The Fields of Death

The Fields of Death

SIMON SCARROW

www.headline.co.uk

Copyright © 2010 Simon Scarrow

For James and Bob, for their unstinting dedication to the team.

Chapter 1

Napoleon

The Danube, April 1809

The defences of the Bohemian town of Ratisbon looked formidable indeed, Napoleon silently conceded as he swept his telescope along the aged walls and ditches confronting him. The retreating Austrian army had hastily thrown up more earthworks to bolster the existing defences and cannon muzzles were discernible in the embrasures of each redoubt, with more cannon mounted on the thick, squat towers of the old town. Here and there, the white-uniformed figures of the enemy regarded the French host approaching the town. Beyond the walls the pitched roofs and church spires were vague in the last vestiges of the early morning mist that had risen up from the Danube. On the far side of the river Napoleon could just pick out the faint trails of smoke rising up from the Austrian camp on the far bank.

He frowned as he lowered the telescope and snapped it shut. Archduke Charles and his men had escaped the trap Napoleon had set for them. Ratisbon had been in French hands until a few days before, and the enemy had been caught with their backs to the river. But the commander of the garrison had surrendered after a brief resistance, leaving the bridge across the Danube intact. So the Austrians had crossed to the north bank and left a strong force behind to defy their pursuers. Archduke Charles had surprised him, Napoleon reflected. He had fully expected the Austrians to fall back towards Vienna to protect their supply lines and defend their capital. Instead, the enemy general had crossed the river into Bohemia, leaving the road to Vienna open. Only it was not as simple as that, Napoleon realised well enough. If he led his army towards Vienna, he would be inviting the Austrians to fall on his supply lines in turn. That might be an unavoidable risk.

Napoleon turned round to face his staff officers. ‘Gentlemen, Ratisbon must be taken if we are to cross the Danube and force the enemy to face us on the battlefield.’

General Berthier, Napoleon’s chief of staff, briefly raised his eyebrows as he glanced past his Emperor towards the defences of the town, barely a mile away. He swallowed as his gaze switched back to Napoleon.

‘Very well, sire. Shall I give the order for the army to prepare for a siege?’

Napoleon shook his head.‘There is no time for a siege. The moment we settle down to dig trenches and construct batteries the Austrians have the initiative. Moreover, you can be sure that our other enemies . . .’ Napoleon paused and smiled bitterly, ‘and even some of those who call us friends will take great comfort from the delay. It would not take much prompting for them to side with Austria.’

The more astute of the officers readily understood his point. Several of the small states of the German Confederation were sympathetic to Austria’s cause. But by far the biggest danger came from Russia. Even though Napoleon and Tsar Alexander were bound by treaty there had been a marked cooling of their relationship over the past months, and it was possible that the Russian army might intervene on either side of the present war between France and Austria.

Napoleon had been surprised by the temerity of the Austrians when they had opened hostilities in April, without a formal declaration of war. Before then there had been many reports from spies that the Austrian army had been reorganised and expanded, and equipped with new cannon and modern muskets. The signs that Emperor Francis intended to begin another war were unmistakable, and Napoleon had given orders for the concentration of a powerful army ready to meet the threat. Once the campaign had begun, the usual plodding progress of the enemy columns had allowed the French to outmarch them and force the Austrians to fight on Napoleon’s terms. The performance of his army had been most gratifying, Napoleon considered. Most of the soldiers who had engaged the enemy so far had been fresh recruits, yet they had fought superbly. But for the failure to prevent the Austrians from escaping across the Danube, the war would already be as good as won.

Napoleon turned towards one of his officers. ‘Marshal Lannes.’

The officer stiffened. ‘Sire?’

‘Your men will take the town, whatever the cost. Understand?’

‘Yes, sire.’ Lannes nodded, and casually adjusted his plumed bicorne over his brown curls. ‘The lads will soon chase the Austrians out.’

‘They’d better,’ Napoleon replied curtly. Then he stepped closer to Lannes and fixed his gaze on the marshal. ‘I am depending on you. Do not let me down.’

Lannes smiled softly. ‘Have I ever, sire?’

‘No. No, you haven’t.’ Napoleon returned the smile. ‘Good fortune be with you, my dear Jean.’

Lannes saluted, then turned to stride swiftly towards the orderly who was holding his horse. Swinging himself up into the saddle, Lannes touched his spurs in and trotted his mount forward, riding down from the small knoll towards the columns of his leading infantry division as they formed up out of range of the Austrian guns. A brief lull settled over the French positions and then a trumpet signalled the advance and with a rattle of drums the infantry columns tramped towards the enemy fortifications. Ahead of them a screen of skirmishers advanced in loose order, muskets lowered as they looked for individual targets along the line of the Austrian defences.

Napoleon felt his heart harden at the sight of the blue-coated columns closing on the enemy-held town. At any moment the Austrians would open fire and cones of case shot would tear bloody holes in the brave ranks of his men. But Ratisbon had to be taken.

‘For what we are about to receive,’ Berthier muttered as he strained his eyes to observe the leading elements of the division closing on the enemy defences.

The Austrians held their fire until the French skirmishers had almost reached the wide ditch in front of the town’s walls. Then hundreds of tiny puffs of smoke pricked out along the walls as bright tongues of flame stabbed from the guns mounted on the towers and redoubts. Napoleon raised his telescope and saw that scores of the skirmishers had been cut down, and behind them the leading ranks of Lannes’s columns reeled as they were subjected to a storm of lead musket balls and the iron shot of the guns. The officers raised their swords high, some placing their hats over the points to make them more visible, and urged their men on. The soldiers surged over the lip of the ditch and were lost to view for a moment before they reappeared, scrambling up the far slope and running on towards the wall. Above them, the battlements of the town were lined with the white uniforms of the Austrians, barely visible through the drifting banks of smoke that hung in the air like a tattered shroud. All the while, the attackers were being whittled down as they tried to reach the wall.

Then, quite abruptly, the forward impetus died as the soldiers went to ground, huddling behind whatever cover they could find as they desperately exchanged shots with the enemy. Still more men entered the ditch, crowding those on the far slope who refused to advance any further. The dense mass of humanity presented an irresistible target to the enemy, who swept the ditch with case shot while grenades were lobbed down from the walls. They detonated with bright flashes, shooting shards of jagged iron in every direction, mutilating the men of Marshal Lannes’s first wave.

‘Damn.’ Napoleon frowned irritably. ‘Damn them. Why do they sit there, and die in that ditch? If they want to live, then they must go forward.’

His frustration grew as the slaughter continued. At length the inevitable happened as the men of the first wave slowly began to give ground, and then the pace increased as the urge to retreat spread through the soldiers like an invisible wave rippling out through their ranks. Within minutes the last of the survivors sheltering in the ditch was hurrying away from the town, leaving the dead and wounded sprawled and heaped before the wall. As the men streamed back the Austrians continued to fire after them until the French were out of musket range, and then only the cannon continued, firing several more rounds of case shot before they too fell silent.

Abruptly, Napoleon dug his spurs in and urged his mount down the gentle slope of the knoll before galloping towards Lannes’s forward command point in the ruins of a small chapel. The emperor’s bodyguards and staff officers hurried after him, anxiously trying to keep up. Marshal Lannes strode forward to confront the first of the fugitives as soon as he was aware that the attack had failed. By the time Napoleon reached him he was berating a large group of sheepish-looking soldiers.

‘Call yourself men?’ Lannes bellowed at the top of his voice. ‘Running like bloody rabbits the first time we come up against some Austrians who have the balls to stand and fight. Sweet Jesus Christ, you shame me! You shame your uniforms, and you shame the Emperor.’ Lannes indicated Napoleon as he approached and reined in. ‘And now the enemy are laughing at you. They mock you for being cowards. Listen!’

Sure enough, the faint sound of jeers and whistles came from the defenders of Ratisbon and some of the men looked down at the ground, not daring to meet the eyes of their commander.

Napoleon dismounted and stared coldly at the men gathered in front of Lannes. He remained silent for a moment before he shook his head wearily.‘Soldiers, I am not angry with you. How could I be?You obeyed your orders and made your attack. You advanced into fire and continued forward until your nerve failed. And then you retreated. You have done no less than any other man in any army in Europe.’ Napoleon paused briefly to let his next words carry their full weight. ‘But you are not in any army in Europe. You are in the French army. You march under standards entrusted to you by your Emperor. The same standards that were carried to victory at Austerlitz. At Jena and Auerstadt. Eylau and Friedland. Together, we have beaten the armies of the King of Prussia and the Tsar. We have humiliated the Austrians - the very same Austrians who now taunt you from the walls of Ratisbon. They think that the men of France have grown weak and fearful, that the fire in their bellies has died. They think that the enemy they once faced, and feared with good cause, is now as meek as a lamb. They shame you. They laugh at you. They ridicule you . . .’ Napoleon looked round and saw the glowering expressions of anger on the faces of some of his men, just as he had hoped. He pressed home his advantage. ‘How can a man endure this? How can a soldier of France not feel his heart burn with rage at the scorn poured on him by those whom he knows to be his inferiors?’ Napoleon thrust his arm out in the direction of Ratisbon. ‘Soldiers! Your enemy awaits you. Show them what it means to be a Frenchman. Neither shot nor shell can shake your courage, or make your resolution waver. Remember those who have fought for your Emperor before you. Remember the eternal glory that they have won. Remember the gratitude and gifts that their Emperor has bestowed on them.’

