‘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 position
s, 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.
With all Europe watching the conflict, Napoleon was determined to make another attempt to cross the river, and this time the result would be very different.
Every soldier that could be spared had been summoned to Vienna, where the army steadily increased in size until over a hundred and sixty thousand men had gathered to take part in the attack on Archduke Charles. The troops left to guard the army’s communications with France were thinly stretched and if only one more of the European powers chose to intervene on the side of Austria then there would be little to stand in their way.
Meanwhile Lobau was turned into a fortress. By the end of June over a hundred and thirty cannon were sited in batteries covering the far bank. Two strong bridges had been constructed across the main channel of the Danube as well as three new pontoon bridges. Stakes had been driven into the river bed upstream of the bridges to ensure that they would be protected from any Austrian fireships or floating rams. There was to be no dependence on a single, vulnerable bridge across the river this time.
The enemy had made no attempt to intervene. The French had even managed to land a force across the river to seize the salient on which the hamlet of Mühlau stood. Within hours the French engineers had thoroughly fortified the village and mounted powerful batteries in redoubts to cover the approaches. The enemy had reacted with their usual plodding deliberation and by the time a column had arrived to retake the village it was clear to Archduke Charles that it would cost him far more men than the village was worth and he opted to enclose the salient within the wider system of fieldworks designed to contain any French attempt to break out on to the Marchfeld. Napoleon had been careful to ensure that the Austrians saw the construction of the elaborate series of batteries to cover a landing between Aspern and Essling. Moreover, the elite Imperial Guard had loudly paraded opposite Mühlau, and two additional bridges had been constructed to the salient. The enemy could hardly be in any doubt where Napoleon’s blow would fall.
Which was as well, he mused to himself as he strolled further along the bank of Lobau island with Masséna. For it was all an elaborate ruse, calculated to draw the enemy’s attention away from the true direction in which the French would strike. Already, ten pontoon bridges had been constructed out of sight of the Austrians, ready to be towed into position on the night of the attack. It was these bridges that Napoleon and Masséna were choosing positions for as they made their way along the eastern end of the island in their borrowed jackets.
Napoleon paused to survey the opposite bank once again. A party of Austrian soldiers were bathing in the shallows, their laughter and sound of splashing carrying clearly across the water. Beyond the Austrians the bank sloped gently up to higher ground.
‘What do you think?’
Masséna stared across the river for a moment before he nodded. ‘Looks good to me, sire. The river bed must be firm there, and our guns will be able to negotiate the far bank easily enough.’
‘I agree. Mark the position.’
They worked their way steadily along the bank, choosing the points where the ground was most solid and the bank posed no obstacle to the swift crossing of the river. When the last site had been marked on the map they turned to make their way back across the island to the Emperor’s forward headquarters. Behind the screen of forests that surrounded the heart of the island sprawled a vast camp. Marshal Oudinot’s corps had joined Masséna’s men, and once night came Davout’s thirty-five thousand soldiers would swell the ranks of the army waiting to be unleashed on the unsuspecting Archduke Charles. Obedient to their strict orders the men had not lit camp fires, and sat quietly resting. Some were stretched out asleep, others were cleaning their weapons, the cavalry rasping whetstones along the edges of their sabres. Although no orders had been issued for any attack, the concentration of so many men was evidence enough that their Emperor was preparing for an imminent battle.
As they walked through the camp Napoleon felt the keen sense of anticipation amongst his soldiers. So different from little over a month earlier when the army had been thrust back on to the island by the Austrians. Napoleon’s brow creased into a frown as he recalled the scene. The survivors of the battle had slumped on the ground in exhaustion. Thousands of injured men had been forced to spend two nights in the open, and hundreds had died from their wounds and been buried in a mass grave on the south of the island.
Eventually the wounded had been evacuated to Vienna, including Marshal Lannes, whose legs had been smashed by a cannon ball. With both legs shattered the imperial surgeon, Dr Larrey, had no choice but amputation. Napoleon had gone to his friend’s side after the operation and found the veteran of many campaigns lying on a bed in a small chapel. A thin sheet covered Lannes and his arms lay at his sides. The sheet fell flat to the bed from his thighs down. Lannes was in a troubled sleep, his face slick with perspiration, as Napoleon and Dr Larrey entered the room.
Napoleon turned to Dr Larrey and asked quietly, ‘What are his chances of surviving?’
‘Good enough. The marshal has a strong constitution. Provided there is no corruption of the wound, the stumps will heal in time.’
Napoleon nodded. ‘Keep me informed of his progress.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Napoleon glanced back through the door and felt a great sadness over the knowledge that the courageous and utterly dependable Lannes would never again be at his side during a battle. It would be hard for a man so full of vitality to accept life as a cripple, Napoleon realised. As he closed the door, he wondered if it might not have been kinder if Lannes had been killed outright.
Marshal Jean Lannes died eight days after he
had been wounded. The pain of his loss still burned in Napoleon’s heart. He had wept at the news, and the army had been stunned. Many had seen Lannes in the front rank in battle and had been steadied by his example. He had risen from amongst their ranks and had shared their perils and their wounds, and they openly grieved for him as the news spread through the ranks.
Jean Lannes would be avenged, Napoleon vowed silently as they approached a group of sergeants sitting beside the track running across the camp. The men had a small keg of brandy with them and a haunch of cured venison. One of them looked up as Masséna and Napoleon passed by.
‘Hey, friends, join us for a drink?’
Masséna was about to refuse the offer when Napoleon nudged him and smiled a greeting. ‘Why, yes. Thank you.’
Masséna shot him a surprised glance, but Napoleon simply pulled his cap down a bit further as he sat on the crushed grass. After a moment’s hesitation Masséna joined him. The sergeant who had invited them held out two battered copper cups and lifted the keg to pour a small measure into each. Napoleon raised his cup. ‘Good health!’
The other sergeants, ten or so of them, raised their cups to return the toast and then, after a sip of the fiery liquid, Napoleon wiped his lips and asked, ‘So what unit is this, then?’
‘First battalion, Eighty-second regiment of the line. In Friant’s division.’
Napoleon nodded. ‘Davout’s corps, then. Only just arrived.’
‘Not only that,’ the sergeant continued, ‘but only just formed. The battalion’s marched here from the depot at Lyons.’
Another sergeant cleared his throat and spat on to the ground beside him. ‘Most of the recruits are just boys.’
‘And what about you lot?’ asked Masséna. ‘What’s your service record?’
The Fields of Death Page 9
