The Fields of Death

by Scarrow, Simon

  The French had suffered grievously in turn, and small piles and rough lines of blue-coated bodies marked their position on the battlefield. Soult’s losses were even greater than Beresford’s, and it was the French marshal who had first baulked at the carnage being wrought in the thick banks of powder smoke drifting across the ridge. Soult had called off the attack and retreated back towards Madrid.

  ‘And Beresford calls this a victory?’ Somerset mused as he stared round the battlefield.

  ‘It is a victory of sorts. He fought off Soult and forced the French to give up their attempt to relieve Badajoz. However,’ Arthur paused and gestured towards the bodies littering the surrounding area,‘another such victory would ruin us.’

  Beresford’s army was camped a short distance outside Elvas. The general had fallen back beyond Badajoz to give his men time to recover from their ordeal at Albuera. Only a token force remained outside Badajoz to continue the siege, digging a handful of approach trenches. The motley collection of cannon fired occasional shots at the sturdy defences of San Cristobal, the outlying fort that dominated Badajoz from the high ground on the far side of the Guadiana river. A distant tricolour rippled in lazy defiance above the walls of the fort.

  Of all the forts that guarded the routes leading from Portugal into Spain, Badajoz was the most formidable by some margin, Arthur reflected as he rode past. Protected on two sides by the wide Guadiana and one of its tributaries, the city was surrounded by a massive curtain wall, with powerful bastions at regular intervals. On a rock, in one corner of the city, the citadel was defended by yet another tough wall. The choice facing the British was whether to reduce San Cristobal and then use that as a platform to bombard the city, or to attempt to breach the walls from the other side, and then assault the defences. Either would be a costly affair. Casting his eye over the fort across the river, Arthur considered that it was all but impregnable and decided that he must instruct Beresford to abandon his designs on San Cristobal and concentrate his efforts directly on Badajoz.

  The subdued spirits of the men of Beresford’s column were readily apparent. The pickets covering the approaches to the camp made little effort to patrol their ground, but sat in the shade, muskets leaning against the trunks of the nearest tree. Further on, the tents and shelters sprawled across the rolling hills in makeshift clusters, rather than the neat lines that Arthur insisted on. The men, stripped down to shirtsleeves, patched trousers and felt caps, were resting in small groups as they talked quietly or slept. The lively ambience of a normal camp was absent.

  As some of the men spied the new arrivals a handful stood up.

  ‘Why, it’s Nosey!’ a voice cried out.‘It’s Nosey! He’s ’ere! Hurrah for old Nosey!’

  Scores more of the men rose to their feet and most of them cheered. Others, Arthur noted sadly, did nothing but stare as their commander in chief and his escort rode through the camp.

  Arthur sensed Somerset stiffening by his side. The aide cleared his throat. ‘Er, want me to shut them up, my lord?’

  ‘No. It’s not necessary. If it pleases them, then it serves my purpose, for the present.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  They rode on through the camp, accompanied by a ripple of cheers so that by the time they reached the farmhouse that served as Beresford’s headquarters several officers had stirred to witness his approach. Arthur’s heart sank a little further as he saw that some still wore the bloodied and dirty uniforms they had on the day of the battle. None the less, they made an effort to stand to attention as he rode up and dismounted, handing the reins over to one of Beresford’s grooms.

  ‘Good day, gentlemen.’ Arthur touched the brim of his hat and the officers saluted in return. There was a brief silence as Arthur glanced round, and then he continued in a neutral tone. ‘It would seem to me that you could use a change of clothes, and in some cases a shave, gentlemen. Please see to it before I have the honour of dining with you tonight.’Arthur nodded towards a face he recognised.‘Major Templeton, where is General Beresford?’

  ‘Within, my lord.’

  ‘Then I will see him directly. If you would see to the needs of my escort?’

  ‘Of course, my lord.’ The major bowed his head.