‘Long live Napoleon!’ Marshal Lannes punched his fist into the air. ‘Long live France!

The cry was instantly taken up by the nearest men and swept through the ranks of those gathered around. Other soldiers, further off, turned to stare, and then joined in so that the taunts of the Austrians were drowned out by the tumultuous acclaim sweeping through the men of Lannes’s division. Lannes continued leading the cheering for a moment before he raised his arms and bellowed for his men to still their tongues. As the cheers died away the marshal drew a deep breath and pointed to the first of the soldiers rallying to their regimental standards.

‘To your colours! Form up and make ready to show those Austrian dogs how real soldiers fight!’

As the men hurried off Napoleon could see the renewed determination in their expressions and nodded with satisfaction.‘Their blood is up. I just hope they can take the wall this time.’ He turned his gaze back towards the enemy’s defences. They were less than half a mile from the nearest enemy guns. ‘We are still within range here. And so are the men.’

‘It would take a lucky shot indeed to hit anyone at this range, sire,’ Lannes replied dismissively. ‘Waste of good powder.’

‘I hope you are right.’

An instant later there was a puff of smoke from an embrasure in the nearest Austrian redoubt and both men traced the faint dark smear of the shot as it curved through the morning air, angling slightly to one side of their position. The ball grounded a hundred yards ahead, kicking up dust and dirt before it landed again another fifty paces further on, and then again before carving a furrow through the calf-length grass and coming to rest a short distance from the front rank of the nearest French battalion.

‘Good conditions for artillery,’ Napoleon mused. ‘Firm ground - the effective range will increase, and the ricochet of the enemy shot is going to cost us dear.’

More Austrian guns opened fire and a shot from one of the heavier pieces grounded just short of one of the French battalions before slicing a deep path through the ranks, felling men like skittles.

Lannes cleared his throat. ‘Sire, it occurs to me that we are also in range of the enemy guns.’

‘True, but as you pointed out the chances of their hitting us are negligible.’

‘Nevertheless, sire, it would be prudent for you to withdraw beyond effective range.’

Napoleon glanced towards the redoubt, noting that the muzzle of one of the guns was foreshortened to a black dot. Abruptly the gun was obscured by a swirl of smoke and a moment later a puff of dirt kicked up just ahead of them.

‘Look out!’ Lannes yelled a warning.

But before Napoleon could react, the ball grounded much closer, and then again right at their feet. Grit and soil sprayed in their faces as Napoleon felt a blow, like a savage kick, slam into his right ankle. The shock of the impact stunned him and he stood rigidly, not daring to look down, as Lannes dusted down his uniform jacket with a chuckle. ‘As I said . . .’

Napoleon felt his ankle give way, and stumbled to the side, thrusting out his arms to break his fall as he went down.

‘Sire!’ Lannes hurried to kneel at his side. ‘You’ve been hit?’

The pain in Napoleon’s leg was agonisingly sharp and he gritted his teeth as he replied. ‘Of course I’ve been hit, you fool.’

‘Where?’ Lannes glanced over him anxiously. ‘I can’t see the wound.’

‘My right leg.’ Napoleon winced. ‘The ankle.’

Lannes shuffled down and saw that Napoleon’s boot had been badly scuffed. He felt tenderly for signs of injury. Napoleon gasped and forced himself to sit up. Over Lannes’s shoulder he could see several staff officers and orderlies running towards them. Beyond, the men of the nearest battalion were falling out of line as they stared towards their Emperor with shocked expressions.

‘The Emperor is wounded!’ a voice cried out.

The cry was repeated and a chorus of despairing groans rippled through the ranks of the division forming to launch the second attack. Napoleon could see that he must act swiftly to restore the men’s morale, before the chance to seize Ratisbon slipped away.

‘Get me on my feet,’ he muttered to Lannes.

The marshal shook his head. ‘You are injured, sire. I’ll have you carried to safety and send for your physician.’

‘You’ll do no such thing,’ Napoleon snapped. ‘Get me up. Bring me my horse.’

‘As you command.’

The marshal was a powerfully built man and he grasped his Emperor’s arm and raised him up easily. Napoleon stood with all his weight on his left foot and fought to hide any sign of the shooting pain that made an agony of any movement of his right leg. He rested his hand on Lannes’s shoulder as the latter called for his horse. While one of the Emperor’s bodyguard held the reins Lannes carefully lifted Napoleon up into the saddle and placed his right foot into its stirrup. Napoleon took the reins and breathed in deeply.

‘Your orders, sire?’ Lannes looked up at him.

‘Continue the attack, until Ratisbon is taken.’ Napoleon clicked his tongue and touched his heels in as tenderly as he could, wincing at the fiery stab in his right ankle as he did so. The horse walked forward and Napoleon steered it along the front of the regiments forming up for another attack on the enemy defences. Berthier trotted up and drew alongside.

‘Do you wish me to have your carriage brought forward?’

‘No. I will stay on my horse. Where the men can see me.’ Napoleon held up his hand to greet the nearest battalion, and a cheer rose up, loud and prolonged. It was taken up by the next formation and continued down the line of Morand’s division. Napoleon continued riding along the front rank, forcing himself to smile at his men, and exchanging greetings with their commanders as he passed by.

He reached the far end and turned to make his way back. Marshal Lannes had remounted his horse and trotted it forward so that he stood in full view of his soldiers. Napoleon reined in alongside, and forced himself to keep his expression impassive as another cannon ball grounded a short distance from the division’s band, took the head off a young drummer boy and smashed through the chest of the one behind.

Lannes took off his plumed hat and raised it high as he filled his lungs and bellowed, ‘Volunteers for the ladder party step forward!’

His voice resonated briefly in the warm air, then died away, but not a man moved. Those in the front rank stared ahead, refusing to meet the gaze of their marshal or their Emperor. Those who volunteered to carry the ladders would be advancing right behind the skirmishers and the enemy would be sure to concentrate their fire on such easy targets. The ground in front of the Austrian defences was already littered with the dead and wounded of the previous attack and the memory of the storm of fire from the walls was still fresh in the minds of the survivors.

Lannes stared at the silent, still ranks with a surprised look on his face, which swiftly turned to scorn. ‘Is there no man amongst you willing to have the honour of being the first to scale the walls? Well?’

No one moved and Napoleon was aware of a terrible tension building between the marshal and his men. If it was not resolved, and quickly, there would be no second attack. Lannes must have shared the realisation, for he glanced anxiously at his Emperor and then suddenly dismounted and strode towards the nearest of the ladders. As the soldiers looked on, Lannes picked it up and adjusted his position so that he could carry it by himself. He turned towards the men and called out contemptuously, ‘If no man here has the stomach for it, then I’ll do it alone. Before I was a marshal I was a grenadier - and I am still!’

With that, he turned away and began to march towards Ratisbon, the unwieldy ladder held in a firm grip.

‘Good God,’ Berthier muttered. ‘What on earth does he think he’s doing?’

Napoleon could not help smiling. ‘What else? His duty.’

For a moment no man stirred, then one of Lannes’s staff officers ran forward and stood in his commander’s path.

‘Sir! You can’t do this. Who will command the corps if you are killed?’

‘What do I care?’ Lannes growled. ‘Out of my way, damn you.’

He brushed the officer aside and continued towards the waiting Austrians. The other man stared after him, aghast. Then, recovering his wits, he hurried to catch up, took hold of the end of the ladder and fell into step with Lannes.

‘Wait, sir!’ one of the other staff officers called out as he and his companions ran forward, snatched up the nearest ladders and hurried after Lannes.

There was a brief pause before the colonel of the nearest battalion turned to his astonished men and bellowed, ‘What are you waiting for? I’ll be damned if I let a marshal of France take a bullet that’s meant for me! Advance!’ He drew his sword and swept it towards the town. ‘Long live France!’

The cry was taken up by his men and they lurched into movement, running down to pick up the ladders and surging after Lannes and his officers. In an uneven tide of cheering soldiers the rest of Morand’s division swept forward, snatching up the remaining ladders as they went. Napoleon felt his blood quicken at the sight and he urged his horse to advance with the rest of the men. The defenders reacted swiftly to the new threat and every gun that could be brought to bear opened fire on the wave of men rushing across the open ground towards the ditch and the wall beyond. A roundshot briefly droned close overhead and Berthier instinctively ducked his head.

‘Sire, is this wise? You’ve already been wounded. I implore you to have your leg attended to.’

‘Later. All that matters now is taking Ratisbon.’

‘With respect, sire, Marshal Lannes can handle the attack.’

‘Really?’ Napoleon glanced at his chief of staff. ‘You saw the men. You saw how fickle their mood is. If their Emperor is with them, they will not lose heart.’

Berthier bowed his head wearily. ‘I am sure you are right, sire. But what if you are killed? Right here, before the men? Not only would the attack fail but it would be a blow to the morale of the whole army.’

Napoleon forced himself to smile.‘My dear Berthier, I can assure you that the bullet that will kill me has not yet been cast. Now, enough of this. We remain with our soldiers.’

‘Yes, sire,’ Berthier replied meekly and did his best to look unperturbed as they rode on.

