The Fields of Death - Scarrow Simon - Страница 86

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‘What if they choose not to fight?’ asked Hill. ‘The last time we occupied this position, Marmont proved reluctant to attack. It was you, my lord, who had to take the battle to the enemy.’

‘Last time we were evenly matched, so I could afford to attack,’ Arthur replied. ‘This time, the odds are against us and it would not be prudent to do so. Besides, given the effort our enemies have made to scrape together every available man from three armies, I cannot believe that they will not offer battle. I assume that Soult, since he holds the senior military rank, will be in command. The last time we crossed swords was in Oporto. He will be thirsting for revenge. Soult will know that he must fight us here, or be obliged to follow us to the shelter of our fortresses in Portugal. Gentlemen, I am certain that we will have our battle.’ He looked round the barn at his officers. ‘All that remains is for you to do your duty.’

The sun rose out of a misty haze and bathed the two ridges in a warm glow that was welcomed by the soldiers, wearied of the wind and rain that had accompanied their march across the centre of Spain. While Arthur’s men quietly filed into their positions on the reverse slope, his artillery crews prepared their guns, positioned on the ridge where they could savage any enemy columns advancing up the slopes of the Lesser Arapil. Arthur had considered garrisoning the Greater Arapil, but decided against it. He needed all his men in the main battle line, and was wary of starting a savage battle of attrition for control of the hill that would work in favour of the more numerous French.

On the far ridge, the French forces marched into line to the accompaniment of their bands, which struck up the usual stirring tunes to fill their troops with the appropriate sentiments of drama and patriotism. For nearly three hours the French host formed in an arc around the Lesser Arapil, a steady stream of infantry battalions standing behind their tricolour standards topped with the gilded eagles that Bonaparte had conferred on his army. On the flanks, dense masses of cavalry stood patiently, the horses scraping the ground, tails occasionally flicking, as their riders waited for the order to mount. In the centre, ready to pound the allied line, a great battery of more than forty guns had been hauled forward and the first racks of shot and handful of charges had been brought up to load them.

By ten, all was in readiness on both sides and the soldiers waited in tense expectation, ears straining for the sound of the signal gun that would announce the opening of the battle. Arthur and his staff had mounted their horses and ridden as far forward along the ridge as was safe, and there they waited. Every so often an officer would fish out his watch and mark the passing of time.

Then, at midday, the French skirmishers began to advance, stepping out across the valley, and then rushing to cover as the British riflemen opened fire, shooting down a handful of French officers and men. A desultory duel between the two screens of marksmen dragged on for another hour with little result, since the riflemen were content to stay where they were and the French skirmishers, armed with smooth-bore muskets, and therefore outranged, only dared to bolt from one cover to another, until they were within effective range to fire their weapons. As the exchange of fire continued, the clouds above thickened, casting a gloomy pall over both armies.

‘Half past one, my lord,’ Somerset said casually.‘No sign of any attack. What the devil is Soult up to?’

A sudden fear struck Arthur. What if Soult was biding his time while another element of his army was moving into position. ‘Any word from the cavalry patrols?’

‘Sir?’

‘Any report of other enemy columns in the area? Or anywhere on the Portugal road?’

‘No, sir.’ Somerset had rarely detected such anxiety in his commander’s voice and added, reassuringly, ‘I am certain of it. I read all the reports first thing this morning. This is the only French army near Salamanca.’

‘And you would wager your life on that?’ Arthur asked curtly.

‘I would.’

Arthur turned to look at his aide, his eyes filled with contempt. ‘Then you are a fool, Somerset. Or a charlatan.’

Somerset swallowed his anger. Wellington was not himself and allowances had to be made, so he held his tongue as the general turned his attention back to the enemy, the fingers of his left hand tapping out an unconscious rhythm on his saddle holster. Arthur had a clear view of the enemy commanders and their staffs, crowded about the same position Marmont had occupied in the earlier battle. Raising his telescope, he trained it on the large group of horsemen and picked out the elaborate uniforms of Joseph and his senior commanders. They seemed to be locked in an animated debate.

As Arthur watched them he heard a faint pat on the brim of his hat, then another. Lowering his telescope, he saw that it had begun to rain. The pattering became more general, and then merged into a hiss as the rain fell in earnest, creating a steely veil between the two armies. Arthur glanced up at the sky and saw that the clouds had spread to the horizon. The most distant hills had already been blotted out and those only a few miles off had been reduced to grey outlines.

‘Still no movement from the enemy,’ an officer muttered.

Arthur nodded, and thrust his telescope back into the saddle bucket, fastened the buttons of his cloak, and sat stiffly as he considered his next move. The rain would handicap both sides. The French would have to advance across the muddy floor of the valley before mounting the slope leading up to the allied position. Infantry and cavalry alike would be hampered by the soft ground. At the same time, the rain would increase the number of misfires from Arthur’s men, which would reduce the firepower of his line, a worrying factor given that he was already outnumbered. As he was thinking, Somerset rose up in his stirrups and pointed towards the far ridge.

‘Sir, look there. The French are on the move.’

Arthur raised a hand to shield his eyes from the rain and squinted. Sure enough, the men of the enemy cavalry reserve, massed on the crest of the ridge, were mounting their horses. Then, one squadron at a time, they turned and rode away over the ridge. As the order spread to the other formations, the French army began to withdraw towards their camp.

‘It would seem that rain has stopped play,’ Somerset said.

Arthur nodded and sighed. There would be no battle today. Soult would not be lured into an attack on a strong defensive position. That left only one rational course open to Arthur. He tugged the reins and eased his horse round to face his staff officers. ‘That is it then, gentlemen. The army is to fall back to Ciudad Rodrigo. Somerset.’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Stand the army down. They are to return to camp for the night. Inform all divisional commanders that the army is to begin the retreat at dawn. They will have their written orders for the march during the night. That is all. Gentlemen, you are dismissed.’

The disappointment and dejected spirits of his officers were evident in their faces as Arthur watched them turn their mounts away and walk them back to the headquarters at the farm. He shared their sentiments. The army would have returned to the starting point of the campaign, and the failure to take Burgos, the abandoning of Madrid and the discomfort of the long retreat through the months of winter would weigh on the mind of every soldier. Many of them would voice their disgruntlement in letters home as they waited for the winter to pass.

However, Arthur reminded himself, soldiers were always inclined to complain about those things that caused them immediate discontent. In time, when they had rested, and fed well, and been issued with new boots and uniforms, they would recall the glory of Salamanca well enough. And the triumphant entry into the Spanish capital.

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