His senior officers clapped their hands on the table to applaud the sentiment and then Arthur raised a hand to quell the racket. ‘Any questions?’
There were none, and he dismissed them to return to their commands and prepare for the attack. For the rest of the afternoon, until dusk, the divisions assigned to the attack rested in their bivouacs. The siege batteries shifted their fire to fresh sections of the wall in the faint hope that the defenders would think that the British required more breaches before launching an assault. Arthur doubted that Philippon would fall for such a ruse, but it was worth trying.
From the terrace garden of the tavern Arthur scanned the lines of the Light Division with his telescope and saw that some of them were reading, a few - more literate - were writing letters or diaries, and most were sitting in loose circles around their camp fires cooking up the daily ration of meat and biscuit into a thick broth. A handful of men had produced fiddles or flutes and were entertaining their comrades with jaunty tunes. Arthur was pleased. The men seemed to be in good humour. Then his gaze caught a small group of men, a hundred or so, kneeling before a chaplain, heads bent in prayer. Those were the volunteers of the Forlorn Hope, the assault party. They would lead the attack in an almost suicidal attempt to rush the breach selected for the Division and hold it open until the follow-up troops arrived to break into the town.
As he watched, Arthur could not help wondering at the nature of men who would volunteer for such a task. To be sure, there were rewards for those who survived. Promotion for the officer, sergeant and corporals, and the privates who distinguished themselves. But with the odds so stacked against them, those men would have to be so desperate for promotion that they valued it above life itself. Then there was the darker possibility, Arthur realised. Some of those men might be motivated by a lust for blood, a sickness he had seen in a few soldiers during his career. They craved battle and found such elation in the experience that it became an addiction, until death or a crippling wound cured them. If there were any men like that in the assaulting units then God help the people and garrison of Badajoz when the walls fell, Arthur thought, shuddering.
When night had fallen across the Spanish countryside Arthur, General Alava and Somerset, together with some of the staff officers, made their way up on to the ramparts of the Picuriña fort where they would have a good view of the attack on the three breaches. To the left of the fort the men of the Light Division were stealing forward along the shallow banks of the Rivillas. They had been ordered to advance in strict silence and Arthur could barely discern any sign of life in the shadows below the fort. To the right, the men of the Fourth Division had entered their approach trenches and begun to creep forward until they were halted a short distance behind the men of the assault parties.
At nine o’clock the siege batteries fired their final round, as ordered. Arthur had not wanted to risk the flare from their discharges illuminating any of the preparations for the assault. As the firing ceased there was a tense quiet that felt strange after the din of the bombardment, the silence broken only by the occasional challenges of sentries and the croak of frogs along the banks of the stream.
Arthur turned to General Alava and muttered. ‘This time you shall see us take the town.’
‘I have every confidence, my lord.’
As they waited for the attack to begin the officers around Arthur grew increasingly tense, and while some fidgeted nervously others talked in low tones until Arthur turned round to glare at them in the dim glow of the lanterns hung inside the fort. They fell silent and he turned his gaze back towards Badajoz. Torches burned along the walls and here and there he could make out the dim figures of sentries patrolling the battlements. Every so often a sentry, suspicious of some sound or movement in front of the wall, would lob a torch in a fiery arc into the dead ground and perhaps startle a dog or some other small animal.
The minutes dragged by. Arthur kept himself as still as possible, in order to set a calm example to his subordinates and ensure that his reputation for being unflappable endured. At length he discreetly took out his fob watch and angled the face towards one of the lanterns down in the fort. Almost quarter of an hour remained. Down below, within the fort, a handful of artillery men stood in one corner, ready to launch a rocket that would be the signal for the main attack to begin.
At that moment a voice called out from the direction of the trenches.
‘Pick that bloody ladder up, you lazy Irish bastard!’
Arthur felt his heart jump. Around him the other officers froze, waiting for the alarm to be given up on the wall. The seconds passed, but there was no reaction from the enemy and no more shouts from below as the frogs continued their rhythmic croaking. The tension eased and Somerset let out a long low sigh.
‘That was close. Someone should have that man on fatigues for the rest of the year.’
‘I dare say there will be time for recriminations later,’ Arthur responded evenly.
He concentrated his gaze on the approaches to the breaches, knowing that the Forlorn Hopes of each division would be creeping stealthily forward at that moment. After a delay of a minute the assault parties would begin to follow them, while those behind gripped their muskets and awaited the signal for the general attack. Arthur saw a movement in the shadows perhaps fifty yards from the breach, then another, then more, as the Forlorn Hope crawled through the rocks and scrub in front of the wall.
A French voice called out, a challenge, then an instant later there was a muzzle flash on the wall. The crack carried to Arthur a second later.
‘Up lads and at ’em!’ shouted the ensign in command of the Forlorn Hope, and figures rose and sprinted towards the breach. The cry was taken up to the left and right as the other volunteers dashed for the other breaches. Arthur turned to Somerset. ‘Kindly give the signal.’
Somerset cupped a hand to his mouth. ‘Rocket crew! Fire!’