Ahead of them, Napoleon could make out the gold-laced uniforms of Lannes and his officers, still leading the attack as they hurried forward. They reached the ditch, half running, half slithering down the near slope before they ran at the far side and scrambled up to cross the last stretch of open ground before the wall. Above them the battlements were lined with Austrian soldiers, firing and reloading their muskets as quickly as possible as the tide of blue uniforms surged towards them. On either flank of Morand’s division, the cannon in the enemy redoubts blasted case shot into the French ranks, sweeping several men away at a time in bloody tatters. Napoleon and Berthier reined in a short distance from the ditch and watched as Lannes and his officers reached the wall. They hurriedly raised the ladder and the marshal sprang on to the lowest rungs and started to climb. On either side other ladders were thrust against the wall and the men of Morand’s division streamed up, clambering over the breastworks and falling on the defenders.

Most had fired their muskets as they closed on the wall, and now went in with the cold steel of the bayonet, or used their weapons like clubs as they fought at brutal close quarters with the Austrians. The same fate befell the defenders of the flanking redoubts as the French fought their way in through the gun embrasures and fell on the enemy gunners within. After the death wreaked by their cannon, Napoleon knew that none of the artillery crews would be spared the vengeful wrath of the attackers.

As more men climbed over the walls there was a cheer from those still outside the town as the gates began to open. For an instant Napoleon tensed, wondering if the enemy were about to launch a counter-attack, but as the gates swung back a hatless figure in an elaborate gold-laced uniform emerged from within the town.

‘That’s Lannes!’ Berthier cried out.

‘Yes.’ Napoleon grinned in relief, and nudged his horse forward towards the ditch. As the horse cautiously stepped down the slope Napoleon saw for the first time the bodies heaped along the bottom of the ditch, some badly torn up by the heavy iron balls of case shot. The horse whinnied until Napoleon leaned forward to pat its flank soothingly and urge it up the far side. Lannes was waving his men through the gate and bellowing encouragement as Napoleon and Berthier rode up to him. Napoleon noted the tear in the marshal’s uniform jacket, and the smear of blood on his neck.

‘It seems that you are the reckless one now, my dear Jean.’

Lannes looked up, then touched a gloved hand to his neck. It came away with a smear of fresh blood. ‘A scratch, sire. Nothing more.’

Napoleon glanced back over the ditch and out across the approaches to the town. He estimated that nearly a thousand Frenchmen had fallen before the walls of Ratisbon. He turned back to Lannes. ‘It would seem that you lead something of a charmed life.’

‘As do we all, sire, until the day we die.’

They shared a laugh, and Berthier joined in a little uncertainly. Then Napoleon leaned forward to give his marshal fresh instructions.‘Pass the order for your men to clear the town. Meanwhile I want you, and every other grenadier that you can find, to make directly for the bridge. We must capture it intact. Stop for nothing, and having taken it, hold on at all costs. Clear?’

‘Yes, sire.’

‘Then go.’

As Lannes trotted back into the city and called his staff officers to him, Napoleon and Berthier remained by the gate and the Emperor acknowledged the greetings of the soldiers of the follow-up regiments of the division as they marched into Ratisbon. Many, particularly the young recruits, had only ever seen their Emperor from afar, if at all, and now regarded him with excited curiosity and not a little awe. Some of the older men, with campaign stripes on their sleeves, shouted out informal greetings to Napoleon in order to impress their younger comrades. Napoleon knew that they would be holding court over the camp fires that night, telling tales about the times they had fought at the side of the Emperor when he had still been a young officer.

He waited until the first two regiments had entered the town before following them through the gate. The sounds of fighting had receded towards the river and the faint crackle of musket shots was punctuated by the occasional dull boom of a cannon from the Austrian-held bank of the Danube. There were bodies strewn along the street leading from the gates, both French and Austrian. The dead and wounded had been hurriedly dragged aside so as not to hold up the troops marching through. The living sat propped up against the walls, waiting to be helped to the rear where their injuries would eventually be treated. Some raised a cheer as Napoleon rode by, others stared blankly, too shocked or in too much pain to care.

Ahead of them the street opened out into a square which the enemy had been using as a vehicle park. The space was lined with the ornately decorated facades that Napoleon had grown used to seeing in the small villages and towns on the banks of the Danube. Artillery limbers, ammunition caissons and supply wagons were packed tightly together in the middle of the square.

On the far side, Napoleon could see the broad route that led to the bridge that crossed the great river. A throng of blue-coated soldiers was pressing across the bridge. Napoleon spurred his horse forward. As he approached the end of the bridge he saw Lannes and his officers on a landing stage to one side. Beyond them the water of the Danube stretched out for over a hundred paces to the first of the small islands that lay between the two banks. The bridge, built on massive stone buttresses, extended right across the great river, passing over the islands to the far side. Napoleon could see that it was so solid that it could not easily be destroyed by gunpowder charges. Dense formations of enemy soldiers and several artillery batteries were clearly visible covering the far end of the bridge. Beyond them, on the slope rising up from the river, sprawled the camp of Archduke Charles’s army. Even as Napoleon watched, the French troops on the bridge began to give way under the vicious fusillade of musket balls and grapeshot sweeping the length of the bridge. The men fell back, the more resolute amongst them pausing to fire a last shot from cover before scurrying back to the shelter of the buildings lining the river.

At the sound of hooves approaching over the cobbled road, Lannes turned and he and his officers bowed their heads in greeting.

‘Make your report,’ Napoleon ordered as he reined in. The pain in his ankle had subsided into a steady throb and he had to force himself to pay full attention to the marshal.

‘The town is ours, sire. Most of the enemy managed to escape across the river, but we have a few hundred prisoners, and have taken twenty guns. A handful of the Austrians are still holding some buildings in the eastern quarter of Ratisbon, but they’ll be dealt with shortly. As for our losses—’

‘That’s not important now. Is the bridge safe?’

Lannes nodded. ‘Major Dubarry of the engineers has checked for charges. It seems the Austrians had no intention of trying to destroy the bridge.’

‘Good. Then we still have a chance to pursue Archduke Charles.’ Lannes raised his eyebrows momentarily. ‘Sire, as you can see, the enemy holds the far bank. We cannot force a crossing here. The enemy has escaped us, for the present.’

Napoleon pressed his lips together and fought to contain his temper. It had been over ten days since he had had a good night’s rest and in the sudden surge of anger he recognised the symptoms of exhaustion. Lannes was not to blame. As he stared across the river Napoleon could see for himself that any further attempts to cross the bridge would only lead to a bloody massacre. He felt a sudden heaviness in his heart as he contemplated the impasse. The Austrians had managed to put the Danube between them and their pursuers. If they moved parallel to the French army then they could block any attempt to cross the river and bring them to battle.

He sighed bitterly. ‘It seems that the enemy have learned their lesson from the last war. Archduke Charles will think twice before accepting a battle on my terms.’

‘We can find another crossing point, sire,’ Berthier replied. ‘Massйna is marching on Straubing. If he crosses the river before the Austrians stop him, then he can attack their flank.’

‘On his own?’ Napoleon shook his head. ‘Even if Massйna did manage to surprise the Austrians they can simply retreat into the German states to the north, and try to win over their allegiance while drawing us after them, and away from Vienna.’ He paused a moment and gently scratched the stubble on his chin. ‘No. We’ll not play Archduke Charles’s game. Instead, we must try to make him follow us.’

‘How, sire?’

‘We march on Vienna. I doubt the Austrians will be prepared to let us occupy their capital a second time.’

Lannes gestured to the enemy forces massed on the far bank. ‘And what if they cross back over and try to cut our communications?’

Napoleon smiled. ‘Then we turn on them and force them to fight. My guess is that they will not have the stomach to risk that for a while yet. So, we take the war to Vienna, my friends. Then we shall have our battle.’

Chapter 2

The Austrian army withdrew during the night and Napoleon sent Davout and his corps across the Danube to keep in contact with the enemy, and harass them. Meanwhile, the main army marched east, towards Vienna, pushing the remaining Austrian forces ahead of them. The spring weather remained fine and the soldiers of the French army tramped across the enemy’s lands in high spirits.

All the while Napoleon carefully scrutinised the regular intelligence reports sent to him by Davout. As soon as the threat to Vienna became clear Archduke Charles had turned his army round and set off along the north bank of the Danube in a bid to reach his capital city before the French. There was little chance of that, Napoleon calculated, since the Austrian army had always marched at a ponderous pace. The only news that concerned him came from Italy, where Archduke Charles’s brother, Archduke John, had bested the French army there. It was possible that John might march back towards Vienna in an attempt to combine the Austrian armies against Napoleon.

Early in May, the spires and roofs of the Austrian capital came within sight of the French army and Napoleon gave the order for the artillery to prepare to bombard Vienna. Before the guns could open fire the gates of the city opened and a small party of civilians rode out.

‘I wonder what they want?’ Berthier mused as he raised his telescope and watched them cautiously approach the French pickets. He turned to his Emperor. ‘Maybe they want to sue for peace already.’

‘I would hope so,’ Napoleon replied. ‘But if they intend to defend Vienna, then this time I will not hesitate to flatten the city. There will be no third chance for Emperor Francis to defy me.’ Napoleon gestured for the telescope and squinted through the eyepiece. There were five men in civilian clothes, together with a small mounted escort from the city’s militia.

‘Have them brought to the main battery,’ Napoleon instructed Berthier.‘I’ll meet them there. Might as well let them see what they can expect if they fail to meet my demands.’

