Fire and Sword

by Simon Scarrow

  Arthur had resigned as Chief Secretary of Ireland with some small measure of regret over unfulfilled ambitions to improve the lot of the common people. He had also given up his seat in Parliament. Henceforth, he would dedicate himself to his duties as a soldier, with a private resolve not to quit his new command until the French generals and marshals in the Peninsula had been humbled, or he himself had been killed in the process. He did not speak of this resolve to Kitty when he had informed her that he was off to war again.

  Their parting had been emotional. This time it was likely that Arthur’s duties would keep him away from home for years rather than months. Kitty had not been able to hold back her tears at the prospect and clung to him on the morning of his departure from their home in Phoenix Park. Once Kitty had overseen the packing of their possessions she would move to the house in London to await his return.

  As he gazed at the sprawling tiled roofs of the Portuguese capital Arthur could not help wondering at the scale of the task he had set himself. If all went well, it would be a long time before there could be any prospect of returning to Kitty and he felt pricked by guilt at the satisfaction the reflection afforded. But he brushed the thought aside as the frigate dropped anchor and the crew lowered the launch over the side to convey the new commander of the British army ashore.

  Escorted by a company of men from one of the regiments that had newly arrived from Britain, Arthur made his way through the crowd towards the reception committee of local dignitaries waiting on a small stage in a large public square decorated with ribbons and flags. He was relieved to see Major-General Beresford amongst them. Beresford had served under him at Vimeiro, and had, thanks to his command of Portuguese, remained in Portugal to train soldiers recruited from the local populace. The two officers exchanged a salute before Arthur grasped the other man’s hand.

  ‘Good to see you again, Beresford.’

  ‘And you, sir.’

  ‘I understand that you have been promoted in my absence.A marshal of Portugal, no less.’

  ‘The rank serves its purpose,’ Beresford replied self-consciously. ‘At least the locals respect it. Makes my job of training them that much easier. Besides, I shan’t be the only Englishman with such a fine rank bestowed on him.’ Beresford turned to the local dignitaries and exchanged a few brief words with a small dapper man in a fine dress coat with a bright red sash across his shoulder.

  ‘This is the High Chamberlain of the Royal Court, sir. The senior official left behind after the government fled to Brazil.’

  Arthur bowed to the chamberlain and at once the man burst into speech, talking so rapidly that Beresford could not keep up and struggled to follow the man’s address. At the end the chamberlain turned and clicked his fingers at one of his officials and the man stepped forward with an ornate case.The chamberlain took the case and opened it carefully to reveal a jewelled star on a purple ribbon, together with a gilded baton. He offered the case to Arthur with a deep bow.

  ‘What’s this?’ Arthur asked Beresford.

  ‘The acting head of the Portuguese government confers upon you the rank of marshal-general of the allied forces in Portugal.’

  ‘And the rest of the speech?’

  ‘Usual flummery, sir. And a nice bit about how you are going to crush the French armies in Portugal and Spain before you finally defeat the French Emperor himself.’

  ‘Ah, well, yes,’ Arthur responded awkwardly. ‘Please convey my humble appreciation for the honour the chamberlain does me.Tell him that I give my word that the French aggressors will rue the day that they ever dared to wage war on the people of Portugal.’

  Beresford translated, speaking loud enough for his words to be clearly audible to the element of the crowd closest to the stage. As he finished the crowd erupted in a great cheer and Arthur turned towards them and raised his hat to acknowledge their acclaim. When he had finished, he crammed his bicorn back on his head, this time front to back to indicate that he was on active service. He turned to Beresford.

  ‘Better cut this as short as we can. There are matters to discuss, not to mention the usual formalities.’ Before Arthur could assume command of the army he would have to present his authorisation to the current commander, General Cradock. It would be an altogether more formal affair than the occasion when Burrard had superseded Arthur on the battlefield of Vimeiro. It suddenly struck him that the worm had finally turned.This was the first time he had enjoyed the fruits of seniority.

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Beresford nodded. ‘I will take you to the army’s headquarters at once, sir.’

  Arthur expressed his thanks, waved and bowed his head to the crowd once more, and then left the stage. With his escort in attendance, he followed Beresford through the crowd out of the square and along a street into the heart of Lisbon. As they walked, Arthur recalled his first impressions of the city from the previous year. He was surprised again by the squalor of many of its thoroughfares, where human urine and ordure mixed with that of dogs and other animals, since the inhabitants still slung the contents of their slop buckets into the streets from overlooking windows. As they progressed Arthur could not resist glancing up warily from time to time.

  General Cradock’s headquarters were situated in a large mansion overlooking the harbour. The position was elevated enough to ensure that a cooling breeze flowed through the house most of the year, and even though it was still only April the breeze was welcome, especially as it helped to dissipate the less pleasant odours of the city.