There was a brief glow as the sergeant blew on his slow fuse and then applied the end to the tail of the rocket. Sparks pricked out and then with a whoosh the rocket soared into the night sky leaving a brief trail of fire in its wake. High above Badajoz it burst in a brilliant explosion of white, and the detonation echoed back from the town walls. There were more shouts along the wall now and more muskets crackled as they saw the attackers rushing towards them. There was no need for stealth any longer and the English soldiers shouted their battle cries as they broke cover and charged for the ditch in front of the wall. Arthur felt his muscles tense as he watched the Light Division’s Forlorn Hope begin to scramble across, and then up to the debris below their breach. The walls on either side flickered with musket fire and the ensign in command dropped before he was even halfway up the pile of rubble. His sergeant went down within feet of him and then several more were cut down as they struggled over the difficult ground. The remainder charged forward regardless of the slaughter, and they too fell as they scrambled towards the breach. Not a single man from the Forlorn Hope got even as far as the tangle of abattis spread just below the breach.
‘Good God,’ Arthur muttered under his breath.
The leading men of the assault party reached the ditch, but now the first of the cannon on the bastions joined in with the musket fire, the blast of flame briefly illuminating the walls in a lurid orange glow as the grapeshot lashed the ground in front of the ditch, dashing several men on to the grass. More figures emerged from the darkness, some carrying plank-covered ladders which they threw over the ditch and rushed on towards the breach. Soon over a hundred men were struggling up the rubble and some were on the verge of gaining the breach, under a storm of musket fire that was cutting them down all the time. Then, as the first redcoat clambered into the breach, there was a brilliant flash of light close to the foot of the wall which sent rocks and men and body parts flying through the air as the walls and approaches were briefly lit up for hundreds of yards, freezing thousands of men in a tableau of destruction. The concussion and roar of the explosion struck the officers i
n the fort a moment later. Despite the shock, the assault continued without any pause.
‘A mine!’ Somerset exclaimed in horror. ‘They hid a mine in the rubble.’
‘Thank you, Somerset,’ Arthur snapped tersely. ‘I am following events, you know.’
The assault party was now swarming across the ditch and the fire from the walls was reaching a new intensity, cutting down the attackers in swathes, all in full view of Arthur and his staff as the lurid flare of artillery and muskets continuously illuminated the scene. But the horror of the assault was not yet complete. As the first of the attackers climbed into the breach they were confronted by a screen of chevaux de frise, wooden beams pierced with sharpened sword blades and supported by trestles at each end. In front of them were planks with six-inch nails protruding from the surface, and behind them a barricade lined with French marksmen. Dozens of redcoats stumbled on to the nails in agony before being shot down or impaled on the sword blades and left to hang there, screaming as they bled to death.
The assault party died in the breach, and now the following wave of the Light Division came forward, the men throwing themselves into the attack, determined to succeed where their comrades had failed. They charged over the ditch, their ranks thinned by grapeshot, and then on to the breach where they faltered, unable to find any way over the savage obstacles waiting for them.
For an hour one attempt after another was made to take the breach, and then Arthur watched in despair as the men started to go to ground, pressing themselves into the soil, or sheltering behind rocks and down in the ditch. Now the French began to lob grenades down from the wall and each burst caused more casualties amongst the men taking cover. Arthur knew that the crisis of the assault had been reached. If the men could not go forward then they would die where they were. The only chance of success was to keep attacking.
‘Somerset, send a message down to Alten. He must keep his men going forward.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Also, send word to Cole and the other divisional commanders. I have to know how their attacks are proceeding. See to it.’
The second assault began at eleven thirty as a fresh battalion moved forward towards the breach. They fared no better than their predecessors and the slaughter continued as before. It was now impossible to see the gap or the debris slope leading up to it through the heaps of redcoats, and yet still the officers rallied their men and made one attempt after another.
General Alava could not help marvelling at the terrible spectacle. ‘My lord, I have never seen such gallantry in any body of soldiers.’ He paused a moment. ‘Surely they have sacrificed enough this night? They have proved their gallantry. Yet they cannot take the breach. Spare your men. Recall them and end this butchery, I implore you.’
Arthur resisted the urge to turn and meet the Spaniard’s gaze. He felt consumed by anguish over the decimation of those fine men down in front of the breach. Alava was right. They had no peer in terms of their courage and determination. That was why they would, why they must, surely succeed. He swallowed to make sure his voice did not betray him when he responded. ‘I will not recall them.’
The attackers’ nerve did not fail them for another two hours. Only then did they pull back from the wall, just far enough to be out of the range of the French muskets, and hidden from the cannon by the darkness. Even so, the French regularly fired blind in an effort to discomfort their attackers.
In that time Somerset had returned to inform Arthur that the Fourth Division had also failed to take the two breaches to its front and had suffered grievous losses. Shortly after two in the morning a runner arrived from General Alten. The corporal had a bandage around his head, and one arm hung uselessly in a sling as he made his report to Arthur.