  With a gesture to Somerset to accompany him, Arthur went through the farm gate and crossed the courtyard towards the house. A narrow colonnade ran round the inside of the whitewashed walls and a trellis with a leafy vine offered shelter from the sun. A sentry snapped to attention outside the open doorway, and Arthur paused in front of him, then tapped him gently on the breast with his riding crop.

  ‘Where is your stock?’ he asked mildly.

  ‘Dunno, sir,’ the soldier replied, staring straight ahead over Arthur’s shoulder. ‘Must ’ave lorst it in the battle, sir.’

  ‘I think not. Even so, I would expect a good soldier to find a replacement within a day or so. See to it.’

  ‘Yes, sir!’ The soldier nodded and started to move off.

  ‘Not now! You’re bloody well on duty, man! See to it the moment you are relieved. Somerset!’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Make a note to pass that on to this fellow’s company sergeant. I will not have headquarters sentries stand their duty out of uniform.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Arthur stared hard at the soldier a moment longer and then trotted up the small flight of stairs leading into the house. A large hall was well lit by a series of arched windows running along the rear of the building and a handful of Beresford’s staff were busy compiling casualty lists to be sent back to London. There was a scraping of chairs as they hurriedly rose to their feet.

  ‘Easy, gentlemen. Pray continue with your work. Where is your general?’

  ‘In there, sir.’ A corporal indicated a closed door to one side of the hall.

  Arthur crossed to the door and rapped on the weathered surface.

  ‘I left orders not to be disturbed, damn your eyes!’ Beresford’s voice bellowed from within.

  Arthur and Somerset exchanged a brief look, then Arthur grasped the handle and opened the door. The room was dimly lit; a single narrow shaft of light entered through a window. Adjusting his eyes to the gloom Arthur saw that they were in the dining room. Beresford sat on a plain wooden chair on the far side of a long, sturdy table. A pile of reports and other papers lay to one side. To the other side were two bottles of claret and a glass. Beresford sat in his shirt and breeches, pen in hand as he leaned over a document on the table. He stared at Arthur for a moment and frowned.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting you, my lord.’

  ‘Evidently.’Arthur crossed the room, drew up a chair and sat opposite General Beresford. ‘I was on my way to assess the progress of the siege when we received the first report of the battle. I take it that you have written a full account for me?’

  Beresford nodded towards the papers immediately before him. ‘I was just writing the conclusion. Rather, I was rewriting it. It’s been hard to relate precisely what happened. They will not understand back in London. Nor forgive.’

  ‘That remains to be seen, my dear Beresford.’ Arthur smiled gently. ‘Now then, if I may read your report, while Somerset finds us something to eat. It’s been a long, hard ride and I am famished. See to it, Somerset.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Once the aide had left them, Arthur gestured towards the report. ‘I’ll look at it while I wait.’

  Beresford glanced down at the slim sheaf of papers and bit his lip. Then he lowered his pen and slid his report across to Arthur. ‘Yes, of course.’

  Arthur turned in his chair to let the light fall across his lap and began to read. It was as he feared. Beresford had been badly shaken by the mauling he and his men had endured. It was evident in the dark tone that pervaded his description of the conflict and Arthur could readily imagine the stir it would cause if the document reached the London papers in its current form. Especially the conclusion, where Beresford dwelt on the heavy losses he had endured, and the large
number of men who had been injured, and the savage blow that had been dealt to the men’s spirits.

  Somerset returned with a servant carrying a tray of cold chicken, bread and a jug of watered wine which he set down at one end of the table before quitting the presence of his superiors. Arthur finished reading the report as the others waited in silence. He placed the papers on the table and eased himself back in his chair as he stared across at Beresford.

  ‘You had a hard fight of it, that much is clear. But you won the day, and that is what counts.’

  ‘Won the day?’ Beresford sniffed. ‘I hardly think that is of any comfort to the families of the dead men, nor those who will have a cripple return home from the war.’

