The Fields of Death

by Scarrow, Simon

  ‘What if they choose not to fight?’ asked Hill. ‘The last time we occupied this position, Marmont proved reluctant to attack. It was you, my lord, who had to take the battle to the enemy.’

  ‘Last time we were evenly matched, so I could afford to attack,’ Arthur replied. ‘This time, the odds are against us and it would not be prudent to do so. Besides, given the effort our enemies have made to scrape together every available man from three armies, I cannot believe that they will not offer battle. I assume that Soult, since he holds the senior military rank, will be in command. The last time we crossed swords was in Oporto. He will be thirsting for revenge. Soult will know that he must fight us here, or be obliged to follow us to the shelter of our fortresses in Portugal. Gentlemen, I am certain that we will have our battle.’ He looked round the barn at his officers. ‘All that remains is for you to do your duty.’

  The sun rose out of a misty haze and bathed the two ridges in a warm glow that was welcomed by the soldiers, wearied of the wind and rain that had accompanied their march across the centre of Spain. While Arthur’s men quietly filed into their positions on the reverse slope, his artillery crews prepared their guns, positioned on the ridge where they could savage any enemy columns advancing up the slopes of the Lesser Arapil. Arthur had considered garrisoning the Greater Arapil, but decided against it. He needed all his men in the main battle line, and was wary of starting a savage battle of attrition for control of the hill that would work in favour of the more numerous French.

  On the far ridge, the French forces marched into line to the accompaniment of their bands, which struck up the usual stirring tunes to fill their troops with the appropriate sentiments of drama and patriotism. For nearly three hours the French host formed in an arc around the Lesser Arapil, a steady stream of infantry battalions standing behind their tricolour standards topped with the gilded eagles that Bonaparte had conferred on his army. On the flanks, dense masses of cavalry stood patiently, the horses scraping the ground, tails occasionally flicking, as their riders waited for the order to mount. In the centre, ready to pound the allied line, a great battery of more than forty guns had been hauled forward and the first racks of shot and handful of charges had been brought up to load them.

  By ten, all was in readiness on both sides and the soldiers waited in tense expectation, ears straining for the sound of the signal gun that would announce the opening of the battle. Arthur and his staff had mounted their horses and ridden as far forward along the ridge as was safe, and there they waited. Every so often an officer would fish out his watch and mark the passing of time.

  Then, at midday, the French skirmishers began to advance, stepping out across the valley, and then rushing to cover as the British riflemen opened fire, shooting down a handful of French officers and men. A desultory duel between the two screens of marksmen dragged on for another hour with little result, since the riflemen were content to stay where they were and the French skirmishers, armed with smooth-bore muskets, and therefore outranged, only dared to bolt from one cover to another, until they were within effective range to fire their weapons. As the exchange of fire continued, the clouds above thickened, casting a gloomy pall over both armies.

  ‘Half past one, my lord,’ Somerset said casually.‘No sign of any attack. What the devil is Soult up to?’

  A sudden fear struck Arthur. What if Soult was biding his time while another element of his army was moving into position. ‘Any word from the cavalry patrols?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Any report of other enemy columns in the area? Or anywhere on the Portugal road?’

  ‘No, sir.’ Somerset had rarely detected such anxiety in his commander’s voice and added, reassuringly, ‘I am certain of it. I read all the reports first thing this morning. This is the only French army near Salamanca.’

  ‘And you would wager your life on that?’ Arthur asked curtly.

  ‘I would.’

  Arthur turned to look at his aide, his eyes filled with contempt. ‘Then you are a fool, Somerset. Or a charlatan.’

  Somerset swallowed his anger. Wellington was not himself and allowances had to be made, so he held his tongue as the general turned his attention back to the enemy, the fingers of his left hand tapping out an unconscious rhythm on his saddle holster. Arthur had a clear view of the enemy commanders and their staffs, crowded about the same position Marmont had occupied in the earlier battle. Raising his telescope, he trained it on the large group of horsemen and picked out the elaborate uniforms of Joseph and his senior commanders. They seemed to be locked in an animated debate.

