The Fields of Death - Scarrow Simon - Страница 65

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‘We’ll use four divisions for the assault,’ Arthur announced to his officers at the midday briefing. He was standing before a detailed map of the town’s defences pinned to the wall of the tavern that served as the army’s headquarters, and now raised his cane and pointed to the south-eastern corner of the walls of Badajoz.‘Alten’s Light Division and Cole’s Fourth Division will assault the breaches at ten o’clock tonight. At the same time there will be two diversionary attacks.’ He pointed out the eastern sector of the town. ‘Picton’s Third Division will cross the Rivillas stream, climb the cliff to the east and attempt to escalade the castle. The walls there are sufficiently low to enable our ladders to reach the battlements. Meanwhile, on the other side of Badajoz, Leith’s Fifth Division will assault the main gate. Leith?’

‘Sir?’ General Leith leaned forward.

‘The enemy have mined the approaches to the gate. Your fellows will need to be careful. Let the enemy explode the mines before you close on the wall, understood?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Arthur looked round at his officers. ‘I fully expect that this will be a much harder nut to crack than Ciudad Rodrigo. We can expect a greater number of casualties, but it is important to bear in mind the strategic purpose of this operation. With Ciudad Rodrigo and Badajoz in our hands the initiative passes to our side for the remainder of the campaign in the Peninsula. As you will know, Bonaparte is almost certain to attack Russia later this year. It is my conviction that he is about to make a mistake that may well be the turning point of the long war we have been engaged in. His campaign in Russia will exhaust his armies, and if we are lucky he may be defeated on the battlefield into the bargain. Our intelligence has shown that the best French formations are in the process of withdrawing from Spain in order to swell the ranks of the Grand Army. Gentlemen, this is precisely the opportunity I have been waiting for and I intend to seize it as firmly as possible. With the frontier fortresses in our hands, we will take the war to the French on our terms from now on.’ He paused. ‘Let that prospect fill your hearts and stiffen your sinews for this night’s work.’

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 Picuriсa 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.

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