‘Yes, sire.’ Berthier nodded and wheeled his horse away to carry out the order. Napoleon turned his gaze from the approaching horsemen to the defences of the city beyond. There were a handful of forts guarding the approaches to Vienna, and then the walls. However, there were no signs of life in any of the forts, and no flags or regimental standards flying over them. He lowered the telescope with a slight frown and muttered, ‘What the hell are they playing at?’

Half an hour later Napoleon, together with Berthier and a squadron of Guard cavalry, rode into the main battery to meet the enemy deputation. On either side the line of twelve-pounders stretched out across the Austrian countryside. Fifty yards behind them lay the caissons, loaded with powder and shot, ready to feed the guns when they opened fire on Vienna. The gun crews had completed their preparations and stood close by their weapons, watching the Austrians curiously. At Napoleon’s approach the gunners cheered and he indulged it a moment as he slowed his mount to a slow walk and fixed the Austrians with a hard stare. They removed their hats and bowed their heads curtly as the French Emperor raised a hand to quieten his men. Once the cheers had died away Napoleon cleared his throat and addressed the man at the head of the Austrian deputation. The official was tall and thin, and his dark curls were streaked with grey. His coat was finely embroidered with gold lace and a broad red ribbon hung across his shoulder. Napoleon spoke curtly.

‘What is the purpose of your presence here?’

‘Sire, I represent the mayor of Vienna. His honour respectfully requests an audience with you.’

‘Your name?’

‘Baron Karinsky, sire.’

‘Tell me what your master wants.’

‘Yes, sire. He wishes to discuss terms for the surrender of Vienna.’

‘Vienna? I see.’ Napoleon paused. ‘And has Emperor Francis agreed to the surrender of his capital?’

‘As far as I understand, sire.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘His imperial majesty and the court have left the city, sire. The mayor was left in charge with orders to defend it for as long as is practicable.’

‘Then this offer relates to Vienna alone?’ asked Berthier.

‘Indeed, sir.’

‘There is no intention on the part of Emperor Francis to discuss an armistice?’

‘Not as far as I am aware.’

Berthier exchanged a look with Napoleon, who let out a brief sigh of frustration before he continued addressing Karinsky.

‘So why is the mayor preparing to discuss surrender before we have fired a single shot?’

The Austrian gestured towards the city. ‘The garrison has already withdrawn from the walls, sire. On the orders of Archduke Charles. All that remains is the militia. Accordingly, the mayor has determined that he cannot defend the city. Out of compassion for the inhabitants of Vienna he believes it would be better to surrender rather than waste lives in a pointless attempt to resist you, sire.’

‘Where is the garrison now?’ Napoleon snapped.

‘They have retreated across the Danube.’

Napoleon stared at the man briefly. ‘And the bridges are intact?’

The man lowered his eyes as he replied. ‘They were when I left the city, sire.’

Napoleon turned to Berthier. ‘Send a cavalry division forward. Tell Bessiиres I want his men to take those bridges at once. We must have access to the far bank if we are to—’

He was interrupted by a faint roar and looked towards Vienna. Beyond the city skyline he could see a billowing column of smoke rising up into the clear sky. A moment later there was a second explosion and more smoke, followed by two more blasts that echoed across the landscape towards the startled leading elements of the French army.

‘They’ve blown the bridges,’ Berthier said quietly.

Napoleon nodded, and glared at Baron Karinsky. ‘Tell the mayor Vienna is to surrender unconditionally. If he does not surrender the city within the hour, then I will order my guns to pulverise your capital. Is that clear?’

Karinsky shook his head. ‘Sire, I am not authorised to negotiate with you. My master simply sent me here to invite you to speak with him.’

‘There is nothing to say. There will be no negotiations. Tell him that I demand he surrender, and that if he fails to do so then the death and destruction that I will rain down on Vienna will be his responsibility.’

The Austrian opened his mouth to protest but Napoleon took out his watch and glanced down briefly. ‘It is now just gone eleven o’clock. If the city has not surrendered by noon I will order the guns to open fire. It would be wise of you to waste no time in informing the mayor of my terms.’

Karinsky frowned and then abruptly turned his horse about and spurred it into a gallop as he headed back down the road to Vienna.

As soon as the gates of Vienna were thrown open to the French army, Napoleon and his chief engineer, General Bertrand, rode through the city to assess the condition of the demolished bridges. The Austrian engineers had done a thorough job. The central spans of each bridge had been blown, and the buttressed piles were little more than heaps of masonry in the swiftly flowing current of the Danube. On the far side of the river the enemy was busy building barricades across the ends of the ruined bridges. On the flanks artillery batteries were being constructed to cover the river in case the French engineers attempted to make any repairs to the blown spans.

Napoleon gazed at the bridges with a heavy heart. The enemy would be safe until the French could find another way across the river.

General Bertrand had finished surveying the bridges and the Austrian forces beyond, and clicked his tongue. ‘It would be suicide to attempt any repairs, sire.’

‘I can see that for myself,’ Napoleon replied testily. ‘If we can’t cross here, then we must find somewhere else.’

‘Yes, sire.’ Bertand nodded thoughtfully as he removed his hat and scratched the thin strands of hair plastered to his skull. ‘The main problem is the current. As you can see, the river flows quickly, particularly at this time of year. Any sudden storms can only make matters worse. If there is a sudden flood, then our pontoons could be carried away.’

‘Very well, then. Where do you suggest?’

‘I’ve considered a few possibilities already, sire, having questioned the local people.’ Bertrand delved into his saddlebag and unrolled a map. He pointed a gloved finger at the map where it indicated the banks of the river, downstream from Vienna. ‘I think this looks promising, sire. Here, opposite the island of Lobau. It’s over eight hundred yards from our bank to the island, but from there to the far bank it’s only another hundred yards. And the width of the river means that the current is slower there than elsewhere as well.’

Napoleon nodded approvingly. ‘Good. Assuming this site is suitable you are to begin work the moment the bridging train reaches the army. The wagons carrying the pontoons are to have priority over all other vehicles on the road. Issue orders for that in my name.’

‘Yes, sire.’

‘I want the river bridged as quickly as possible. Understand? There’s no time to waste. The army must be across the Danube in less than a week if we are to defeat Archduke Charles.’

Bertrand puffed his cheeks. ‘As you order, sire.’

Smiling coldly Napoleon turned his attention back to the enemy troops on the far bank. The latest reports from Davout indicated that Archduke Charles and his army were still some distance from Vienna, on the far bank. If Bertrand could bridge the Danube quickly the Austrians would be caught between Napoleon and Davout and be forced to give battle. The odds would be in Napoleon’s favour, as further reinforcements under Marshal Bernadotte were marching from Dresden to join him. Provided the French army kept up its momentum Archduke Charles should be defeated before his brother arrived to help him.

Five days after the fall of Vienna, the wagons carrying the pontoons arrived and Bertrand began work on the bridge. Napoleon joined his senior engineer to watch the progress as each raft was manhandled down into the river and rowed out into the current with long oars, until it was in position to drop a heavy anchor upstream. The engineers paid off the cable until the pontoon was in line with those already secured in place; then the pontoon was linked with lengths of timber and covered in decking. A covering force of infantry had been landed on the island and they quickly flushed out the handful of Austrian defenders. General Bertrand drove his men hard and the Danube was bridged in little over a day and a half. The moment the task was complete, the first of the cavalry units began to cross.

‘Fine work!’ Napoleon congratulated the general when he reported the news to the Emperor in person, just after midday. The forward headquarters had been established in a small village close to the end of the bridge, and the countryside around was crowded with men, horses, cannon and their limbers and wagons, as the army massed ready to cross.

‘Thank you, sire.’ Bertrand bowed his head. He had not slept for nearly three days and his exhaustion was evident.

‘What of the last stage?’ Berthier asked. ‘The crossing from Lobau island to the far bank?’

‘The pontoons will cross to the island this afternoon, and we’ll bridge the final gap tonight.’

‘Excellent.’ Napoleon smiled warmly. ‘Then by dawn we’ll have our bridgehead. Massйna’s corps will take the villages of Essling and Aspern and then the rest of the army can cross.’

Marshal Lannes leaned forward in his chair and cleared his throat. ‘That’s all very well, sire, but can we be sure that the enemy will not contest our landing on the far bank?’

‘Rest assured, my dear Lannes, the Austrian army is still many days’ march away. The first they’ll know about our crossing the Danube is when the cannon announce our presence. By then, it will be too late to do anything but give battle.’

‘But if the Austrians are closer than you have calculated, then we could be advancing into a trap of our own making. Sire, I urge caution. We are advancing over a fast-flowing river on a single bridge. What if this span broke, or was destroyed? Then the army would be cut in half. The vanguard would be at the mercy of the enemy if they could gather sufficient forces to oppose us. Sire, it is too much of a risk.’

‘The enemy are not strong enough to hamper the river crossing, I assure you. War is the realm of risk, chance and opportunity. In this case it is my judgement that the opportunity outweighs the risk.’ Napoleon’s tone hardened.‘Gentlemen, the orders are given and the army begins to cross the Danube tonight.’

