Salamanca 1812- Wellington’s Year of Victories

by Peter Edwards

  Poor Marshal Marmont, we fear, ended rather over-drawn. As Frederick Ponsonby commented ‘He had outmanoeuvred himself.’ He blamed Thomières and Maucune, of course, which was hardly fair. He himself had become more than a little bedazzled at out-marching and out-turning this man Wellington. Outmanoeuvred the fellow from the Douro back to Salamanca, taunted him, invited him to stand and fight, increasingly convinced his dance partner was a passive defender. After all, the man in five years had never once attacked a single French position (forgetting the mere bagatelle of Roliça). Once across the Tormes, and with that dust cloud over towards the Rodrigo road, he knew he had him. The aborted attack on the Greater Arapile confirmed it. He could relax. A push and a shove and Wellington would be off. He, Marmont, would descend upon his rear guard, and by the way let’s send young Thomières ahead, to slip around their flank, and we’ll all be back in Salamanca in time for supper tonight.

  Into that rather relaxed frame of mind came no inkling of the reverse rapidly approaching. Reverse in the sense both of disaster, and also in that his own flanking movement was about to be outflanked. At no point did he seem fearful, which is a half-brother to caution, and certainly not related to arrogance. It is worth repeating his words to Berthier nine days later:

  My object was, in taking up this position, to prolong my movement to the left, in order to dislodge the enemy from the neighbourhood of Salamanca, and to fight him at a greater advantage. I calculated on taking up a good defensive position, against which the enemy could make no offensive move, and intended to press near enough to him to be able to profit from the first fault that he might make, and to attack him with vigour.

  Oman adds a telling sentence from his Memoires: ‘I considered that our respective positions would bring on not a battle, but an advantageous rearguard action, in which, using my full force late in the day, with a part only of the British army left in front of me, I should probably score a point.’ For Wellington was indeed all set to go towards Rodrigo, if the day produced no opening for an attack. But that was a big ‘if’ for Marmont to risk with a man like his Lordship. As Foy wrote ‘The wily Wellington was ready to give battle – the greater part of his host was collected, masked behind the line of heights. He was waiting for our movement.’

  Wellington did indeed do a lot of waiting. His patience did wear thin that day, but that was because it really was his last chance, after a prolonged spell of waiting. Waiting is not a common trait of those born to power and deference (except perhaps those who cut their teeth in the slow motion of British India). The Salamanca Forts, the San Cristoval Ridge, the Douro, back-pedalling to the affairs at Castrejon and Castillo, the parallel march, all these would have eaten away at a lesser man, since Marmont gave no opening for the devastating attack his Lordship sought. The odds had to be right, and they were not right. And that carried on into the day of the battle, with the low point for the Peer surely the realisation that Beresford’s caution around midday was correct, and his own intended attack on the Greater Arapile was wrong. How he must have hated countermanding his previous order to Henry Campbell! Even if kicking Bonnet off the ridge was intended to be no more than delivering Marmont a limited bloody nose, he was big enough to swallow his pride, along with his long-simmering frustration – but he kept looking for the best chance. That’s the point. He had not given up. His tenacity and his patience were very strong. So what inner excitement and determination must have accompanied that cry of ‘By God, that will do!’, when he saw Thomières’s columns march beyond the point of no return.

  There seems no doubt Pakenham was sent to lie up in Aldea Tejaea for a double purpose: firstly for its proximity to securing the heights beside the Tormes, covering the Rodrigo road; and secondly should the required ‘advantageous terms’ at last arise, to be equally on hand as an unexpected right hook. It was a decision perfectly demonstrating Wellington’s ability to plan ahead, allowing for both caution and for hope. This one conscious decision, more than any other, allowed for his glorious victory.