‘The general’s compliments, sir. He begs to inform you that his first two battalions have failed to take the breach. They have suffered heavy casualties, most of them dead, as those who fell wounded were struck again by the defenders’ fire where they lay. The general wishes to know if you require him to continue the attack, sir.’
Arthur stared at the man, momentarily unable to issue any orders. Then he summoned the will to harden his heart. He spoke as gently as he could. ‘Tell your general that he knows my will as well as I know his courage. Tell him to rally his men and reorganise his leading formations in readiness to resume the attack as soon as possible. Is that understood?’
‘Yes, my lord,’ the corporal replied bitterly. ‘Perfectly.’
‘Once you have given him my reply, I would be grateful if you would go to the rear and have your wounds seen to. Ask for my surgeon.’
The corporal stared at him and then shook his head. ‘If it’s all the same to you, my lord, I’d prefer to remain with my mates than with your surgeon.’
The corporal turned and trotted away, leaving Arthur to stare after him, his stomach sick with guilt. Then he turned back towards Badajoz, not daring to meet the eye of any of his officers.
A pounding of hooves sounded from down in the fort and a voice cried out, ‘Where’s Wellington?’
‘Up there, sir.’ One of the artillery crew pointed to the rampart. A moment later an officer came running up to Arthur and the others.
‘My lord, I come from Picton’s division. He sent me to find you as soon as he was sure of our success.’
‘Success?’
‘My lord, the castle is yours.’
‘What? Tell me more!’
‘The escalade succeeded, sir. Only after heavy losses, but the division has control of the castle.’
Arthur felt hope rekindle in his heart, and a familiar alertness to the possibilities of the situation. The sacrifice of the men in the breaches might have had some purpose after all if, as seemed likely, the enemy had been obliged to draw men from the other sectors of the town to defend the breaches. If Picton’s division had succeeded then there was a chance that Leith might as well.
‘Has Picton enough men left to attack the breach from behind?’
‘Surely, but he cannot break out of the castle, sir. The French have blocked all the gateways.’
‘Damn.’ Arthur frowned. ‘Very well, ride to Leith. Tell him what you have told me. Tell him that the French have sent every available man to defend the breaches. If he is bold he can take the wall in front of him.’
Picton’s officer saluted and ran back down the stairs to his horse. Within twenty minutes there was a ferocious fusillade of shots to the north and then the shrill notes of bugles as the Fifth Division stormed into the streets of Badajoz. The fire from the French soldiers around the breaches quickly died away and then there was only sporadic shooting, fading slowly as the enemy pulled back to the northern sector of the town. Below the fort, the Light Division was warily advancing towards the breach again. This time the walls were silent, the ramparts and bastions abandoned by the enemy. Arthur watched as the leading company clambered over the bodies in the breach and then disappeared into the town, followed by the rest of the battalion.
‘Come, Somerset, Alava!’ He turned and hurried out of the fort, striding swiftly over the open ground towards the breach. They came across the first bodies a short distance from the ditch, sprawled and twisted on the ground. The rear formations of the division were standing formed up in front of the ditch waiting their turn to enter the town. General Alten was on the far side ensuring that his men did not advance in a mad rush. Until the lethal obstacles were removed it would be too perilous. Alten saw Arthur and the others approaching and turned to salute his commander.
‘A very bloody business, my lord.’
‘Indeed. But we have the town.’
‘Yes. There is that.’
For a moment there was elation in Arthur’s heart. Then his gaze travelled up the pile of bodies, rising to the breach where yet more lay heaped. A company of Alten’s men had stacked their muskets and were busy clearing away the spiked planks and the chevaux de frise while other men searched amongst the bodies for the living. Here and there a vo
ice called out for help, or groaned in agony, and the dead were pulled away so that the wounded could be freed from the tangle of limbs. Meanwhile, the companies entering the breach were obliged to climb over the bodies of their comrades.
‘What is that smell?’ asked Somerset.
Arthur sniffed. It was like roasting meat and his stomach lurched as he realised it came from the men who had died when the mine had exploded. He pressed a gloved hand to his nose as he stared at the hellish scene.
‘What was it you said, General Alava?You had never before seen such gallantry?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘I hope that I shall never again be the instrument of putting them to such a test as that to which they were put tonight.’
As he gazed at the dead there was a woman’s scream from somewhere in the town, then a harsh chorus of laughter. Elsewhere a shot rang out. The British army had paid a high price to take Badajoz and now they would be sure to slake their thirst for revenge on the people of the town, regardless of whether they had aided the French or not.
Chapter 26
Badajoz was thoroughly sacked over the following days. The soldiers broke into every house and stole all that they could, killing those who stood in their way. Many sought out wine and spirits and their drunkenness served to strip away what was left of their self-control. The terrified cries of women filled the streets. Rape became simply one of the vices through which the soldiers vented their rage against the town that had cost them so many comrades. Once the thirst for revenge had been sated, they turned to looting, and when the townspeople’s gold and valuables were exhausted the soldiers began to turn on each other, clubbing men down to steal their loot.
The Fields of Death Page 29