THE IBERIAN PENINSULA

Chapter 3

Arthur

Abrantes, Portugal, June 1809

General Sir Arthur Wellesley lowered the letter with a frustrated sigh and leaned back in his chair. Even though he sat in the shade outside the small tavern the noon heat was stifling. Not so bad as India, he recalled, but beyond reasonable comfort all the same. He had taken off his coat and sat bareheaded at a plain trestle table as he dealt with the morning’s reports and correspondence. The army had halted at the Portuguese town of Abrantes several days earlier as it waited for supplies and money. The latter was Arthur’s most pressing concern. Not only had his men not been paid for over two months, but there were also numerous bills that required settling with Portuguese grain merchants and horse dealers, as well as the need for twenty thousand pairs of boots to replace those worn out by his men. It was Arthur’s policy that the British army must pay its way in the Peninsula if it was to enjoy the continued support of the Portuguese and Spanish people. His army was outnumbered at least five to one as things stood and the British could not afford the enmity of the people across whose land they campaigned.

Arthur knew that the French took a less enlightened view regarding their supplies, and lived off the land with no regard for the consequent attitude of the local people. As a result the French had incurred the wrath of the Spanish and Portuguese peasants who now waged a pitiless war of resistance, ambushing French patrols, harassing their columns and butchering any stragglers left behind.

Arthur looked down the steep slope towards the river Tagus. The water flowed with a serene grace through hills planted with groves of olive and fruit trees and the men of the British army were enjoying a hard-earned rest as they waited for their commander to decide on his next steps. Hundreds of soldiers were lining the bank, taking the chance to wash their clothes, while the more adventurous had stripped and were splashing in the shallows.

Arthur permitted himself a small smile as he regarded them. The men had performed well at Oporto a month earlier, where they had surprised Marshal Soult and sent him fleeing towards Spain, abandoning all his artillery and wagons in the process. Besides proving that they could march hard, the redcoats had shown that they could stand up to the fanatical attacks of the French at the earlier battle of Vimeiro. Arthur was confident that his army, even outnumbered as it was, had the beating of all the marshals and men of Napoleon’s forces in the Peninsula, provided that the French were prevented from concentrating their armies. That was the trick of it, Arthur reflected. He must defeat them in detail until the Peninsula was liberated. Conversely, he dare not let his army suffer a single setback.

He commanded the largest British army in the field and there were many at home in England who loudly questioned the sagacity of supporting such a large force in the Peninsula, far from the vital battlefields of central Europe, where Arthur’s men could be better used. He disagreed. It was best to deploy valuable British soldiers where they stood a good chance of tipping the scales. Even so, Arthur’s political masters had proved reluctant to allow him to take risks. Or they had been until the victory at Oporto. Then, true to form, the politicians had veered from caution to opportunism in an instant.

Before Oporto Arthur had been forbidden from entering Spain without the express permission of the British government. Now that the news of the victory had arrived in London, together with Arthur’s report of his pursuit of Soult as far as the Spanish border, the Prime Minister had sent him a despatch expressing his disappointment that Arthur had not fully exploited his success. The Prime Minister now urged Arthur to invade Spain, capture Madrid and drive the French out.

Arthur heard footsteps approaching the table and looked up to see his senior aide de camp approaching. Lord Fitzroy Somerset was a handsome youth, but unlike many of the other younger officers in the army he dedicated himself to his duties with a high degree of organisation and intelligence. He had proved to be a valuable member of Arthur’s small team of staff officers and the general had come to rely on him and, on occasion, seek his opinion.

‘Good morning, sir,’ Somerset smiled, proffering a small bundle of letters.

‘Put them there, on the corner of the table. You can deal with them in a moment. For now, read this.’ Arthur pushed the despatch he had been reading across the table to Somerset as the latter pulled up a stool and sat down.

Somerset picked up the document and read through it quickly, his expression settling into an irritated frown as his gaze flitted across the text. He looked up as he lowered the letter.

‘He must be joking.’

‘Only at my expense,’ Arthur muttered.

‘Sir, this is preposterous. They get one whiff of victory and then want the impossible.’

Arthur sighed. ‘You are right, of course. It is impossible. We have barely twenty-five thousand men under arms, and another fifteen if you include Beresford and his Portuguese troops. Against us Joseph Bonaparte has perhaps as many as a quarter of a million men. It is true that many of the enemy are tied down in garrisons but they must still be marched upon and destroyed, and any siege is a costly affair.’ He paused briefly. ‘Speaking of cost, it appears that His Majesty’s treasury has declined to send me the four hundred thousand pounds I requested to fund our operations here. I am told that they have decided that the hundred and twenty thousand already sent is sufficient for the foreseeable future. It barely covers our existing debts.’

‘At least we should be able to pay those off soon enough, sir,’ Somerset responded, as he began to open and read the morning’s despatches. ‘Once Cradock returns from Cadiz.’

Arthur nodded. Cradock was one of his senior officers, entrusted with a hundred thousand pounds’ worth of captured bullion to be converted into Portuguese dollars. He was due back any day, and once there was money in the army’s war chest Arthur would be able to lead his men against the French once more and enter Spain. The Spanish junta, the government opposed to the regime of Joseph Bonaparte in Madrid, had offered to co-operate with the British and Arthur was bidden to join forces with General Cuesta to the west of the capital. Britain’s ally promised to provide ample supplies of food and ammunition to the redcoat army marching to their aid. Arthur had been promised much by the Portuguese government and received little, and feared that he could only expect the same from the Spanish.

Somerset cleared his throat as he looked at a lengthy list of names on a sheet of paper.‘More bad news, sir. A score at least of our officers have requested reappointment to the Portuguese army.’

Arthur’s heart sank at the news. ‘How many is that so far?’

Somerset paused a moment to think. ‘Must be over a hundred by now.’

Dearth of supplies was not the only difficulty facing the army,Arthur mused ruefully. The men were in good enough spirits, despite the frustration of watching Soult escape when they reached the border, but the mood amongst many of the officers was far less encouraging. In an army where commissions were bought and sold like any other commodity, those without a family fortune or access to large loans were often destined to spend the whole of their careers as junior officers. So it came as little surprise when many of them requested a transfer to the Portuguese army where they would be assured of swift promotion and far better pay. Beresford, charged with training and leading the Portuguese army, had already been promoted to the rank of marshal, technically outranking Arthur himself. It was frustrating to lose good officers this way, but at least they would be helping to improve the performance of Britain’s allies. Besides, Arthur could not begrudge the unfortunate officers unable to buy their chance of advancement in the British army. If only some of his more incompetent subordinates could be induced to transfer to the colours of Portugal along with the others, Arthur mused briefly.

He nodded wearily. ‘Very well. Have their applications approved in my name. Then send a memo to the War Office to notify them of the relevant vacancies in our ranks.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Somerset continued working through the morning’s paperwork and then paused as he came across a small, neatly addressed bundle of letters. He cleared his throat and held the bundle up. ‘Correspondence from Lady Wellesley, sir.’

Arthur glanced up briefly. ‘Put it with the rest. I’ll attend to it when I have the time.’

Somerset was still for an instant, as if considering adding some further comment, and then put the bundle in the wooden tray reserved for low priority papers. Arthur felt a flicker of irritation at the imputed reproach of his aide. After all, he had an army to command, with all the duties that came with the post. His wife was back in London in a comfortable house, surrounded by servants. Yet Kitty contrived to drag him into making decisions about the pettiest issues of domestic management. While he found her news of friends, family and society mildly diverting, his heart began to sink when Kitty turned to the more substantial issues that consumed her thoughts: how to end the service of a difficult or incompetent maid, or whether to redecorate a room, or her latest choice of school for their sons, even though they were little more than infants. Despite his polite efforts to encourage her to take charge of the family’s affairs whilst he was away on campaign, thus far she had proved to have little faith in her ability to do so. Privately, it infuriated Arthur, just as it did when one of his officers failed to show the initiative required of his rank and responsibilities. It occurred to him that a wife and a subordinate might not be quite the same thing, but he dismissed the notion. A wife had duties, just the same as a man, and should be measured by how well she carried them out.

Marrying Kitty had been a mistake, he accepted. Nevertheless, the deed was done, though for all the wrong reasons save one: that he had given his word that he would marry her before he set off for India. She had waited for his return and so Arthur had dutifully married her, though her looks and youthful charms had long since faded. Now, if he were honest, he was glad to be away from her.

As he shook thoughts of Kitty aside, Arthur spied a movement on the far side of the river. A small convoy of wagons was snaking through the olive trees down towards the bridge that crossed the Tagus. A thin gauze of dust hung about the wagons as they rattled along the crude roadway. Two squadrons of cavalry escorted the convoy, one at its head and the other guarding the rear.

‘Somerset.’

‘Sir?’

‘See those wagons down there, on the far bank, approaching the bridge?’

Somerset looked in the direction indicated. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Ride down there and see if it’s Cradock. If it is, send him directly to me.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Somerset lowered the document he was reading, saluted and made his way over to the horse line where several mounts waited in the shade of some cedar trees, their tails flicking at the flies that buzzed round them in a constant cloud. He unhitched the reins and swung himself up on to the saddle of the nearest horse, then spurred it towards the track that led down to the bridge.

While he waited, Arthur pulled a blank sheet of paper towards him and took up a pen. He paused a moment as he composed the arguments necessary to try to squeeze more money and men from the government. Try as he might,Arthur could think of no new way to state the obvious. If the politicians in London were serious about winning the war then they would provide the means to see it through. If they were not serious, then whatever Arthur said would not sway them from the path to defeat. All that he could do was lay the facts in front of his political masters and trust to their good sense. With a deep, weary sigh, he flipped open the cap of the inkwell, dipped his pen and began to write.

