The Fields of Death

by Scarrow, Simon

  The leading division of the allied army quit the barren hills two days later and entered the Ebro valley. The change in the landscape was striking and for the soldiers, so used to tramping across the dusty, dry plains and hills of central Spain, the lush valley watered by the river was a vision of abundance. The roads along which the army marched were lined with fruit trees and vineyards and the soldiers, when their officers were not looking, filled their haversacks with cherries, oranges and apples to supplement their dwindling rations. They continued a short distance to the east before turning south towards the crossroads at San Millan.

  Late in the afternoon an excited young lieutenant from the Ninety-fifth Rifles galloped up to Arthur with a message from General Alten. ‘My lord! We’ve sighted the enemy!’

  ‘Lieutenant, that will not do,’ Arthur admonished him. ‘Start again and deliver the message properly.’

  The ensign nodded, and forced himself to speak in a calmer manner. ‘I apologise, my lord. General Alten begs to inform you that his skirmishers have seen a French division marching along a road a mile to the south of the road the general is advancing along. The two roads intersect a short distance ahead. He asks your permission to attack the enemy column, my lord.’

  Arthur’s eyes glinted with excitement. ‘Ah! This I must see for myself. Take me to Alten at once.’

  The two horsemen spurred their mounts along the side of the artillery train that was rumbling along the rutted track. Beyond the guns they passed the infantry of the Third Division, where heads turned at the sound of approaching hoofbeats.

  ‘It’s Nosey!’ a voice cried out.

  ‘What’s ’is bloody hurry?’ another shouted. ‘Ain’t we marchin’ as fast as we bleedin’ can already?’

  The nearest men roared with laughter and Arthur stifled a grin as he leaned forward and urged his mount on. Once they had passed the Third Division, they came up to the rearmost battalion of the Light Division marching down a straight section of road. To their right was a steep line of hills that gradually fell away. Nearly two miles ahead Arthur could see a small village basking in the afternoon sunshine. A faint haze of dust showed on the far side of the village as an enemy column marched east. At first Arthur thought that the French division had escaped, but then the ensign thrust his arm out and pointed up the hill. On the crest stood a small group of officers staring down the far slope.

  ‘That’s General Alten, my lord.’The ensign led the way as they passed between two infantry companies and began to climb the slope. By the time they reached Alten the horses were blown, and Arthur swung himself down from the saddle, heart pounding.

  ‘Where is this enemy division of yours, Alten?’

  ‘Over there, sir.’ Alten gestured down the slope. Below, another road converged on the village. A long line of French soldiers and wagons was marching along at a quick pace. Hurrying down towards them were the green-jacketed men of the Ninety-fifth.

  ‘What is your plan?’ asked Arthur.

  ‘The Ninety-fifth will open fire on them as soon as they are within range. The Fifty-second are double-timing down our side of the hill to get ahead of the last brigade and form a firing line. My Portuguese lads are marching to the right before dropping down the slope to the road to cut off their retreat. It’s too late to catch the first two brigades,’ he nodded towards the haze of a distant column beyond the village, ‘but this one is in the bag.’

  ‘Very good.’ Arthur nodded approvingly.

  Just then, the first of the riflemen opened fire on the French column, and the crackle of rifles spread along the slope. Several of the enemy were quickly struck down, and the others began to break ranks to look for cover. Their officers struggled to rally them and re-form their ranks ready to return fire at the Ninety-fifth. Just as they had been trained to, the riflemen targeted the officers and one by one they were cut down as they gave their orders. The survivors ordered their troops to fire a volley where they they could see the puffs of smoke, but the riflemen had plenty of time to take cover and the storm of musket balls tore up the stunted bushes and glanced off rocks and not one of the greenjackets was hit. As soon as the French lowered their muskets and began to reload they were steadily whittled down, falling in twos and threes, until, unable to bear the massacre any longer, the survivors broke and ran, streaming along the road towards the village. The riflemen continued to fire on the fugitives as quickly as they could reload and take aim, and soon the road was littered with dead and wounded men and a number of horses, shot in their traces, forcing the drivers to abandon their wagons.

