The Fields of Death - Scarrow Simon - Страница 69
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‘Indeed.’ Arthur laughed. ‘I have to apologise, Somerset, else I am sure that you would call me out, and the army cannot afford to lose either of us.’
Somerset nodded, satisfied.
‘So then,’ Arthur stood up and looked out of the window, over the camp of his army.‘While we await word of poor Perceval’s replacement, we march against the French.’
Early in June, as the allied army set off from Ciudad Rodrigo, Arthur received news that Marmont had been reinforced and now slightly outnumbered the allies. On past French showing Arthur was prepared to accept the odds and the army continued marching into Spain, making for Salamanca, the enemy’s nearest base of operations.
There Arthur found that the French garrison had abandoned the city, leaving behind a few hundred men to fortify the convents that dominated the bridge over the river Tormes. While the main bulk of the army made camp on the hills to the north of the city, the engineers set to work besieging the convents by digging approach trenches and constructing batteries for the small number of siege guns that Arthur had brought with the army.
As Arthur had hoped, Marmont advanced towards Salamanca to attempt to relieve the defenders, but the allied troops on the hills barred his way. There followed a few wearing days when Arthur had the army stood to in the dust and the heat, waiting for a French attack that never came. For his part, Marshal Marmont contented himself with regularly sending a few batteries of horse guns together with some skirmishers to fire on any allied troops who were exposed on the forward slope. Arthur responded by ordering the greenjackets forward, and after a short duel the skirmish broke off and the two armies sat and watched each other as before.
The convents quickly surrendered once the siege guns began to pound the walls to pieces, and as soon as the last of them had been taken Marmont began to withdraw north, towards the protection of the river Douro. The allied army followed, camping on the southern bank. Arthur inspected the enemy through his telescope in frustration. A thin screen of pickets patrolled the far bank and the main enemy camp, its position marked by trails of smoke from camp fires, was beyond a low ridge that ran along the river for some way. His spies had told him that Marmont had already been joined by another division and was waiting for yet further reinforcements.
Then, on 15 July, a band of Spanish resistance fighters rode into the allied camp in an excited state, demanding to speak to the English general. They wore bandannas, short-cut jackets over their shirts and breeches, which were buttoned below the knee, and heavy boots. A formidable selection of carbines and pistols were visible in their saddle buckets, and swords, clubs and knives hung from their belts. The two sentries on duty outside Arthur’s headquarters, a disused barn, eyed the new arrivals warily as Somerset brought General Alava out to speak to them. After a few words, Alava beckoned their leader to dismount and follow him and Somerset into the barn.
He rapped on the weathered doorpost and Arthur looked up from the map he had been studying. ‘What is it?’
‘One of the local fighters, my lord. He says he has captured some enemy despatches and wishes to sell them to us.’
Arthur puffed his cheeks. ‘Very well. I can spare him a few minutes. Bring him in.’
A moment later the leader entered, carrying a saddlebag over one arm. Arthur rose to exchange a bow with him as Alava made the introductions. ‘Seсor Jose Ramirez, or El Cuchillo, as he claims to be known along this stretch of the Douro.’
‘What has El Cuchillo,’ Arthur smiled at the man, ‘got for me, exactly?’
Once Alava had translated, the resistance leader stepped forward and laid the saddlebag over Arthur’s map. Arthur noted a dark smear on the casing and assumed that it was the blood of the hapless courier who had been intercepted by El Cuchillo and his men. With a flamboyant gesture the Spaniard unfastened the strap and flipped the bag open. Inside were a number of sealed documents. One immediately caught Arthur’s eye - larger and bearing a more ornate seal than the others. He gestured towards the bag and the Spaniard nodded. Arthur drew the document out and saw that it carried the seal of King Joseph and was addressed to Marshal Marmont. He broke the seal and opened it, quickly scanning the contents before he looked up.
‘King Joseph is marching to join Marmont with thirteen thousand men.’
Somerset shifted uncomfortably. ‘That will give Marmont nearly twenty thousand men more than us, my lord.’
Arthur nodded. ‘More than enough to make a difference, I fear. The question is, has Marmont had a copy of this message? It is possible he may not know that Joseph is marching to join him.’
‘It’s possible, I suppose,’ Somerset said doubtfully. ‘Though the French tend to send out two or three couriers by different routes, given the danger presented by the partisans.’
Arthur folded the despatch and tapped it on the table.‘General Alava, please ask our friend if he has seen anything of the enemy recently. Any sign of a column on the move.’
The general translated the question and El Cuchillo nodded, and then there was a lively exchange of comments before Alava turned back to Arthur with an excited glint in his eye. ‘He says that he saw a large force crossing the Douro at Tordesillas. They could not get close enough to estimate the number because of the enemy’s cavalry pickets.’
‘I see,’ Arthur responded. He was wary of any amateur’s estimation of an enemy force and needed to have a more accurate assessment of what the Spaniard had seen. ‘He says it was a large force. Does he mean a brigade, or a division, or something bigger?’
The general questioned the man and turned back. ‘He says it was a host. He has never seen so many men.’
‘It’ll be King Joseph and his reinforcements, my lord,’ Somerset suggested.
‘I don’t think so,’ Arthur responded with a frown. ‘That would mean they were right on the heels of the messenger bearing the news of their coming. Alava, ask him from which direction this host was crossing the Douro.’
‘They were coming from the north bank,’ Alava translated.
Arthur’s eyes widened for an instant. ‘By God, it’s Marmont. He’s over the river and trying to outflank us!’
Somerset nodded. ‘He must know about Joseph. Why else take the the risk?’
Arthur pushed the saddlebag aside and examined the map, before crossing to an empty window frame and staring across the river at the thin haze of smoke above the ridge opposite. ‘That scoundrel Marmont has tricked me. And now he aims to slip round our flank and cut us off from Salamanca. Well, whether he knows about the message or not, it makes little difference now.’ He turned to Somerset. ‘Pass the word to all divisional commanders: we’re breaking camp and marching back to Salamanca immediately. Oh, and reward this fine fellow generously for his services. A hundred guineas in gold.’
Alava cleared his throat and rocked his hand discreetly.
‘Second thoughts,’ Arthur muttered. ‘Make that fifty.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Somerset nodded and gestured for El Cuchillo to follow him. Arthur looked down at the map again with a leaden feeling of disappointment. It was as he had feared. The enemy had taken enough notice of his successes to gather together a force sufficient to turn him back. It would be a heavy blow to the army’s morale, Arthur realised. To begin a retreat so soon after setting out from Ciudad Rodrigo. It would also play into the hands of his political enemies in London, who would be sure to use this latest setback as proof that the army in the Peninsula was achieving little but marching up and down the length of Spain at the taxpayer’s expense.
Arthur breathed in sharply. ‘Damn that fellow Marmont. He may ruin our fortunes yet.’
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