‘Cradock!’ Arthur looked up as Somerset returned with another officer. He lowered his pen and rose from his chair, leaving the table to greet the new arrival. Cradock’s short jacket and bicorne hat were covered with dust, which had also settled into the creases of his face, making him look far older than he was. ‘Good to see you!’

Cradock saluted briefly and grinned. ‘And you, sir.’

‘How was the journey?’ Arthur asked, and then shook his head apologetically. ‘By God, where are my manners? You must be hot and thirsty. Somerset, get you to the innkeeper and have some refreshment brought here.’

Somerset nodded and hurried away. Arthur turned his attention back to Cradock and lowered his voice. ‘I’ll ask about the journey later. First, tell me that you have changed the Spanish gold.’

‘Yes, sir. It’s locked away in pay chests in the wagons. Though I’ll admit that a hundred thousand in gold doesn’t buy as much Portuguese currency as one would like.’

Arthur looked sharply at him. ‘Explain yourself.’

‘It’s the money changers, sir. They knew how much we needed the money and charged a somewhat higher commission than we were expecting. I did what I could to get the best deal.’

Arthur frowned. ‘Damn them! The Spanish are fighting to survive, and we’re putting our heads on the block to try to help them, yet those blasted bankers still try to get their claws on every last penny that passes before them. By God, sometimes they forget whose side they’re on.’

‘Alas, sir.’ Cradock shook his head. ‘ ’Tis a well-known fact that bankers are a nation unto themselves and damned be the rest.’

‘Amen to that,’ Arthur said with feeling. ‘Anyway, the greed of bankers notwithstanding, at least the army can move forward again.’ He nodded down towards the river where twenty or thirty men were spraying handfuls of glittering water at each other. ‘It will do the men good to remember that we are here to fight the French, not play like children.’

Cradock gazed longingly down towards the river. ‘I suppose so, sir. But I have to say they’ve earned their pleasure.’

‘Maybe.’ Arthur pursed his lips. ‘But there’s a long road ahead of us, Cradock.’

Somerset emerged from the inn, followed by a teenage boy carrying a tray with some old chipped glasses and a bottle of white wine. He set it down on the table, bowed his head and withdrew.

Arthur nodded to Somerset. ‘You do the honours.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Somerset pulled out the cork stopper and half filled each glass before handing one to Arthur and Cradock. Arthur raised his and smiled. ‘Gentlemen, the toast is death to the French, and an end to tyranny!’

‘Aye!’ Cradock agreed and the three officers downed the wine. It was cooler than Arthur anticipated and he guessed that the owner of the inn kept a deep cellar beneath his house. He set his glass down with a sharp tap on the table and turned to Somerset.

‘Right then, pass the word to all the senior officers. The army is to prepare to march.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Somerset smiled. ‘In case I am asked, might I enquire in which direction the army will advance?’

‘Why, towards Spain, of course. Towards Spain, and glory.’

Chapter 4

The early days of June brought renewed heat that beat down on the columns of the British army as it tramped along the dusty road towards Madrid. The hearty spirit that had upheld the men as they crossed the Portuguese border had soon faded as they settled into the exhausting routine of rising before dawn to break camp and begin the day’s marching in the coolest hours of the morning. The infantry trudged forward, bent under the load they carried in their wooden-framed backpacks. The cavalry rode half a mile out on each flank, their kit hung behind the saddle, tightly stuffed forage nets slung across the pommel. A screen of light horse fanned out some distance ahead of the army, watching for signs of the enemy, and the outriders of General Cuesta.

As the sun rose across the barren Spanish landscape it washed a warm ruddy glow over the British soldiers and suffused the choking dust kicked up by boots, wheels and hooves with a fiery hue. As Arthur and his small staff rode to the side of the main column, far enough away not to be bothered by the dust, he was amused to think that any Englishman at home who might suddenly be transported to Spain would hardly recognise these soldiers as his compatriots. Most of the men had sprouted beards and their uniforms were worn and patched, their shakos battered and badly misshapen. The red woollen cloth in which British soldiers were normally dressed was almost unknown in Portugal and the men had to make do with the cheap local material, which seemed to be available in brown only. After the first months of campaigning the makeshift repairs to uniforms and the accumulation of dust meant that the British army appeared to be predominantly clothed in a murky brown.

By late morning the sun was overhead and its harsh glare seemed to bleach the colour out of the landscape and send a silvery shimmer squirming along the horizon of the flat plain ahead of the army. Now the men began to suffer most from thirst as the dust dried out their throats and parched their lips. Their sergeants and officers, mindful of the need to conserve water in this dry land, watched their men closely to make sure that they did not consume too much from their canteens during the day’s march.

Once noon had come the army had usually advanced fifteen or so miles and was ready to halt and make camp. After the battalions had been dismissed, the men set up their makeshift tents and shelters and rested in the shade until late in the afternoon, when they ventured out to find wood for the cooking fires, and see if the local people had any food or drink to sell. Arthur had made sure that every soldier was aware that he would not countenance any looting. The least a man could expect was a public flogging if he was caught in the act.

At dusk the first fires were lit and the men cooked a stew of their pooled rations, and any game or fresh meat they had been able to buy, all added into the large pot suspended over the flames. After they had eaten, they would sit and talk. Some broke into song, accompanied by a fiddle or a flute as darkness gathered over the camp. Then the fires were built up and the men turned to their bedrolls and settled down to sleep. Those on sentry duty would be roused when their turn came during the night, while their comrades slumbered, resting before being roused to begin the whole process all over again - the timeless routine of an army on the march.

As the British advanced along the banks of the Tagus towards Madrid, Arthur began to be concerned over the lack of news from General Cuesta. Then one evening, as the army settled for the night some ten miles from the foothills of the Sierra de Gredos, Somerset brought a Spanish officer to Arthur’s tent. Stepping through the flaps, the aide saluted.

‘Sir, beg to report, there’s a messenger from General Cuesta outside.’

‘Ah, at last!’ Arthur nodded. ‘Please, bring him in.’

Somerset drew the flap aside and beckoned to the waiting officer. A moment later a short, swarthy man entered and stood in the glow of the lamp hanging from the central tent post. Arthur and the Spaniard regarded each other briefly in silence. Arthur took in the other’s dark eyes and thin moustache, and the elaborate braiding that all but covered his green coat and tasselled hat.

‘I bid you welcome, sir.’ Arthur bowed his head. ‘I am Lieutenant-General Sir Arthur Wellesley. I have the honour to command his majesty’s forces in the Peninsula.’ He gestured towards Somerset. ‘I take it you have already been introduced to my aide.’

The Spaniard nodded curtly and then presented his right leg and bowed deeply before he rose again and spoke in fluent English. ‘I am General Juan O’Donoju, of the army of Andalusia.’

Arthur cocked an eyebrow. ‘Did you say O’Donohue?’

The other man smiled faintly. ‘That was the name of my forefathers, sir. When the family was obliged to leave Ireland we took on a Spanish form of the name.’

‘Bless my soul,’ Arthur muttered before he recovered his equanimity. ‘I apologise, sir. I had not expected to find an Irishman serving as a general in the army of Spain.’

‘I hardly consider myself to be Irish, Sir Arthur. I was born in Seville and have never set foot in Ireland. So you may rest assured that I harbour no ill will towards you on account of the shameful manner in which the British have treated my ancestors.’

‘What?’ Arthur glared at him.‘Oh, I see. That’s just as well then, since we are allies.’

‘As the fortunes of war would have it, sir.’ O’Donoju flashed his teeth again. ‘For the present.’

‘Er, yes.’ Arthur cleared his throat. ‘Now then, General. I take it you have a message for me from Cuesta.’

‘From his excellency, General Gregorio Garcнa de la Cuesta, yes,’ O’Donoju corrected Arthur with heavy emphasis. He paused briefly before he continued. ‘He told me to convey to you his great joy that his brave soldiers will be fighting at the side of our British allies. He is certain that together we will soon put an end to the French cowards skulking in Madrid. Before the summer is out we will have won a glorious victory that will be an everlasting tribute to the alliance between Spain and Britain.’ The Spanish officer paused briefly before he concluded, ‘His excellency is most gratified to hear that Spain’s new ally has sent you and your men to reinforce our army in this endeavour.’

Arthur exchanged a quick look with Somerset before he responded, ‘I fear that his excellency is misinformed concerning my purpose here. I am under orders to co-operate with Spanish forces, not to reinforce them as such.’

O’Donoju shrugged his shoulders. ‘It is merely a form of words, sir. His excellency is the senior officer and has sent me to offer greetings to his new subordinate.’

Arthur saw Somerset stiffen out of the corner of his eye, but nevertheless managed to keep his expression neutral as he responded in a reasonable tone. ‘And I, of course, send greetings to him and look forward to working with him to defeat our common enemy. Before we can achieve that it is necessary that I confer with his excellency to determine our common strategy. May I enquire as to his present location?’

O’Donoju nodded. ‘His excellency has informed me that he will meet you at the fort of Miravete, near Almaraz, on the tenth of July. Do you know the fort, sir?’

Arthur thought a moment. ‘I can’t recall seeing it on our maps.’

