The Fields of Death (74 page)
Read The Fields of Death Online
Authors: Simon Scarrow
A second volley spat flame and lead at the dragoons at under thirty yards, point-blank range, and this time even more went down, collapsing into the mud where they were caught like wasps in jam, struggling futilely.
‘That’s the way!’ Hope cheered, breaking into a beam as he watched his men punish the enemy.
A third volley cut down yet more of those who had managed to find a path through the bodies, and they now added to the tangle of men and horses, dead and wounded, caught in the mud. The dragoons were brought to a standstill, and the fourth volley decided the issue. The strident notes of bugles sounded the recall and the horsemen turned their mounts round, not without difficulty, and headed back down the slope, rather faster and with less order than they had ascended it. The Portuguese brigades, down to a handful of rounds, held their fire, but Aylmer’s men fired two more volleys before the order to cease fire was bellowed out.
Arthur guessed that over a quarter of the enemy brigade had been cut down and now the survivors picked their way back through the lines of infantry to the rear. There was a short pause as the walking wounded struggled out of the mire and made their way down the slope, buying the defenders more time. Arthur turned round and scanned the countryside for any sign of reinforcements. Then he saw it, the dull gleam of red as a column of British soldiers emerged between two copses and headed down the road towards them, still a mile and a half away. The slender line of men on the ridge must hold their position for a while yet, Arthur realised.
The deep rumble of drums drew his attention back to the enemy. The French skirmishers were already moving forward in pairs, warily stepping out over the open expanse of churned mud. There would be no cover for them as they approached the waiting Portuguese and British infantry. Behind them three brigades of infantry advanced in column, urged on by their officers and the insistent rhythm of the drums. Hope had recalled his light infantry earlier and his men stood their ground as the French sharpshooters halted and opened fire, steadily picking men off. As each fell, dead or wounded, his comrades closed up to the right and stood firm. They did not have to endure the skirmishers for long, as the French columns steadily climbed up the gentle slope, boots weighted down by the clinging mud.
As the columns came up to the allied line the skirmishers fell back, and for a moment the sound of firing ceased. The French halted and discharged a ragged volley, striking down a score or so of the allies. An instant later Hope’s men returned fire in a massed volley. As the range was close and almost every musket could be brought to bear against the heads of the French columns the effect was devastating. Men toppled down and staggered back all along the leading ranks of the columns. Then there was a pause, filled with the hurried rattle of ramrods as each side reloaded.
‘Interesting,’ Arthur mused aloud. ‘Do you see how the French remain in column instead of forming into a firing line? Those men are clearly poorly trained. Their officers don’t trust ’em with battlefield manoeuvres.’
‘They don’t need to, as long as the enemy outnumber us as they do,’ Hope replied.
‘Not for much longer.’ Arthur pointed out the approach of the First Division. ‘Nevertheless, I think that quality rather than quantity will win the day.’
He turned back to the battle just in time to see his men fire their second volley a few seconds before the enemy, and more men fell on both sides. Powder smoke wreathed the air between the line and the columns, slowly merging into one mass, illuminated from within by the orange flash of each volley as the soldiers fired blind. This was the test of each army’s mettle, thought Arthur. The side that took such punishment longest would win. As he watched, he noted with cold satisfaction that his men were firing three volleys to the enemy’s two. Before long the French were no longer firing volleys but in a constant rattle of musketry as each man reloaded and fired at a different rate.
There was a pounding of hooves as Somerset came galloping up. He reined in and dismounted, cheeks flushed from his exertions in the cold air. He touched his hat to Arthur and General Hope.
‘The First Division had already set out from St-Jean-de-Luz when I arrived, sir,’ he reported. ‘Caught ’em up on the road and been chivvying them on ever since.’ He turned and surveyed the battle lines, and then the massed formations of Soult’s army half a mile to the north. ‘Good God, we haven’t got a chance.’