  ‘Glorious work!’ Alten rubbed his hands together in glee. ‘And now for the coup de grâce. Look there, sir!’

  Ahead of the fugitives the men of the Fifty-second were crossing the road. They halted, and turned smartly towards the French. Up went the muskets and then a wall of darting flames and plumes of smoke briefly hid the redcoats. The volley cut down scores of the enemy, and the rest turned back, running into their companions and causing further chaos. Another volley crashed out, and the riflemen kept up their firing from the slope. Hundreds of bodies carpeted the road now, and blocked from two sides the French tried to flee back the way they had come, only to find a line of Portuguese troops filing down from the hill to close the trap.

  Some of the French threw down their muskets and raised their arms in surrender, but others, with more heart, or fearing capture, turned and ran in the only open direction, clambering up the slope of the next ridge. The riflemen ceased fire and hurried down the slope and across the road, ignoring those who were surrendering, and then knelt at the bottom of the next ridge and started shooting down the Frenchmen toiling up the slope above them.

  Within the space of ten minutes the brigade had been destroyed, suffering hundreds of dead and wounded, and leaving over four hundred prisoners. It had been a massacre, Arthur decided, but all the same he took pride in the effective performance of Alten’s men.

  ‘A finely executed ambush, General Alten. Ensure that you pass my congratulations on to your men.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I will.’

  ‘Make sure that your fellows escort the prisoners to the rear as swiftly as possible and resume the advance.’

  Alten nodded and was turning to give orders to his staff officers when a major of the Ninety-fifth came panting up the slope clutching a leather satchel. Unusually for an officer, the major carried a rifle like his men, and he nodded a salute as he handed the satchel to Alten.

  ‘Here, sir. We found this on the body of a French colonel.’

  ‘What is it, Richard?’ Alten asked.

  ‘Orders, sir. From the divisional commander. I thought you’d want ’em as soon as possible.’

  The major nodded and turned away to trot back down the slope to re-join his men. Alten drew the slim sheaf of papers from the satchel and scanned the contents. At once his eyes widened and he turned to Arthur.

  ‘Orders from Joseph’s headquarters, sir! Dated yesterday. He’s called every available unit to fall back to a new position.’

  ‘Where?’ asked Arthur, his heart quickening.

  ‘A town on the Royal Road not far ahead, my lord. A place called Vitoria.’

  Chapter 40

  21 June 1813

  The clouds had lifted and the sky was clear, and the air barely stirred in the morning sunshine. There was a clear view of the valley through which the Zadorra river meandered eastwards towards Vitoria. The day before, Arthur had ridden round the hills to the north of the valley to survey the French positions and make his plans, and he was relieved to see that the French army was still camped in three lines between the river and the Heights of Puebla to the south. The enemy pickets had raised the alarm at dawn when they had seen the first of Arthur’s men marching through the gorge into the valley, and now the French stood waiting. The dark lines of infantry and cavalry all faced to the west to meet the approaching threat.

  Arthur smiled with grim satisfaction as he surveyed the enemy’s dispositions from
the hillside above the village of Nanclares. Marshal Jourdan had played into his hands. The French assumed that they would be facing a frontal attack and that the river and the Heights would provide adequate protection on each flank. As before, they had failed to account for the audacity of the allied army. Arthur’s plan was simple enough, he reflected, as he trained his telescope across the valley. He had divided his army into four columns. General Hill’s corps of English, Spanish and Portuguese troops would begin the battle by assaulting the Heights of Puebla, working their way along the ridge to threaten the left flank of the French battle lines. The main body of the army would be directly under Arthur’s control and they would be tasked with making a frontal assault across the river. Two more divisions, under General Dalhousie, had set off before dawn to make their way round the hills to the north of the valley and then attack the enemy’s right flank. The fourth column, commanded by General Graham, had the furthest to march, passing through the same hills but striking further round to cut off the French from any attempt to escape towards the frontier. A smaller Spanish column was tasked with blocking the final remaining route out of the valley. If all went according to plan the French would be trapped and forced to surrender, or be cut to pieces.