‘It is some sixty miles from here,’ O’Donoju explained. ‘I will send you a guide when I report back to his excellency.’

‘The tenth of July?’ Somerset intervened. ‘That’s three days from now. The army can’t possibly march so far in that time.’

O’Donoju shrugged. ‘That is his excellency’s order.’

Arthur cleared his throat with a quick warning glance at Somerset to hold his tongue. ‘Tell General Cuesta that I will be there. I shall take a small escort and ride ahead of my army. Your guide can meet me on the road and take me to this fort of yours. In the meantime, I would be grateful if you would inform the general—’

‘His excellency,’ O’Donoju intervened. ‘That is his correct title, sir.’

‘Of course. Please inform his excellency that my men will require supplies of food and ammunition, which the junta in Cadiz has promised us. I take it that his excellency has made the necessary arrangements in that regard?’

‘Naturally. A Spanish gentleman’s word is his bond, sir.’

‘I am delighted to hear it. Now then.’Arthur adopted a friendly tone. ‘I take it that you will be remaining with us tonight. Somerset can escort you to the officers’ mess and find you a bed for the night.’

‘Alas, I will not be able to enjoy your hospitality, sir. I must return at once.’

‘In the dark?’

‘I know the road well, sir. If there are any enemy patrols, I can avoid them easily enough.’

‘As you wish. I will see you again on the tenth.’

They exchanged a bow and then O’Donoju left the tent, to be shown back to his horse by Somerset. Arthur eased himself forward in his seat and folded his hands together as a rest for his chin as he stared at the canvas wall of the tent opposite his campaign desk. He was under orders to co-operate with the Spanish yet he could not help a degree of anxiety at the prospect of relying on their promise to supply his army. When Somerset returned to the tent, Arthur sat up and sighed wearily.

‘What do you make of our Spanish friend?’

Somerset hurriedly composed a tactful response. ‘He seemed keen enough to take the fight to the enemy, sir.’

‘That may be so.’ Arthur rubbed his forehead. ‘The fact is that our Spanish allies have won all too few victories over the French. Cuesta himself was badly beaten at Medellin back in April. Still, if we combine our strengths we should be able to give a decent account of ourselves when we meet the enemy. The latest intelligence reports say that Marshal Victor’s corps is defending the approaches to Madrid. I am told he has little more than twenty thousand men. If that’s true, then if we combine with Cuesta we should outnumber Victor two to one. That should be enough to guarantee us a victory.’

Somerset tilted his head to one side. ‘I hope so, sir. Provided General Cuesta knows his business.’

Arthur shrugged. ‘Well, I shall only be in a position to judge that once I have had the chance to meet the man.’ He paused. ‘Pardon me. I meant to say his excellency.’

Somerset chuckled for a moment before he asked,‘Do you intend to accept Cuesta’s claim to overall command of our combined forces?’

Arthur’s eyes widened. ‘By God, man, are you quite mad? Of course not. We have a common enemy, that is all. I command this army, not Cuesta. That we are here in the Peninsula is down to the pursuit of the British interest in this war. At present it suits us to assist the Spanish, but we have written them no blank cheque. On that account you can rest assured.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Somerset looked relieved.

‘Now then, the interruption is over.’ Arthur gestured to the paperwork on the table. ‘Come, let us finish this and get some rest. I suspect we will need it sorely in the days to come.’

Arthur sat in his saddle in silence. Behind him the thirty dragoons of his escort were halted, under strict orders not to make a sound as they waited in the darkness for the Spanish guide to return. He had reached the army in the morning, presenting his credentials from General O’Donoju, and been escorted into Arthur’s presence. The guide was a young peasant, dressed in a crude jerkin and filthy shirt and trousers. He wore a straw sun hat and rode on a mule which was accompanied by a swirling cloud of insects. The boy spoke only a few words of English and Arthur had been obliged to summon one of his Castilian-speaking staff officers to interpret. Despite promising that he could take Arthur to the fort, the youth had lost his way at dusk and the small party had been led up one path after another into the hills, before backtracking and trying yet another. The map that Arthur had brought with him was useless, with little reliable detail beyond the course of the river and the towns and villages lining the route to Madrid.

There was a sudden scrape of gravel on the track ahead and Arthur felt his muscles tense. His mount sensed the change and raised its head, ears twitching. The sound came again, stopped, and then a low voice sounded from the shadows.

‘English . . . English, where you?’

Arthur felt the tension drain from his muscles as swiftly as it had come. ‘Here!’

The guide clicked his tongue and flicked a cane on his mule’s rump as he came forward and then reined in a short distance from Arthur.

‘I find the fort! You come. This way.’

‘Are you certain?’

‘Come, come.’

Arthur held up his hand to stop the guide and turned back to the column. ‘Lieutenant, I’d be obliged if you translated.’

When the dragoon officer had joined him Arthur nodded towards the guide.‘Ask him if he is certain he has found the right path this time.’

There was a brief exchange before the lieutenant turned back to Arthur.‘He says it is. He also says that General Cuesta is not pleased that you failed to arrive at the appointed time.’

‘Really? Perhaps if he had provided us with a proper guide instead of this halfwit then I would have been there long ago . . . No, don’t translate that, you fool. Just tell him to lead us to the fort without any further delay.’

The youth beckoned to Arthur and turned his mule back up the track and Arthur hurriedly spurred his horse into a walk before he could lose sight of the guide. The track wound its way between two hills and then began to climb a steep incline. At length Arthur could see a glow at the top of the slope above them and then, as the track evened out, he saw the walls of an old fort ahead of them, brilliantly illuminated by the torches that flickered along the battlements. As the guide led them towards the gate Arthur could see that a company of soldiers had formed up on either side of the track, muskets resting on shoulders as they waited. A figure on horseback sat before the gate, watching and waiting. He shouted an order over his shoulder and there was further commotion within the fort as men hurried to take up their places. Arthur recognised the officer as General O’Donoju and offered a salute as he rode up.

O’Donoju’s sword rasped from his scabbard and the men of what Arthur realised was an honour guard shuffled one foot out and presented their muskets to greet the English general.

Arthur bowed his head to either side and then smiled at O’Donoju. ‘My thanks for such a fine greeting.’

The Spaniard shrugged. ‘His excellency gave the order to welcome you formally, some five hours ago.’

Arthur took a sharp breath. ‘And I would have been here five hours ago if I had been provided with a guide who knew the route.’ Arthur gestured to the boy, who smiled uncertainly as the two officers conversed in English.

O’Donoju glanced at the boy. ‘He claimed to know the area well enough. He lied and I’ll have him flogged.’

‘There’s no need for that. The fault is with the man who hired him.’

The Spaniard stiffened indignantly before he replied. ‘I will punish all those I hold responsible, seсor. Now, if you would follow me I will take you into the presence of his excellency.’

Without waiting for a reply he wheeled his thin mount round and trotted through the gate into the fort, while Arthur led his escort between the ranks of the Spanish soldiers. He examined them closely by the flickering light cast by the torches on the wall. They seemed to know their drill well enough, but they looked lean and hungry and their uniforms were worn and dirty and the barrels and bayonets of many of the muskets were spotted with rust.

The horses’ hooves echoed off the walls of the arched gateway and then Arthur emerged into the courtyard of the fort. Three sides of the paved area were lined with ranks of soldiers, save for a gap directly opposite the gate where steps climbed up to the inner keep. In front of the steps stood a crowd of gaudily uniformed officers, and before them a large, very overweight officer sat on a horse. His uniform coat seemed to be so smothered with bejewelled decorations, ribbons and gold lace that Arthur wondered how his horse could endure such a burden. Two men stood either side of the horse, firmly grasping the rider’s boots, and Arthur realised that they were there to hold him in place and stop him toppling out of his saddle.

An order was shouted and the soldiers stamped to attention and presented their muskets. A quick glance showed that these men were in the same sorry condition as those outside the gate. Arthur gestured to the lieutenant to halt the escort and then continued across the courtyard alone, stopping his horse a short distance in front of the other man. O’Donoju had wheeled his horse round and stood by his commander’s side, ready to interpret.

Arthur cleared his throat. ‘I am Sir Arthur Wellesley, commander of his majesty’s army in the Peninsula. I take it that I am addressing his excellency General Cuesta?’

The man nodded his heavy jowls and spoke curtly.

‘His excellency wants to know why you are late, Sir Arthur,’ said O’Donoju.

‘You know why, but just tell his excellency that we lost our way in the dark.’

Cuesta’s lips lifted in a slight sneer as he spoke to his interpreter.

‘His excellency trusts that you will not make a habit of leading your men in the wrong direction.’

‘Assure him that it will not happen again, and that I hope that we might both lead our men in the direction of victory from now on.’

The answer seemed to gratify the old officer, who Arthur guessed must be in his sixties at least. He muttered to O’Donoju and then growled an order at the two men propping him up. At once they began to help him down from his saddle with much grunting of effort as O’Donoju bowed to Arthur.

‘His excellency will wait for you in his office, while you are introduced to his staff.’

Arthur glanced at the crowd of officers. ‘What? All of them?’

O’Donoju smiled and waved Arthur towards the first of the waiting men. As General Cuesta was manhandled up the steps and into the keep Arthur began exchanging bows with a series of colonels and generals, each of whom was laden down with long lists of titles and honours. Arthur endured it for a while before he leaned towards O’Donoju and spoke quietly. ‘Look, since the hour is late and there is much to discuss, might we dispense with the full title of each man and just use their name and rank?’