  ‘We must make up our minds to affairs of this kind sometimes, or give up the game. That is the price of war, my dear Beresford. It is a necessary evil if the world is to be free of bloodthirsty tyrants like Bonaparte. You must accept that, just as you must accept that the army has won a victory. England needs victories. Her people need to believe that we are slowly but surely progressing towards a successful outcome to the war. What England does not need is despondent descriptions of the efforts and sacrifices of her soldiers.’ Arthur tapped the report. ‘This will not do, Beresford. You must write me down a victory.’

  ‘I have written the truth, my lord. I owe nothing less to the men who fell at Albuera.’

  ‘You have written a truth, that is all. One of many truths that could be told about the battle. The trick of it is to write the most effective one. Let the English people know that our men fought like heroes and died with the contentment of knowing that they had done their duty. Tell England that we sent the enemy reeling and once again we have proved, before Europe, that our army has no peer.’ Arthur folded his arms. ‘That is the tale you must tell.’

  Beresford continued his commander’s words for a moment and then sadly shook his head. ‘That is not a tale that would sit easy on my heart, or my conscience.’

  ‘Damn your conscience!’ Arthur suddenly snapped. ‘Do you think you have a monopoly on the suffering that we have endured during the years that we have fought here? Do you not think that I, and every British general, feels the loss of his men in battle like a great weight on his soul?’ He paused and took a calming breath. ‘Look, Beresford, the war in the Peninsula is broadly going in our favour. I wish that were true of the wider conflict but our allies come and go, beaten again and again. Yet still they come back to the fight. Do you know why? Because we provide them with hope. As long as England endures. As long as her army prevails, then Bonaparte is denied his ultimate victory.’

  He leaned closer to his subordinate.‘Your report is a self-indulgence. You have allowed yourself to be too much the man, and too little the general. I cannot afford such self-indulgence in my senior officers. It undermines the morale of the men. A general must stand above the passions of ordinary men. He must be the rock upon which his army is founded. When men have endured as much as they think they can it is to the general that they look for the will to endure more.’

  Beresford lowered his head in thought and sat silently for a moment. In truth, Arthur was bitterly disappointed with the man. He was a fine trainer of men and had fashioned his Portuguese battalions as well as Arthur could have hoped, but he lacked the necessary ambition and confidence to act independently.

  With a sudden insight, Arthur realised that this was part of the price of being a successful commander. The more he achieved, the greater the degree to which his men depended on him and came to distrust their own abilities.

  He cleared his throat. ‘Well, Beresford? What’s it to be?’

  The other man looked up, staring into his commander’s eyes, and then nodded. ‘I’ll do as you wish. If it helps our cause.’

  ‘Good man,’ Arthur replied warmly, and then before Beresford could speak again he rose to his feet. ‘I will leave you to compose your report again, then. Be sure to send a fair copy to me to read before you return to Lisbon.’

  ‘Return to Lisbon? I don’t understand, sir. Are you relieving me of my command?’

  ‘Your skills are needed elsewhere. I need more men. You are to return to Lisbon to recruit and train more Portuguese battalions to fill out our ranks.’

  Beresford stared at him a moment. ‘Sir, I do not deny that I am weary, and my heart is heavy with the thought of all those who were lost at Albuera, but I beg you, do not humiliate me in this way.’

  ‘That is not my purpose. I no more desire to humiliate you than I would thrash a horse who had stumbled beneath me. It is clear to me that you require a rest from the strains of command. That is all. Once you have made me some more soldiers you shall return to the campaign. You have my word.’

  ‘I see. And what of my army? Who will command it?’

  ‘I shall. Since I am here. I will continue the good work that you have begun here, my dear Beresford.’

  Beresford considered the situation for a moment and then nodded. ‘As you wish, sir. Thank you.’

  It pained Arthur to see the pathetic look of gratitude that Beresford shot at him but he nodded anyway and turned towards the door. ‘Send the report to me as soon as it is rewritten.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Where will you be?’

  ‘I’ll see the wounded. Where were your casualties taken?’

  ‘They’re in Elvas, sir. Being well cared for at a Franciscan monastery.’