‘You think so?’ Arthur smiled wryly. ‘We shall see.’
The figures of the lightly wounded trickled back down the sides of the French columns, and those in the ranks shuffling forward to take the place of those who had fallen glanced at them nervously. Then Arthur saw one of the men at the rear of the nearest column turn and creep away from his formation. More followed, brushing past an enraged sergeant who was shouting at them to return to their position. The men at the head of the column were starting to fall back, no longer filling the gaps of the fallen. Slowly, the French columns retraced their steps, away from the thick bank of powder smoke, leaving a tide mark of dead and injured lying in the mud. For a while their officers and sergeants tried to halt them, but there was no will to advance back towards the withering fire of the allied troops.
As soon as the British and Portuguese officers became aware that there was no longer any enemy fire they ordered their men to stop, remove casualties to the rear and re-form their ranks. While the smoke dispersed Arthur watched the battered French brigades re-forming at the foot of the slope. A figure on horseback, his coat richly embroidered with gold lace, rode down the line haranguing his men and pointing his arm at the ridge. Arthur smiled to himself. He could imagine Soult’s fury. The day had begun well for the French, but the drenched ground, the natural bottlenecks along the roads down which he had chosen to advance, and the steadfast courage of the allied troops had halted his attack in its tracks.
The beating of the drums began again, and this time Soult himself rode forward with his men, shouting encouragement as he drew his sabre and waved it forward. The muddy slope, already churned up by the cavalry and infantry of earlier attacks, was a glistening quagmire and the men had trouble keeping their footing as they struggled forward. Behind Arthur the leading brigade of the First Division had reached the ridge and was taking up position on the reverse slope. The succeeding formations were already breaking away from the road to form up on the flanks.
Arthur turned to General Hope. ‘Have them advance to the crest. They’ll be safe enough as there’s no enemy artillery on the field. Let Soult’s men see ’em.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The faltering French attack struggled up the slope a short distance while more and more British troops appeared on the crest of the ridge. Soult reined in, sheathed his sword and surveyed the growing number of the defenders. Then he turned away and plodded back towards the rest of his army, calling an order out to the nearest officers as he passed. A moment later the drums stopped, and the French brigades halted. Arthur and the other officers watched and waited, in tense silence. Then the French began to turn about face and tramp back down the slope.
A chorus of whistles and jeers rose up from the men on the ridge and Hope snapped to one of his aides, ‘I’ll not have such damned indiscipline! Get along there and pass the order for them to be silent.’
‘No,’ Arthur interrupted.‘Indulge them. They’ve earned it. Besides, it can only add to the enemy’s discomfort. Indulge your men, Hope.’
‘Yes, sir,’ he replied reluctantly.
As the rest of the First Division formed up on the ridge, the French began to fall back beyond Barroilhet, leaving a screen of skirmishers to defend the village. Arthur told Hope to send pickets forward and then stand his men down.
‘You might consider fortifying your position this time,’ he added drily. ‘I’m prepared to forgive a man his mistakes, provided he learns from them immediately. I trust I make myself clear?’
‘Perfectly. I will do all that is necessary, sir,’ Hope replied, momentarily chastened. Then he cleared his throat and continued in a bluff tone, ‘That was a close run thing. Soult is a fine commander. Almost a match for you, sir.’
‘If you say so,’ Arthur replied dismissively. He was irked by the comparison, and by Hope’s effort to pass the blame for his incompetence to his commander. Even so, Arthur relented. Hope’s brave example had steadied his men at the critical moment. ‘But let me tell you the difference between Soult and me. When he gets in a difficulty, his troops don’t get him out of it. Mine always do.’ He paused and continued under his breath, ‘Even if their officers don’t.’
General Hope nodded contentedly, grateful to have saved his reputation. Then he turned away to issue orders to his staff. Somerset stared towards the last of the French troops pulling back through the village ahead. ‘Is it your intention to pursue Soult?’