  As Arthur watched them he heard a faint pat on the brim of his hat, then another. Lowering his telescope, he saw that it had begun to rain. The pattering became more general, and then merged into a hiss as the rain fell in earnest, creating a steely veil between the two armies. Arthur glanced up at the sky and saw that the clouds had spread to the horizon. The most distant hills had already been blotted out and those only a few miles off had been reduced to grey outlines.

  ‘Still no movement from the enemy,’ an officer muttered.

  Arthur nodded, and thrust his telescope back into the saddle bucket, fastened the buttons of his cloak, and sat stiffly as he considered his next move. The rain would handicap both sides. The French would have to advance across the muddy floor of the valley before mounting the slope leading up to the allied position. Infantry and cavalry alike would be hampered by the soft ground. At the same time, the rain would increase the number of misfires from Arthur’s men, which would reduce the firepower of his line, a worrying factor given that he was already outnumbered. As he was thinking, Somerset rose up in his stirrups and pointed towards the far ridge.

  ‘Sir, look there. The French are on the move.’

  Arthur raised a hand to shield his eyes from the rain and squinted. Sure enough, the men of the enemy cavalry reserve, massed on the crest of the ridge, were mounting their horses. Then, one squadron at a time, they turned and rode away over the ridge. As the order spread to the other formations, the French army began to withdraw towards their camp.

  ‘It would seem that rain has stopped play,’ Somerset said.

  Arthur nodded and sighed. There would be no battle today. Soult would not be lured into an attack on a strong defensive position. That left only one rational course open to Arthur. He tugged the reins and eased his horse round to face his staff officers. ‘That is it then, gentlemen. The army is to fall back to Ciudad Rodrigo. Somerset.’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Stand the army down. They are to return to camp for the night. Inform all divisional commanders that the army is to begin the retreat at dawn. They will have their written orders for the march during the night. That is all. Gentlemen, you are dismissed.’

  The disappointment and dejected spirits of his officers were evident in their faces as Arthur watched them turn their mounts away and walk them back to the headquarters at the farm. He shared their sentiments. The army would have returned to the starting point of the campaign, and the failure to take Burgos, the abandoning of Madrid and the discomfort of the long retreat through the months of winter would weigh on the mind of every soldier. Many of them would voice their disgruntlement in letters home as they waited for the winter to pass.

  However, Arthur reminded himself, soldiers were always inclined to complain about those things that caused them immediate discontent. In time, when they had rested, and fed well, and been issued with new boots and uniforms, they would recall the glory of Salamanca well enough. And the triumphant entry into the Spanish capital.

  Arthur turned his horse back to face the enemy. Even though Soult had deprived him of the day’s battle, he recognised the significance of this moment. Despite his advantage in men, Soult had refused to fight. Bonaparte’s marshals had come to fear him, Arthur noted with satisfaction. They were no longer the masters of Europe’s battlefields. He hardly dared to voice the thought, but in his heart he knew that the tide of the war was turning against
France, and against Bonaparte.

  Chapter 34

  Napoleon

  Maloyaroslavets, 25 October 1812

  The rain petered out after the first two days of the march, and clear skies and mild weather meant that the French army reached the town of Maloyaroslavets, sixty miles from Moscow, by the end of the fifth day. Napoleon decided to head south-west, towards Kutusov, in the hope that the Russians would fall back, thereby opening up a clear line of retreat towards Smolensk. The news from the other elements of the army was grim. Marshal MacDonald, who had been besieging Riga on the Baltic coast, was facing ever greater numbers of Russians, and the loyalty of many of his own troops was suspect, particularly the Prussians. To the south of the Pripet, General Schwarzenberg and his Austrians were facing twice as many Russians and were being forced back.