  General Cradock and his staff were waiting in a large reception room overlooking the garden courtyard. After a formal announcement in front of these witnesses, Cradock surrendered his command. As soon as the brief ceremony was over Cradock relaxed and led Arthur down to the garden, where a small banquet had been prepared for the gathering of officers. As the others ate amid a hubbub of conversation, Arthur led Cradock to one side so that they might talk in confidence.

  ‘What is the latest intelligence on the enemy?’

  Cradock raised his eyebrows briefly as he composed his response. ‘You have picked a hard time to take charge,Wellesley. Marshal Victor is at Mérida, not far from the Portuguese border. He defeated a Spanish army in March so we can’t expect much help on that front for a while. Meanwhile, Marshal Soult still occupies Oporto and is awaiting reinforcements before renewing his attempt to conquer the rest of Portugal. It is most likely that Ney will march to join him the moment the rebels in Galicia have been subdued.’

  ‘That may take rather longer than Ney might think,’ Arthur responded thoughtfully, recalling the latest intelligence he had read on board the frigate. ‘It seems that the Spanish who have banded together to fight the French are proliferating right across the country. Which makes my task easier. The more enemy troops they can tie down, the better our chances of picking off the French armies one at a time.’

  Cradock looked surprised. ‘Good God, you can’t be serious. They outnumber you at least ten to one.’

  Arthur smiled. ‘Which is precisely why I must face them one at a time. Our soldiers are more than a match for the enemy. I proved that at Vimeiro. We can, and will, prevail.’

  ‘I hope so,’ Cradock said wearily.‘This war has gone on long enough. Perhaps it is time to tackle the bull by the horns.’ He scrutinised Arthur for a moment and then added,‘And perhaps it is time for a new kind of general. I wish you good fortune, sir.’

  Having despatched a small column to watch for any advance by Marshal Victor, Arthur left ten thousand men to defend Lisbon and set off to join the main body of his army.At the start of May he reached his forces camped in and around the town of Coimbra, five days’ march from Oporto. A guard of honour greeted the new commander and his staff when they arrived, and after a brief inspection of the well-turned-out troops Arthur summoned all the senior officers to the army headquarters, a religious school on the outskirts of the town. The surrounding hills were covered in the greens of spring, and dotted with bright flowers and blossom on the trees.
Despite a cooling breeze the air was hot, and inside the school’s lecture theatre the British and Portuguese officers sat in sweltering temperatures, talking quietly as they waited for their new commander to arrive.

  Outside the hall, Arthur paused to compose himself.The formalities of assuming command were now over. In a moment he would be addressing his officers and informing them of his plans for the immediate future. More immediate than many of them suspected,Arthur mused with a faint smile. It was vital that he struck the right note with his subordinates. After the fiasco at Cintra and the stalemate between the allied and French armies that had dragged on over the intervening months, he needed to inspire them with a new sense of purpose. All his plans for the future depended upon a high state of morale, an effective organisation of the army and confident leadership. He drew a deep breath, and entered the lecture theatre.

  At once the officers quickly rose to their feet and stood stiffly to attention as Arthur crossed the stage and moved behind the lectern. He drew a small slip of paper from his jacket and set it down in front of him.

  He looked up and round the theatre at the faces of senior officers: generals and colonels, mostly in red tunics, with a handful of blue-coated artillery men and engineers, and a few brown Portuguese uniforms, clustered about Beresford who would translate for his subordinates. There were many familiar faces here, men he had served alongside during his previous ill-fated campaign in the Peninsula. Men who had respected him and shared his frustration at the failure to capitalise on the success of Vimeiro.

  ‘Be seated, gentlemen.’ Arthur waited until they were settled and there was silence. ‘The time has come to take the war to the enemy. For too long the French army has enjoyed a reputation for invincibility. The nations of Europe have come to believe in this, to the detriment of their ambition to frustrate Bonaparte. It is time for us to explode the myth of French superiority at arms. Therefore, it is my intention to have our army ready to attack Oporto in no more than ten days’ time.’

  The audience stirred and there was some excited muttering which Arthur indulged for a moment before continuing.

  ‘From intelligence provided by a French deserter, I understand that Marshal Soult’s army matches our own in size, almost man for man. It is my firm conviction that the coming battle will prove to everyone’s satisfaction that we have the better men. Everyone’s satisfaction save Bonaparte’s, of course.’

  The officers chuckled politely, yet their eyes glinted with eager anticipation, Arthur noted.

  ‘Before we advance to meet the enemy, there is much to be done. Ammunition and equipment to be issued, artillery and supply trains to be assembled and loaded and final letters sent home. But there is more. From the moment I was appointed to this command I have been considering ways to improve the effectiveness of the army, and there are to be significant changes in the way we operate, gentlemen. One thing I have learned from the French is that there are advantages to operating in bigger formations than a brigade.Therefore, I am reorganising our brigades into autonomous divisions, each of which will contain five brigades. And, in order to distribute the best qualities across each division, a battalion of our Portuguese allies will be allocated to every British brigade. There will be no stronger or weaker elements in our battle line, gentlemen. Furthermore, having witnessed the effectiveness of riflemen at Vimeiro, I have decided that each brigade will have its own company of riflemen to stiffen the skirmish line.’

