The Fields of Death - Scarrow Simon - Страница 125
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He put the coins in his drawer and turned to the next item on the list of administrative tasks that he and Somerset were working through. ‘Uniforms. Well? How is the replacement programme going?’
‘Slowly. Only a few consignments have arrived in the port. The winter seas are delaying the convoys from Southampton. So far we’ve been able to issue new kit to two of Hope’s divisions. He is sending one regiment at a time into the port to collect their new uniforms. What they leave behind is being laundered and issued to Hill’s men to use for patching.’
‘Good.’ Arthur nodded. Hill’s men, being positioned furthest from the port, were the last to get any kind of supplies, since the roads across the country were largely impassable. The mules used to carry supplies were short of forage and soon wasted away due to the exertion of struggling through the mud to reach the right wing of the allied army.
‘See to it that some of Hill’s reserve formations are recalled to the port to get some new kit. Best not let the men get some fool idea that one formation is being favoured over another.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Somerset bent his head to make a quick note.
‘Now then, on to the requisition of shipping for the Adour crossing. How is Major Simpson faring?’
The engineering officer had been tasked with securing sufficient vessels to construct a pontoon across the mouth of the Adour river. Once the bridge was in position General Hope’s men could encircle Bayonne when better weather returned and the campaign could be continued, while the main column of the allied army drove Soult east.
‘Simpson sent requisitions to the ports as far as Santander, and to some of the nearest French ports. There’s no shortage of interest amongst ship owners. The only difficulty is that they want paying in gold or silver.’
‘No surprise there,’ Arthur replied ruefully. ‘Tell Simpson we can offer them a third now, a third on arrival and a third on completion of the bridge.’
Somerset looked up and sucked in a breath. ‘Can we afford that, sir?’
‘We can afford the initial payment. That will be enough to get them here. Then they’ll have to wait their turn for money, like the rest. Once the ships are under our guns there’s little they can do about the situation in any case. Not very ethical, I know, but needs must.’ Arthur shook his head wearily. ‘Is that all this morning?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then we’ll finish this. You may go. Tell Wilkins to have his men complete their work as soon as possible. The army needs to be provisioned. It may be on the march before long, depending on events.’
‘Events, sir?’
Arthur nodded at some French newspapers that had reached headquarters that morning. ‘Even Bonaparte’s bulletins admit that he is falling back towards the French border. If we are approaching the endgame, then it is vital that we do our duty here in the south of France, and prevent Bonaparte from drawing any reinforcements from Soult.’ Arthur fixed his aide with a determined expression. ‘The end is near, Somerset. Bonaparte cannot stave off the combined armies of his enemies. The war will be over before the end of the year.’
‘And then, sir?’
‘Then? Then we go home.’Arthur waved a hand.‘Now then, off with you.’
When the door had closed behind Somerset, Arthur rose from his seat and walked over to the window. It looked out over the port’s rainswept quays, now packed with shipping, much of it British, free to come and go thanks to the Royal Navy’s domination of the French coast.
What would become of Bonaparte when the war was over? Arthur knew that his army, almost to a man, would be happy to see the French Emperor dethroned and ‘decapitalised’ as they put it. For his part Arthur knew that there was little desire for a return of the Bourbons amongst the French people, and so he was prepared to countenance Bonaparte’s remaining on the throne, as long as his army and his ambitions could be safely contained. Arthur smiled to himself. Whatever he might accept, he doubted that England’s eastern allies would be quite so merciful.
The wet weather continued throughout the rest of December and into the New Year. Most of the allied soldiers had been billeted in the port and the small villages south of Bayonne and the Adour river. Some battalions were not so fortunate and had to make do with barns and whatever shelters they could find. The rest slept in their tents, now worn and leaky after months on campaign. Yet if their comforts were few, their days were filled with a familiar range of pleasures. There were many amenable women amongst the camp followers ready to serve their carnal appetites, rough games of football to be played across muddy pitches, and for the literate rankers too the chance to read whatever they could find, and write home to their families, and to those of the illiterate on their behalf for a small fee. The officers put on plays and recitals and hosted meals, each brigade trying to outdo the next as they acted as hosts. Christmas was celebrated with the fervent enthusiasm of men who knew that they might well never see another, and the carols that were sung around the camp fires carried a kind of warm melancholy to Arthur’s ears as he toured his army to present the season’s greetings to his soldiers.
While the men made the most of the enforced break in the campaign Arthur worked long hours at his desk, cajoling his supply officers into making sure that they prepared his army for the next, and he hoped final, campaign of the war. In addition to such burdens, he also had to send increasingly terse messages back to the government in London, explaining why he had been obliged to halt. Politicians seemed to have no understanding of the logistical handicap that mud presented to an army. To them mud was little more than the unsightly accretion on footwear that obliged a man to hand his boots to his servant for cleaning.
It was early in January, while Arthur was wearily drafting yet another reply to his political masters, that a message arrived on the regular mail packet from Southampton. The commander of the vessel, an excited young lieutenant, brought the message to him in person. After handing over the official sealed message he could not help himself from speaking.
‘Wonderful news, sir. It’s all across England and no one speaks of anything else.’
‘Really?’ Arthur replied drily, and then tapped the message. ‘Do you mind?’
‘What? Oh, yes. I apologise, sir.’
The lieutenant stood stiffly, biting his tongue, as Arthur casually broke the seal, unfolded the document and began to read. Somerset, sitting at a smaller desk in the corner of the room, could barely contain his curiosity. When Arthur had finished he looked up.
‘Good news indeed.’ He turned to Somerset. ‘It seems that our eastern allies crossed the Rhine three days before Christmas. They have begun the invasion of France. Bonaparte has too few men to do anything but mount a fighting withdrawal.’ Arthur lowered the letter. ‘The time to act is upon us, and our allies urge us to renew our offensive. However, we cannot advance while the weather and the ground are against us. In the meantime, then, we must prepare the army to break camp and march against the French. No later than the middle of February.’
‘What about the roads, sir? What if they are still impassable?’
Arthur considered the possibility for a moment. ‘When the finishing line is in sight, then damn the mud! We shall have to advance in any case.’
The following month Hill’s corps left their winter quarters and advanced to screen the activities of the rest of the army. At the same time a flotilla of hired boats and small ships made their way up the coast from St-Jean-de-Luz to the mouth of the Adour. The weather had moderated, clearing the sky and adding to Arthur’s good humour now that the campaign was under way again. Under the cover of the guns of a frigate and a battery of cannon on the south bank of the Adour, the engineers began to anchor the craft side by side in the estuary and lay down a wooden road across their decks. The far bank was lightly defended, and the enemy fell back the moment the first roundshot came their way.
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