  It is hard to see what Marmont or Clausel could have done to prevent it, once the band began to play. They, their dispositions, their infantry and their cavalry, all were outclassed. Of course, some phases did not go well — Cole and Pack’s retreat, and the pursuit – but for the first time in five years Wellington’s army had taken the fight to the French, and won hands down. As Napier put it: ‘In former actions the French had been repulsed, here they were driven head long as it were before a mighty wind.’ We cannot not quote Foy’s words, handsomely entered in his diary six days after the battle:

  This battle is the most cleverly fought, the largest in scale, the most important in results, of any the English have won in recent times. It brings up Lord Wellington’s reputation almost to that of Marlborough. Up to this day we knew his prudence, his eye for choosing good positions, and the skill with which he used them. But at Salamanca he has shown himself a great and able master of manoeuvring. He kept his dispositions hidden nearly all the day: he allowed us to develop our movement before he pronounced his own: he played a close game; he utilised the ‘oblique order’ in the style of Frederick the Great . . . The catastrophe of the Spanish War has come – for six long months we ought to have seen that it was quite probable.

  The results were far-reaching. We will describe below how the news of victory was received in England, but the Government there immediately benefited from the silencing of the Opposition. In return they raised the Earl to the rank of Marquis (to which apparently he asked ‘What the devil is the use of making me a Marquis?’, showing rather more interest in the gift of the Manor of Wellington and £100,000). Spain had already given him a Golden Fleece. In France a corresponding shock of belittling magnitude was delivered to national pride, and to their Army’s spirit. The caution which in future their Marshals would show when in Wellington’s presence was to affect their plans and reactions in quite a major way. Commanders lacking confidence are halfway beaten, knowing which no doubt accounts for a rapid blaming of Marmont, who just as rapidly had already blamed General Maucune and the late Thomières. The French had been comprehensively whipped, and whilst one can talk of the effect of this victory on the situation in England or Russia or Paris, or in Andalucia or Castille, or in Madrid or amongst the partisans, the prime effect was the emergence of a supreme fighting machine. British soldiers have always been good in defence; in the Peninsula a consistent narrative had developed over four years or so wherein the individual man in the ranks expected to hold whatever piece of ground his officers chose. Going forwards up a breach or up scaling ladders, however, while certainly an attack upon the enemy, was not remotely like the advance in the open of two or three brigades in line, closing and disposing of Johnny Frog. And that was something the British soldier had never done until today, bar the Fusilier Brigade at Albuera. No wonder that night ‘When they [the 6th Division] were ordered to halt for the night . . . So tired . . . Yet they sat up through the night, talking over the action, each recalling to his comrade the events that had happened.’ (Tomkinson)

  There was indeed much to talk about, but some slept for a while:

  The troops that had gained the victory lay buried in sleep until two o’clock of the morning following, when the arrival of the mules carrying rum aroused them from their slumber, but the parties sent out in search of water had not yet reached the field. The soldiers, with parching lips, their tongues cleaving to their mouths from thirst, their limbs benumbed with cold, and their bodies enfeebled by a long abstinence from food, and the exertion of the former day, ran to the casks, and each man drank a fearful quantity.

  (Needless to say, Grattan’s bhoys of the 88th Connaught.) What a way to end such a day – drunk again!

  In London, rumours of all this grew during the first days of August, with The Times stopping their press at lam on Thursday 6th to announce:

  That an Officer arrived at the Admiralty late last night, with dispatches from the North coast of Spain. We understand that he ha
s brought a confirmation of the Ferrol account of the victory gained by Lord Wellington near Salamanca on the 22nd ult. We have not heard the particulars; but we believe they put the fact of his Lordship’s success beyond all doubt.

  An earlier dispatch from Sir Home Popham had reached Falmouth, but fog had descended upon the Admiralty telegraph, to great frustration in the capital. Ten days were to pass with only unofficial and unconfirmed news crossing the briny, with details forever changing:

  The victory obtained by Lord Wellington was within two leagues of Salamanca. He made a false retreat of fourteen leagues, which fairly took in MARMONT, who was completely defeated leaving according to one dispatch 8,000 killed and wounded and 4,000 prisoners, the greatest part of his artillery, cavalry and baggage; but the second report mentions their having left 12,000 killed and wounded, with 4,000 prisoners, and there being a most disorderly retreat. Eight Eagles are said to have been taken, etc. (The Times, 11 August)

  Then on the 15th Captain Lord Clinton, his Lordship’s chosen man from amongst his ADCs, was reported to have passed Cuidad Rodrigo with despatches three weeks previously; a copy of the Corunna Gazette talked of Te Deums performed both there and at Salamanca, with ‘The highest exultation spread through the country’. All lay agog, until Clinton’s chaise and four rattled the very next day out of the blue to Lord Bathurst’s house in Mansfield Street, for a late breakfast.