  He paused to let his audience grasp the import of what he had said. It was a radical innovation and he knew that some of the older officers would be resistant to such changes, and some would even consider it unpatriotic to learn lessons from the enemy, no matter how valuable. Be that as it may, Arthur was convinced of the value of his decisions.When the allied army went up against the French in future, the fire of the skirmish line would be even more deadly, and there would be no doubts about the performance of each of the new divisions as the Portuguese battalions would be steadied by the example of the redcoats on either side of them.

  ‘You will have your orders concerning this reorganisation before the end of the day. I have already chosen the commanders for the new divisions and they will be informed after this meeting. Gentlemen, by the time we face Marshal Soult, I want this army to operate as if we had always marched and fought in divisions. Now then, time is short. I will not waste it on florid appeals to patriotism and duty.We are here to beat the French and that is an end to it. Any questions?’

  There was a pause before one of the cavalry officers rose to his feet.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What are your intentions should we beat Soult at Oporto? Where will the army march then?’

  ‘After we have Portugal, it is my intention to seek permission to enter Spain.’ Arthur paused. ‘But, gentlemen, beyond Spain there is no mystery surrounding our final destination, though we may not attain it for many years.That destination I can reveal willingly enough.’

  He paused and glanced round at the sea of expectant faces before he smiled. ‘Paris.’

  Five days after Arthur had arrived in Coimbra the allied army began its march north towards Oporto. The soldiers stepped out cheerfully, despite the hard going along dusty tracks beneath a hot sun. Many of them had been at Vimeiro and had told the rest that they had nothing to worry about with ‘Old Nosey’ in command. Arthur was pleased with their mood and keen to get them into contact with the enemy whilst it lasted. An army may march on its stomach, he reflected, but it fed on victory just as surely. The allied army descended from the hills of Coimbra and crossed the rolling country towards the coast where Oporto lay two miles from the Atlantic Ocean, on the bank of the river Douro.

  On the eleventh, the vanguard of the army clashed with the first French outposts, and after a day of skirmishing the enemy were forced to abandon the south bank of the river and retreat into Oporto. It was evening before Arthur and his staff arrived in the sprawl of buildings that formed the small township of Vila Nova on the south bank. As light troops and riflemen pressed through the winding streets towards the ancient bridge that crossed the river, Arthur made his way to a convent that overlooked the city on the far bank. Emerging on to the terrace of the convent, the British officers had a fine view across the Douro.

  To the left, a quarter of a mile upstream, a pontoon bridge constructed by the French engineers stretched across the river. The enemy still held a strongly fortified position around the end of the bridge on the south bank. Puffs of musket smoke pricked out along the palisade and from loopholes in the nearest buildings as the French rearguard and the British skirmishers fought it out. On the other side of the bridge the city of Oporto rose up from the banks of the river.To the left of the bridge the bank was lower, but to the right the bank gave way to rocky cliffs that tumbled down towards the water. The French had taken the precaution of moving every boat that could be found on to the northern bank and placing them under guard.

  It was clear to Arthur that the bridge had to be taken if he was to get his army across the Douro and liberate the city. It would be a bloody business, as the enemy was bound to cover the crossing with every cannon that could be spared. He had little doubt that the crossing could be forced, but at what cost?

  Turning to survey the southern bank he saw that the hills behind the convent were high enough to overlook Oporto. Arthur summoned one of his staff officers.

  ‘Somerset, pass the word to the artillery train. I want three batteries of six-pounders placed up there. They can provide counter battery fire when we attempt to force the bridge tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And have some of the howitzers brought forward as well, in case we have to deal with any enemy formations out in the open.’

  Somerset saluted and ran off to do his general’s bidding. Arthur turned to inspect the enemy’s positions again as dusk began to settle over the land. As the light faded his eyes briefly passed over a large structure close to the river at the foot of the towering cliffs opposite.
Some kind of convent or seminary, he guessed.There was no sign of life within, as if the building had been abandoned. Arthur’s keen eyes searched the south bank as far up and downriver as he could, but there was no sign of a single boat on his side of the Douro.

  As night fell, the struggle around the French bridgehead on the south bank died away until there was peace and quiet from that sector, broken occasionally when the men on either side called out to each other, offering items in trade, or simply ribald insults. Arthur had taken over the Serra convent to act as his field headquarters and had a desk set up on the terrace where he snatched a quick supper before settling down to read the evening reports, and then, shortly after midnight, draft his plans for the assault on the pontoon bridge. He had finished his notes and was in the act of handing them over to Somerset to have them copied up in a neat hand when there was a sudden brilliant flash from the direction of the river, then another, and at once a concussive blast that shook the terrace to its foundations.