  No plan was without its danger, Arthur knew, and this one depended on each column making its attack at the same time so that the French were disrupted by having to meet each threat. If the attacks were delivered piecemeal then Marshal Jourdan would be able to defeat each one in turn. If that happened then the allies would be forced to retreat, and Arthur had little doubt that he would be dismissed from his command by the politicians back in London.

  He took a last look through his telescope towards Vitoria. The town was surrounded by thousands of wagons and carriages. His spies reported that many of the wagons were packed with valuables from the royal palace in Madrid: paintings, tapestries, gold, silver and jewellery. More important, a bullion convoy had recently joined the baggage train gathering at Vitoria. The allied army needed the gold to pay for supplies and it was Arthur’s intention to capture the baggage train intact, before it could escape, or be ransacked by his victorious army.

  ‘It’s eight o’clock, my lord,’ Somerset announced, breaking into Arthur’s thoughts.

  ‘Yes.’ Arthur nodded. ‘Then be so good as to have the signal gun fired.’

  Somerset saluted and then raised his hat and waved it slowly from side to side. Further down the slope a single gun stood ready. As soon as the officer saw Somerset’s gesture he cupped a hand to his mouth and ordered his gun to fire. Flame and smoke spat from its muzzle and a loud boom echoed around the valley.

  That was it then, Arthur mused silently. He was committed now. All four columns would have heard the gun and begun to carry out their orders. Already he could see the leading elements of Hill’s column climbing the western slope of the Heights of Puebla, towards the detachment of enemy soldiers on the crest. Within the half-hour the French had realised the danger to their flank and two battalions set off to climb the Heights and block Hill’s progress along the ridge.

  The faint crackle of musketry carried to Arthur’s ears as he watched the brief skirmish between the Spaniards leading the attack and the French detachment. Then the tiny figures of the enemy soldiers broke away and began to retreat to the east.

  ‘First blood to us, my lord,’ Somerset remarked. ‘Though I think General Morillo’s men will find the next French position somewhat harder to carry.’

  Arthur nodded as he looked at the enemy soldiers formed up across the ridge. Already, two more battalions from the second line had started to climb the slope to form another line to block the advance of Hill’s column. ‘That may be so, but Marshal Jourdan is doing as I hoped he would. Let him become preoccupied with his left flank and he will be undone in due course. Send word to Hill to extend his attack along the lower slopes. The more we can do to draw the enemy’s attention towards Hill’s column, the better.’

  As the morning wore on the fighting along the Heights intensified as the men on both sides fought it out across the slopes, which were strewn with boulders and stunted bushes. The French steadily fed more men into the fight, weakening the centres of the first two battle lines. At eleven o’clock, Arthur saw the third line of the French army redeploying to face the north as it began to cross the river.

  ‘See there?’ Arthur raised his arm and pointed the movement out to Somerset. ‘The French must have spotted Graham’s fellows.’

  Somerset tilted his head slightly and strained his ears for a moment. ‘I cannot hear any sounds of firing to the east, my lord.’

  ‘Nor I. That is to be expected. Graham’s orders were not to begin his attack until after Dalhousie emerged from the hills.’ Arthur frowned. ‘Where the devil is Dalhousie? He and Picton should have reached the river by now.’

  ‘Do you wish me to try to find them, my lord?’

  ‘Not yet. They are sure to appear soon. Meanwhile, it is time that we attacked the front of the French line.’ Arthur gestured to the wooded slopes to his left where the Light Division was waiting for the order to advance.‘Order Alten to move forward to the river. They are to take the bridge at Villodas and begin crossing to the far bank. Cole’s division is to cross here at Nanclares.’