  Meanwhile, Murat’s scouts were reporting that other Russian forces were closing in from the north, south and east to join Kutusov. There was no denying the danger: the trap was slowly closing around the Grand Army. If Kutusov could block the river crossings along the French line of retreat, then hunger and the cold would ravage Napoleon’s army and Kutusov’s men would finish them off.

  The day before, Prince Eugène had forced his way across the bridge over the river Lusha at Maloyaroslavets and this morning Napoleon, his staff and a small escort of dragoons had ridden out to reconnoitre the western road. Two thousand men were holding the town while the rest of the army waited on the north bank for the order to advance. The sky was clear and the morning air crisp and chilly, so that riders and mounts exhaled steamy plumes as the small party trotted through a shallow vale. Bare fields and the occasional peasant hut lined both sides of the road before giving way to forests that sprawled into the distance in all directions.

  Napoleon glanced up at the sky and then spoke cheerfully to Berthier. ‘If this weather holds for another two weeks we shall make good progress to Smolensk.’

  ‘Yes, sire,’ Berthier replied, but his tone was cautious and Napoleon turned to look at him as their horses sloshed through a patch of watery mud.

  ‘You have doubts, Berthier?’

  Berthier briefly scratched his stubbly chin. ‘May I speak freely, sire?’

  ‘Do.’

  ‘Very well. I cannot help thinking that we should be taking the most direct road back to Smolensk, particularly as the weather is good. The sooner the army falls back on its depots the better.’

  ‘I agree, my friend. But the biggest challenge facing us at present is to keep our army in being. If I had given the order to retrace our steps there would be no way of concealing from the men that we are retreating. You can imagine how that would affect morale. It is better that we chart a different course, one that allows me to present it to the men as an advance. If they believe that, then I am confident that they are ready to fight on. Do you understand?’

  Berthier nodded.

  ‘Good. Then let’s see if we can find a high point to see the way ahead.’ Napoleon looked round and pointed to a knoll a mile down the track. ‘There.’

  He was about to spur his horse into a canter when there was a shout to his left. Napoleon turned. One of the thin screen of dragoons riding fifty paces to the left was pointing to the woods. A group of riders, perhaps fifty men, clutching lances had burst out from amongst the trees and were racing towards the party of Frenchmen. They were dressed in flowing red cloaks and wore black fur hats. Their mounts were smaller and shaggier than the French horses.

  ‘Cossacks,’ Berthier muttered.

  There was another shouted warning from the right and Napoleon and his officers turned to see a second party rushing from the forest on the other flank, angling out slightly to cut the Frenchmen off from the town. The dragoons had drawn out their carbines and were hurriedly steadying their mounts to take aim. There was a puff of smoke and a crack as the first dragoon fired. The shot went wide. As his companions joined in Napoleon saw one of the Cossacks’ ponies tumble over, pitching its rider forward on to the muddy field over which they raced towards the French Emperor and his small party. As soon as they had fired, the dragoons holstered their carbines and drew their swords, spurring their mounts towards the oncoming horsemen. On both sides of the imperial party the Russians charged forward, shouting their war cry as they leaned low over their ponies and swung their lances down ready to strike. The dragoons were heavily outnumbered and swiftly overwhelmed. As the last of them was cut down the Cossacks charged on, straight for Napoleon and his staff officers.

  ‘Draw your swords!’ Berthier bellowed. ‘Defend the Emperor!’

  The ornately decorated blades rasped from their scabbards as the French officers drew out their light cavalry sabres and dress swords and formed a loose ring about Napoleon. A handful of them had pistols attached to their saddles and pulled them out of their holsters, cocked them and held them ready, aiming up at the sky in order to prevent any premature discharges from striking their own side. Napoleon watched the Cossacks race across the open ground towards him, close enough now for him to make out the long moustaches flicking out round each cheek as their lips curled back, mouths wide open as they cheered themselves on.