  ‘Then that is a small mercy.’ Arthur nodded. ‘Send the report to me at Elvas.’

  The monastery was on the edge of the town, set into the sturdy wall that ringed the town. General Beresford’s chief surgeon commanded a small team of overworked orderlies who did what they could for over a thousand of their comrades wounded at Albuera. As Arthur and Somerset entered the refectory they saw that the long tables and benches had been pushed to the sides and the vast open space was now crowded with row upon row of wounded British soldiers. Their limbs were wrapped with soiled bandages and hundreds of them had suffered amputation of an arm or a leg, and now lay in miserable contemplation of a life of begging and reliance on others. Many were groaning or crying out in pain, or were tormented by hunger and thirst, since the medical orderlies had no time to see to their needs as they dealt with the more seriously wounded.

  ‘This is a disgrace,’ Somerset muttered as he scanned the dim interior of the monastery, and wrinkled his nose at the smell of the soldiers who had soiled themselves and now lay in their own filth. ‘Why aren’t there more men assisting the surgeon’s team?’

  ‘I suspect that our friend Beresford has been too preoccupied to consider these men’s needs. That must change.’

  ‘My lord . . . sir . . .’ a voice called hoarsely. Arthur turned and saw a young corporal staring at him from one of the few mattresses the monks had been able to spare for the soldiers imposed on them. ‘Sir, a drink. For pity’s sake.’

  Arthur nodded and turned to Somerset. ‘Find this man some water, or small beer.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Arthur found a stool and eased himself down beside the corporal. For a moment he said nothing, and then, as the soldier turned his head slowly to face him, he saw that a blast of grape had mutilated the other half of his face, which was now a mass of dried blood and purple flesh.

  ‘What is your regiment?’ Arthur asked.

  The corporal licked his lips. ‘Twenty-ninth Foot, my lord.’

  ‘How did the Twenty-ninth fare?’

  The corporal gestured to the rows of men surrounding him. ‘Most of ’em are from the same regiment, sir. We were pretty badly cut about.’

  Arthur looked round at the casualties before he continued in a muted voice, ‘By God, I am so sorry to see so many of you wounded.’

  The corporal nodded. ‘If you had been commanding us, my lord, then there wouldn’t have been so many of us lying here.’

  Chapter 21

  Badajoz, 9 June 1811

  Once Beresford’s rewritten report was safely on its way to London and the
general had returned to Lisbon, Arthur directed his attention to the siege of Badajoz. On first hearing the news of the battle at Albuera he had sent for the main column, ordering that a small covering force be left behind to keep the defenders of Ciudad Rodrigo bottled up behind their walls for as long as possible. Due to the heavy losses at Albuera, Beresford’s command was too weak to continue the siege on its own and Arthur was reluctantly compelled to concentrate all his strength against Badajoz.

  General Beresford and his engineers had bungled their initial attempt to capture Fort San Cristobal. The approach trenches crossed open ground and had not been dug deeply enough, so that they filled with water and mud every time it rained. They also provided inadequate shelter from enemy fire and Beresford had lost hundreds of men to the blasts of grapeshot and bursts of mortar shells as they laboured to dig their way towards the fort. The difficulties facing the allied army were compounded by the lack of decent siege guns. The guns stripped from the walls of Elvas dated back two centuries and lacked accuracy, calibre and ammunition. The batteries that had been constructed for the guns were too far from the fort and as a result it was a chance shot that ever actually struck the areas targeted for breaches.

  Had there been sufficient time Arthur would have given the order to abandon the attempt on the fort and turned the army’s efforts towards the walls of Badajoz itself. However, the network of spies run by his quartermaster general, John Waters, had reported that Marshal Masséna had been replaced by Marshal Marmont, who was already marching his army south to join forces with Soult for another attempt to relieve the garrison at Badajoz. The French would be able to muster more than sixty thousand men against Arthur’s fifty thousand, a third of whom were Portuguese and Spanish. Such odds were not favourable, and unless Badajoz could be reduced quickly then the allied army would be obliged to withdraw.