  By the time that the orders had been given and the two divisions were advancing, the sound of cannon fire was echoing across the valley from the east. Through his telescope Arthur could see banks of powder smoke forming either side of the river as Graham’s column began to contest the crossings north of Vitoria. He swept his telescope to examine the hills to his left and muttered a curse when he could still see no sign of Dalhousie’s men. If they did not appear soon and divert the enemy’s attention then Marshal Jourdan would be able to meet the attack of the Light Division and Cole’s division with every available man and cannon.

  ‘Somerset, send an officer to find Dalhousie. Tell the general to cross the river and engage the enemy at once. I’m riding forward to that knoll there, by Villodas.’

  Somerset stared towards the village and saw that there were still Frenchmen defending the small cluster of houses that made up the village. Pairs of riflemen were rushing from cover to cover as they closed in on the Frenchmen amid a steady, uneven crackle of gunfire. Somerset cleared his throat. ‘My lord, isn’t that a little too close to the fighting?’

  ‘Can’t be helped,’ Arthur replied as he grasped the reins and urged his horse forward. ‘I must have a better view of the battlefield.’

  He nudged his spurs in and the horse cantered forward across the lush green grass of a meadow, where a handful of goats that had evaded the French foragers scattered at his approach. He passed between two regiments of the Light Division and the men raised a hearty cheer as he rode by. Shortly before he reached the knoll he came across General Alten and his small staff.

  ‘Good day, my lord.’ Alten touched the brim of his hat.

  Arthur returned the greeting and indicated the top of the knoll. ‘Ride with me, Alten.’

  They urged their horses up the slope and reined in at the top where they had a clear view of the village below and the old stone bridge over the Zadorra. No more than two hundred yards ahead the rifles were still duelling with the French skirmishers. At the sight of the two British officers a number of muskets were pointed in their direction and a handful of shots whipped through the air close by. Arthur felt the familiar tightening of his guts but forced himself to retain his calm facade.

  ‘The Light Division will cross the river and form a line to the south, linking up with Cole’s men once they have crossed at Nanclares. Then both divisions will advance on the French line.’

  Alten cocked an eyebrow. ‘Two divisions against the main French battle line? As you wish, my lord.’ He scanned the dense enemy formations waiting less than a mile beyond the river. ‘A frontal attack will cost us dearly.’

  ‘It will, but there is no alternative. The French will have men and guns covering every available
crossing point. We must cross here and prepare to attack.’

  Alten puffed his cheeks and nodded. He was about to reply when the sound of hoofbeats from behind caused both men to turn. Somerset was galloping up the slope to catch up with his commander. A short distance behind him rode General Alava and another man, a Spanish peasant, on a small pony. Somerset reined in and saluted Arthur.

  ‘Who the devil is that?’ Arthur gestured towards the peasant as the other two riders joined them.

  ‘My lord, if I may?’ Alava broke in before Somerset could reply.‘This man is Jose Ortiz de Zarate. He owns a farm by the river over there, near the village of Tres Puentes.’ Alava pointed to the north where the river curled round the slopes of a small hill on the far bank.

  ‘Well, that’s very nice for Señor Zarate, I am sure,’ Arthur replied tersely. ‘But what of it?’

  ‘He says that the bridge there is undefended. There is not a Frenchman within a mile of it.’

  Arthur stared at the peasant, and then looked towards the village, which was all but obscured by the hill. There was no sign of the bridge. Arthur felt a sudden thrill of excitement as he turned back towards General Alava. ‘Ask our friend if that hill masks the bridge from where the French are positioned.’

  There was a hurried exchange before Alava turned back to Arthur. ‘He says it does. Or at least he could not see the French when he stood on the far end of the bridge less than an hour ago.’

  Arthur fixed Zarate with a steely glare. ‘He is sure that there are no French soldiers nearby? And that the bridge has not had charges set beneath it?’

  ‘He says he is certain of it, my lord.’

  Arthur’s pulse quickened as he viewed the ground and the positions of both armies in his mind’s eye. Then he nodded his thanks to the Spanish farmer. ‘Tell Señor Zarate that if he is right, then he has done his people a fine service.’