  The drivers and horses were decorated with laurel. The eagles and flags were displayed out of the windows of the chaise. One of the eagles is besmeared with blood, supposed to be in consequence of the Ensign’s head who held it being shot away. His Lordship drove to Lord Bathurst’s residence, in Mansfield street. The state of the chaise soon spread the report throughout the neighbourhood, and a great concourse of people were collected in a few minutes. The glad tidings spread to Lady Wellington’s, who resides near the spot, in Harley street. Her Ladyship ran with all possible speed to Lord Bathurst’s house, with a naturally anxious desire to enquire after the welfare of her husband. Lord Clinton of course paid every possible attention to her Ladyship’s enquiries; and on her receiving a satisfactory account, she was so much overwhelmed with joy, that she nearly fainted. The eagles and flags were left in Lord Bathurst’s house.

  From Bathurst’s house, Clinton was taken to the War Department in Downing Street, and then across the park to Carlton House, to see the Prince Regent. They went on foot, with a growing crowd of Sunday idlers cheering away in their wake, and from there the news spread widely. Next day The Times printed extracts from the despatch, and arrangements were promptly put in hand so that (as an early example of psychological warfare) ‘Details of the victory of Salamanca are circulated on the Continent as widely as possible, particularly in the Russian territories,’ with copies of the Gazette to be sent immediately to the Baltic ‘to be distributed on its coasts.’

  Within hours that Monday, astonishingly rapid efforts on the part of private citizens and government offices ensured the late evening dusk of London was richly illuminated with an entertaining spectacle for the populous. There were back-lit silhouettes depicting variously his Lordship, the crown, wreaths, anchors, stars, the letters G.R., Britannia, eagles and even, in Spring Gardens, a

  Well-portrayed transparency of Lord Wellington driving Bonaparte and the French out of the Peninsula, while Britannia appears on one side consoling and upraising a drooping female representing Spain, and in the clouds were the figures of Julius Caesar, the Duke of Marlborough and Charles V. The illuminations last night were general. All the houses in the great leading lines of streets, from the East to the West End, were illuminated; and the illumination varied with occasional transparencies, mottes in lamps, and devices equally brilliant and appropriate to an occasion so justly entitled to call out the strongest expression of natural rejoicing.

  The space from Temple Bar to Charing Cross was one continuous train of light; the whole bright, but parts of it eminently splendid. The Navy office exhibited a star and anchor, composed of lamps of the most brilliant effect, while the pillars that support the cupola of the building were decorated with variegated festoons of the most luminous description. The Navy Pay office was ornamented with a profusion of light, and contained a display of two anchors placed transversely, and the letters G R in shining characters. The illumination at the Admiralty was on a grand and extensive scale, for which the magnitude of the building is excellently calculated. The screen facing the street was covered with a profusion of variegated lamps and flambeaux. The name of ‘WELLINGTON’ was placed conspicuously over the entrance, and surmounted by the Crown, star, a wreath, and anchor, producing a handsome effect. Nor was the exhibition at the Horse Guards less grand and imposing. The name of WELLINGTON was eminently bright, and accompanied with the letters G R and G P R. The Treasury displayed a well-executed transparency of George III, attended by Britannia and other emblematical figures. The illuminations at the Council office, and the other government offices, though not so grand, were elegant and tasteful. At the Secretary of State for War and Colonies, in Downing Street, were exhibited the Eagles and Colours taken at the Battle of Salamanca. The office was brilliantly illuminated.

  Pall Mall, Carlton House, the Ordnance Office, the Portuguese and Spanish Embassies, Apsley House, East India House, the Bank, the Mansion House and many private dwellings were all brightly lit that night. But Lady Wellington’s house at number 11 Harley Street, was described, somewhat meanly, as ‘Plainly illuminated with a few lamps.’