Arthur was silent for a moment. ‘No. It will do us no good. There is little to be achieved in this weather. Soult will retreat to Bayonne and settle into winter quarters. Our men are weary and need time to rest and re-equip. The issue will be decided next year. Both here and in the north.’ He smiled thinly. ‘The days of Bonaparte are numbered, Somerset. Make no mistake about it.’
Chapter 47
Arthur slid two five franc pieces across the desk towards Somerset and then leaned back in his chair.
‘Tell me which is the forgery.’
Somerset pursed his lips as he stared at the two silver coins, then he picked them up, one in each hand, and examined them closely, sensing their even weight as he did so. Both carried a minting date of five years earlier. The only distinction was that one was slightly less worn-looking than its companion. Somerset lowered the other coin and raised the shinier one up. ‘This one.’
Arthur slapped his hand down on the table and laughed. ‘Wrong!’
He was delighted with Somerset’s error. Earlier, he had been presented with the two coins by Wilkins, a sergeant in the Rifles, but formerly a resident of Newgate prison, who was in charge of the small team of conterfeiters. Wilkins had asked him to choose between the two coins and Arthur, like his aide, had failed to pick the forgery, and now took pleasure in passing on Wilkins’s explanation of the deception to Somerset.
‘You see, the coin has been stained with coffee. It gives the illusion of wear and will last long enough for the coin to pass through several hands before arousing any suspicion.’
Somerset picked up the coin and examined it again. ‘Very clever. Sergeant Wilkins and his men have done a fine job. We’re damn lucky to have such men with us.’
‘Lucky?’ Arthur raised his eyebrows. ‘In this instance, yes, but I have never been convinced of the wisdom of the army recruiting its men from the scum who infest our prisons.’
Somerset smiled. ‘Newgate’s loss is our gain, sir.’
‘True, but I shudder to think what use such fine skills might be put to in peacetime. In any case, Wilkins reports that he and his men have minted enough French coins for us to buy supplies for the next month at least. By which time, I hope that the promised gold arrives from England.’
Somerset puffed his cheeks and looked doubtful. His scepticism was probably justified, Arthur reflected. Almost every promise made to him by the government over recent years had been subject to alteration, delay or denial. The lack of gold posed the most serious threat to his campaign at present. The mule drivers who carried most of the army’s supplies had not been paid for over three months, and the soldiers for even longer.
Marshal Soult had his own problems, Arthur discovered from the locals. Unable to feed his army of sixty thousand and the population of Bayonne, Soult had been forced to leave a garrison and move the bulk of his army further inland. As the two armies settled into their winter quarters the civilians crossed freely between them, carrying wine, bread, meat and cheese from Bayonne and returning with sugar and coffee that arrived on the first English merchant vessels to enter the port of St-Jean-de-Luz. Even so, it was a seller’s market and the high prices charged by the peasants were made more aggravating by their refusal to accept the silver dollars the army had been using in Spain. Hence the small counterfeiting enterprise Arthur had set up in a closely guarded warehouse in the port where Wilkins and his men melted down the Spanish currency, added in a small measure of base metals, and then cast, finished and aged the French coins. As soon as they were mixed with the other French coins in the army’s war chest they would be ready to go into circulation. Arthur had managed to supplement his supply of French currency by trading coins for British treasury bills with some of the banks in Bayonne. He had been mildly surprised by the bankers’ willingness to enter into such deals with an enemy power, but then the venality of bankers surpassed their sense of patriotism by a considerable measure.
He put the coins in his drawer and turned to the next item on the list of administrative tasks that he and Somerset were working through. ‘Uniforms. Well? How is the replacement programme going?’
‘Slowly. Only a few consignments have arrived in the port. The winter seas are delaying the convoys from Southampton. So far we’ve been able to issue new kit to two of Hope’s divisions. He is sending one regiment at a time into the port to collect their new uniforms. What they leave behind is being laundered and issued to Hill’s men to use for patching.’
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