempted to get across the bridge. From his vantage position Arthur could see that scores of men had already fallen along the approaches to the bridge. Now the tables were turned as the green-jacketed riflemen steadily shot down the French gunners. Behind the riflemen, the rest of Kempt’s brigade stood in manoeuvre columns waiting for the command to advance, or form square if the enemy cavalry showed any sign of moving in their direction. With over twenty men and several horses down, the officer in charge of the French horse battery gave the order to fall back and his crews hurriedly limbered their guns and began to rumble back towards the main French line.
Once the guns had ceased firing, Picton’s leading regiment hurried across the river and formed a line on the far bank. Arthur saw a shimmering ripple of steel as they fixed bayonets and then advanced towards the cavalry still barring their way. The line halted and a volley crashed out, knocking down several French hussars and many more of their horses. A second volley added to the enemy’s losses and then the red line rippled forward, passing through the bank of powder smoke and charging home. Arthur felt a moment of anxiety at the rashness of the charge, but Picton had judged it well, and before the French could react the infantry were in amongst them, stabbing with their bayonets. In less than a minute the fight was over, and the French light cavalry were fleeing east, to the safety of the new line forming across the undulating ground just beyond the twin hillocks where the village of Arinez nestled.
As Picton pushed his men forward, driving back the remaining French soldiers either side of the hillocks, the first of General Dalhousie’s men began to cross the river and follow up Picton’s attack. Arthur beckoned Somerset to his side and pointed out the new line the French were hurriedly forming to repulse the forces pouring across the Zadorra.
‘See there, where the French are massing a battery in front of the centre of their line?’
Somerset briefly glanced towards the enemy. ‘Yes, my lord.’
‘I want every available gun brought forward to form our own battery. While the other columns push in their flanks and threaten the enemy’s rear, we can pound their centre to pieces. I doubt the French line will hold for long under such concerted pressure.’
As the allied centre formed and the guns rumbled forward, the attacks on either flank continued with Hill steadily pushing eastwards along the ridge. Picton and Dalhousie pressed on, but now their men came in range of the French cannon and the leading battalions suffered grievously as heavy iron shot ploughed through their ranks, cutting bloody lanes through the ranks of advancing redcoats. Arthur had ridden forward to the hills near Arinez, sending for his field headquarters to join him there, and felt sickened by the sight of so many of his fine men being cut down. However, severe though the losses might be, it bought time for the rest of the army to move up into position for what Arthur hoped would be the decisive attack on the French line.
Shortly after four, the allied army was ready and Arthur gave the order for Colonel Dickson’s massed battery to open fire. Arthur had never before fielded so many guns in a battle and the seventy artillery pieces made a deafening roar as they belched fire and smoke and bombarded the French line, less than half a mile away, with heavy iron shot. Now it was the turn of the French formations to endure terrible destruction. Arthur watched with grim satisfaction as each shot tore through the enemy’s battalions. Soon the guns of both sides began to target each other and the valley filled with the continuous crash and rumble of artillery as the men working the guns were whittled down, struck by shot, or by slivers of wood and metal when one of guns was hit, sending deadly splinters flying in all directions.
For a quarter of an hour the massed guns of both armies pounded each other, and so deafening was the noise of the barrage that Arthur did not hear Somerset address him and so was surprised to have his aide pluck his sleeve. He turned away from the spectacle as Somerset cupped a hand to his mouth and called out, ‘We’ve had a report from Graham, my lord! He has been held along the north bank of the river, and Longa’s division has been unable to cut the road to the French frontier.’
‘Damn,’ Arthur muttered. He had intended to block the enemy’s line of retreat. At once he realised that it was vital that he attacked and broke the French army as swiftly as possible before it could withdraw from the battlefield in good order. Already, he could see the first vehicles of the baggage train heading east along the road to Pamplona. He leaned towards Somerset and spoke loudly into his aide’s ear.‘The attack begins now. Tell Alten and Cole not to stop for anything. They are to keep pushing the enemy back and give them no chance to re-form and hold another line.’
‘Yes, sir.’
As he waited for the line to advance Arthur saw that Hill’s column was once again threatening to outflank the enemy. The surviving French guns fell silent and were hurriedly limbered up as Marshal Jourdan saw the threat and ordered his battered formations to withdraw. But before they could move, the centre of the allied army began their advance, pacing steadily across the open ground, their regimental colours swirling to and fro above their heads. Even as they approached Arthur saw the left flank of the French line give ground, and then form column before they began to march away to the east, leaving the rest of the French line to fight it out.
As the redcoats closed on the remaining French division holding its position, the British guns fell silent, and apart from the sounds of fighting from the Heights and away to the east, where Graham was struggling to fight his way over the river, a brief, dreadful quiet hung over the heart of the battlefield. The French were waiting in line, to bring every possible musket to bear as the British approached. Behind the infantry of Cole and Alten the cavalry trotted forward and deployed into lines, ready to charge and pursue the enemy the moment they broke and began to flee. There was a sense of inevitability about what was to come and the soldiers of both sides knew it. Arthur could not help admiring the courage of the Frenchmen waiting for their foes to strike the fatal blow. It was a terrible thing that it took war to bring out such a noble quality, he reflected.
His thoughts were interrupted as the French unleashed their first volley at the approaching redcoats. All along the front of the approaching line men staggered or fell to the ground under the hail of musket balls. Their sergeants bellowed the order to close up and the leading formations advanced another ten paces and halted, leaving a scattered band of red figures, dead and injured, in their wake. The British managed to fire their first volley an instant before the French replied with their second and a thick pall of smoke billowed between the two sides as hundreds of men were struck down. The soldiers of both sides reloaded and fired as quickly as possible, ignoring the cries of their stricken comrades and the sprawled bodies of the dead on either side.
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