  ‘Brace yourselves!’ Berthier called out. ‘Don’t let them get through.’

  One of the officers lowered his pistol, took aim, waited until the last moment and shot a Cossack in the chest. The man dropped his lance and toppled from his sheepskin saddle. A rapid succession of pistol shots followed and then the first of the Cossacks reached the cluster of gold-braided staff officers with their feathered and cockaded hats. He thrust out his lance arm and the point shot towards the chest of a young colonel on the topography staff. With a desperate slash the officer parried the head of the shaft and drew his arm back to strike as the Cossack drew level. The sweep of the highly polished blade hissed through the air, but the Russian swung his body to the side and hung low beside the saddle, and the sabre sliced harmlessly over his head.

  Napoleon glanced round to see that all his officers were engaged now, locked in an uneven duel with the Cossacks as they jabbed their lances at any target that was presented to them. For their part the staff officers tried their best to parry the strikes and use the greater weight of their horses to force the enemy back, but they were outnumbered and were gradually driven into a tight knot around the Emperor. Napoleon had no pistols nor even a sword, and drew out his telescope, hefting it in his spare hand as he prepared to use it as a club. All around the air was thick with the scrape and clatter of blades on steel points and wooden shafts. The Cossacks had stopped their cheering and now focused intently on their hand-to-hand fight with their enemy, teeth locked in feral snarls. With a gasp, the first of Napoleon’s officers went down, falling from the saddle as the tip of a lance ripped from his stomach a bloody, glistening tangle of intestines. Almost at once he was joined by the Cossack who had struck him down as a sabre cut deep into the Russian’s neck, severing muscle and blood vessels and breaking through the spine. The man flung his arms out, spasmed in the saddle and fell.

  ‘Sire! Look out!’ Berthier yelled, urging his horse between Napoleon and the Cossack who had pressed through the ring behind them. Napoleon swung round to see the Russian’s wild expression as he drew back his lance to strike. The point came forward, foreshortened and deadly, like a snake striking, and Napoleon swept out his telescope, just managing to knock the point aside. Then the pony slammed into the flank of Napoleon’s mare, nearly knocking him out of his saddle. He swayed briefly before grimly tugging on his reins and clamping his legs round the horse’s girth. Berthier struck back, slashing his blade down on to the man’s shoulder, shattering the collar bone and shoulder blade with a sharp crack. The Cossack dropped his lance, snatched the reins aside with his good hand and raced away, barging between the men struggling around Napoleon.

  ‘Thank you, Berthier,’ Napoleon panted, his heart pounding with fear and excitement. Berthier smiled, then both men heard a distant trumpet note sounding across the fields. They
turned and saw a squadron of Guard cavalry charging into view round a bend in the road.

  ‘Hold on!’ Napoleon shouted to his officers. ‘Hold them back!’

  The skirmish intensified as the Cossacks strove to cut their foes down before they were saved by the reinforcements. Another officer fell, pierced through the chest, the bloody point bursting through his back less than three paces from where Napoleon sat on his mount. He recoiled involuntarily at the sight, then the lance was yanked back and the officer swayed in his saddle, groaning in agony, before he began to slump forward. Another cried out as a lance pinned his arm to his side, passing on into the Frenchman’s ribs. Napoleon quickly rose in his stirrups to see that the dragoons were spurring into a charge to save their Emperor, pounding down the road in a muddy spray, their swords held high and glittering in the sunshine.

  A sudden shout behind Napoleon caused him to swivel in his saddle, just in time to see another Cossack making for him, lance ready to strike.

  ‘No you don’t!’ a voice shouted back and an officer spurred his horse between the Russian and the Emperor. As the Cossack thrust the officer threw his sword into the man’s face and grabbed at the shaft of the lance with both hands. The Cossack clung on but with a swift, powerful jerk the staff officer wrenched the other man from his saddle and sent him crashing to the ground. A savage thrust to the throat with the lance finished him off.