  Politically all this was splendid news for the weak and embattled government of Lord Liverpool, who promptly called an election. The results strengthened his position somewhat, and correspondingly reduced that of his Whig opponents; however, it is possible, had Wellington lost at Salamanca or been caused to retreat to Rodrigo, that Liverpool’s administration would have been ousted, the result of which it is now hard to contemplate, not only domestically but upon the continuance of the campaign in Spain. Such an outcome had no doubt been ever present in Wellington’s mind as he and Marmont manoeuvred for advantage. ‘By God, that will do!’ had had much wider implications than on a dusty Spanish plain.

  In Russia the laborious five-week journey eastwards of Marmont’s despatch at last found Napoleon, four marches from Moscow, at a place called Borodino, with other pressures on his mind. He is reported to have dismissed the news with ‘The English have their hands full there: they cannot leave Spain and go to make trouble for me in France and Germany. That is all that matters.’ In Paris, the Regency Council, unable quickly to consult the Emperor, recalled Massena from retirement, to replace Marmont, but the wily fox managed to fall ill on arrival in Bayonne, and resigned. While the Council’s extreme fears of an invasion in Napoleon’s absence were neither realistic nor immediately realised, the general effect of the news was decidedly detrimental to civilian morale. Doubts spread, inevitably. News of 30,000 French dead at Borodino, and the occupation of Moscow a week later by the 95,000 remnant of the original quarter million strong Army were not reasons for untrammelled joy, the humiliating retreat five weeks later being a disastrous reminder of that smaller version in Spain.

  In London on the last day of September the Army put on a show for the Royal family and the populace – who turned out in their thousands – with a parade to lay up the captured Eagles and Colours. Five Eagles and four flags (including the garrison flag of Badajoz ‘a great part of it red with human blood’) were on parade, together with three regiments of Foot Guards and two of Life Guards, under the unlikely command of old Sir Harry Burrard of Vimeiro fame. The Times:

  Four of the Eagles are numbered 13, 22, 39, 51 ... Two of them taken at the Battle of Salamanca, were very much mutilated; two others, taken at Madrid . . . And the fifth we understand was found in the channel of a stream near Ciudad Rodrigo into which it was thrown when the rear of Massena’s army was closely pressed by the British cavalry, on its retreat from Portugal.

  The 22nd’s Eagle we know about, but neither th
e 12th (Wellington’s despatch incorrectly named it as the 13th) nor 51st were at Salamanca. The latter fought in Albuera village in Godinot’s brigade, but escaped with modest casualties, with no loss of an Eagle as far as we know. The 39th were with Foy at Salamanca, but lacking their 1st Battalion and, therefore, the Regimental Eagle. And anyway the 12th were in Russia and had never set foot in Spain. It leaves one puzzled.

  The Queen, her Princesses and the Duchess of York watched from Horse Guards’ Levee room as a white charger carried the Prince Regent from Carlton House onto parade, accompanied by the Dukes of York and Kent. The Colours having been trooped, the French Eagles and Standards were brought out, and the carrying parties proceeded round the square to the tune of the ‘Grenadiers March’, the trophies being lowered before the Prince and Royal Family ‘Amid the acclamation of the thousands of spectators.’ Then it was off to Whitehall Chapel to hear Divine Service. As The Times noted:

  The concourse of people assembled on the occasion was immense, and the spectacle altogether was of the most gratifying description. It was impossible to view without feelings of exaltation, these trophies which bore witness to the prowess of British soldiers, and which were won from no despicable enemy, but from troops whose military reputation stands so high in Europe.

  CHAPTER 15

  Salamanca The Sad Field of Battle

  The foregoing story of the battle has necessarily concerned the movement of men en masse. This chapter touches on individuals. We are fortunate that so many veterans wrote of their experiences, presumably out of an understandable mixture of pride in their part in a notable event and a profound relief at surviving. It is also natural that common recollections were the sights and plights of the wounded and of the dead. After all, on this field of battle, on which 100,000 men and 8,000 horses had manoeuvred – a space some three miles long and a couple deep at most – there now lay the blood of between 17,000 and 18,000 men killed, wounded or taken prisoner and nearly 1,000 horses killed, wounded or running loose. Many thousands lay where they were hit. Unlike a successful British defensive battle, where the winner stays put and can succour his wounded whilst the retreating French must abandon theirs, here the pursuit took the Army forwards, leaving the wounded of both sides to fend for themselves.