The Spaniard’s eyebrows knitted for a moment before he replied.‘As you wish, sir. We will abandon the usual courtesies in the interests of brevity.’

Arthur smiled. ‘That would be appreciated.’

As soon as the last officer had been introduced, Arthur followed his host up the steps and into the keep. When they were shown into General Cuesta’s office Arthur saw that the Spanish commander was sitting propped up on a couch. Before him, spread out across the floor and weighted down with bottles of wine, was a map of Spain. One of Cuesta’s orderlies brought a chair for Arthur and placed it on the opposite side of the map. O’Donoju took up his position beside the couch and translated Cuesta’s first comment.

‘His excellency hopes that you were impressed by the men parading in the courtyard. They are the finest battalion in our army.’

‘Really? Good God . . .’ Arthur quickly forced a smile. ‘Why yes, as fine a body of men as I have seen in a long time.’

The comment seemed to be appreciated and Cuesta continued.

‘His excellency wishes you to join forces with him and march directly on Madrid.’

‘Ah, yes, a most laudable ambition, but surely we must prepare the ground for such an advance? I suggest that before we can even entertain such a notion, it is vital to clear the approaches to Madrid of all enemy forces, in case we are obliged to retreat.’

Cuesta shook his head.

‘His excellency does not agree. He says that we must be bold and strike at the heart of the enemy. He says that a fierce patriotic fire burns in the hearts of our men and it can only be quenched by the blood of Frenchmen.’

‘I see. Tell him that I am full of admiration for the patriotic zeal he demonstrates, but such zeal must be tempered by the realities of the situation. My sources tell me that Marshal Victor and his army protect the route to Madrid. It would be wise for us to fall on him while he is outnumbered by our combined strength, would it not?’

Cuesta considered this for a moment and nodded.

‘In which case then, I suggest we join our forces at . . .’Arthur leaned over the map and saw that it was depressingly lacking in detail. The Tagus was marked, together with the road that ran beside it, and a few topographical features. ‘There. At Oropesa, ten days from now. Can his excellency move his army there by the appointed date?’

‘Of course. The Spanish army marches as swiftly as any.’

‘Delighted to hear it.’ Arthur eased himself back in his chair. ‘Now then, I have been told by the junta at Cadiz that his excellency has been instructed to arrange for my army to be provisioned.’

Cuesta frowned as Arthur’s words were translated.

‘His excellency is not obliged to act on the instructions of the junta.’ said O’Donoju. ‘Nevertheless he will provide your soldiers with whatever is necessary.’

‘I am grateful to him. Could you let me know where and when we will receive the supplies?’

Cuesta raised his hands and shrugged as he responded to O’Donoju.

‘His excellency says that his staff officers will deal with the matter. As soon as the supplies are ready a message will be sent to you.’

Arthur puffed his cheeks.‘It would greatly aid the close co-operation of our armies if I could be given the precise date and time now.’

‘That is not possible. But his excellency says that you need not fear going hungry. He gives his word that your needs will be satisfied.’

Arthur looked levelly at Cuesta for a moment. There was little enough gold in the British army’s war chest. In a matter of days he would be obliged to order a cut in rations. A week on from that there would be nothing to eat. He was depending on Cuesta. If the man had given his word, then that would have to be good enough. After all, what could the Spanish gain from starving their ally?

‘Very well. I will advance to Oropesa and meet his excellency there. Meanwhile I will await instructions concerning the supplies you have promised. If that is agreed, then I am afraid I must now depart to re-join my army. We will need to waste no time getting on the road to Oropesa, and victory thereafter.’

Cuesta nodded, then clicked his fingers.

‘His excellency will provide a guide to lead you and your escort back to the main road.’

Arthur raised a hand. ‘I offer him my thanks, but I am sure we can find our own way.’

‘As you wish.’

Arthur rose from his chair and bowed to Cuesta, who responded with a brief bob of his head, and then turned to leave the room and make his way back outside to the waiting escort. As he strode down the steps Arthur glanced at the Spanish officers and the soldiers lining the courtyard. His heart filled with foreboding at the prospect of cooperating with his allies in the coming campaign to find and crush Marshal Victor.

Chapter 5

Oropesa, 21 July 1809

‘Not a damn thing!’ Arthur snapped at Somerset as he threw down his riding crop and sat down heavily in his chair. ‘There is not one wagon of supplies, not even one cart. And no remounts for the cavalry, nor spare mules for our own vehicles.’

He shut his eyes and breathed in deeply to calm his irritation. The two armies had met on the appointed date and Arthur had at once ridden across to the Spanish headquarters to arrange for the distribution of supplies to his men. The army had been on half-rations for two days already and he was determined that they would march to battle with Marshal Victor on full stomachs. General Cuesta and his staff were at lunch when Arthur arrived. Several long tables had been arranged in the shade beneath the boughs of some Mediterranean oak trees. The table was piled with racks of roast mutton, freshly baked bread and bottles of wine. Arthur was ushered to the side of Cuesta, who sat on a large, cushioned seat, jaws working furiously as he hurried to finish his mouthful of meat. General O’Donoju had caught sight of the new arrival and rose from his bench, dabbing at his mouth as he came to interpret for the two commanders.

Arthur was covered with a fine layer of dust from the road and Cuesta gestured to the nearest bottle as he spoke.

‘His excellency says that you must be thirsty after the day’s march. He bids you refresh yourself.’

‘Please tell General Cuesta that I thank him for his offer and will have a drink, once he confirms that the supplies he has promised me are ready for my men to collect.’

O’Donoju did not translate the remark and simply shrugged his shoulders. ‘There are no supplies, sir.’

‘No supplies,’ Arthur repeated leadenly. ‘How can this be? General Cuesta gave me his word that the supplies would be here. Where are they?’

O’Donoju turned to his commander. Cuesta waved his hands dismissively, then stabbed another chunk of mutton with his fork and raised it to his mouth.

‘His excellency says that he gave orders to the local mayors for the supplies to be gathered, and that the local people have failed him. He regrets this and suggests that if you supply him with sufficient gold he will see that his best staff officers are sent out to buy what is needed.’

Arthur glanced round the tables. The men he could see, despite their finery, seemed to be the very last men he would entrust with what remained in the British army’s war chest. He turned back to O’Donoju and shook his head.

‘No. I will not pay for what I was promised by my ally. If General Cuesta would have the British as his allies then he is obliged to live up to the obligations of an ally.’ Arthur gestured to the sweep of the Tagus valley as he continued. ‘This is rich farmland. For the last few days we have marched through fields of crops, and orchards filled with fruit. There is more than enough to feed my army here.’

Cuesta chewed slowly on his fresh mouthful of meat and then made his reply.

‘His excellency says that if that is the case, why did your men not help themselves to supplies as they passed through?’

‘Because we are not the French,’Arthur replied as evenly as he could. ‘If I permitted my men to forage freely across your lands it would very soon place a terrible strain on the alliance between our two nations.’

O’Donoju listened to his master’s reply and turned to Arthur. ‘His excellency says that if you will not take the trouble to feed yourselves then he does not see why he should do it for you.’

‘I will not have my army be seen as some horde of looters. It would be better if General Cuesta demanded that the local landowners hand over what I require. At least that would have the virtue of not turning the local people against us.’

‘Sir,’ O’Donoju gestured to the officers around the table. ‘Most of these men are local landowners, or at least they are related to them. They would not countenance offending against their family’s interests.’

Arthur felt his temper rising dangerously and closed his eyes for a moment to force himself to remain calm. He spoke in a low, hard tone when he continued. ‘Tell him that I am astonished that men could act so selfishly when their nation is threatened by tyranny. Is there no sense of honour amongst the nobles of Spain?’

O’Donoju was about to translate when Arthur took his arm. ‘No. Don’t bother. It would serve no purpose to impugn the integrity of the general and his staff. I just need to know what is the latest news of Marshal Victor.’

‘Victor is not thirty miles from here,’ O’Donoju replied. ‘A short distance to the east of the town of Talavera. He has taken up a defensive position behind one of the tributaries of the Tagus.’

Arthur felt his heart quicken. ‘Two days’ march. Has he been reinforced yet?’

‘No. The garrison of Madrid is still in the capital, or was when we last heard.’

‘Then Victor has some twenty thousand men in the field. I have almost the same. What is your present strength?’

‘Twenty-eight thousand infantry, and six thousand cavalry.’

‘Then we have him, by God!’ Arthur smiled. ‘It is likely that the French do not know that my army is here. If we can strike at Victor before he can retreat, or is reinforced, we can beat him. Tell your general that there is no time to waste. We must march east as soon as possible. We can both attack him on the morning of the twenty-third.’

Cuesta heard the translation and thought for a moment before he nodded and made his reply to O’Donoju.

‘It is agreed. We will attack Marshal Victor in two days’ time. His excellency says that you may help yourself to the French supplies after the battle is won.’

Back at his headquarters, in a small barn outside Oropesa, Arthur opened his eyes and glanced towards Somerset. He explained the intention to attack Marshal Victor and called for any maps featuring Talavera and the ground to the east of the town. With the map spread out across his campaign table Arthur stabbed his finger at the line marking the course of the river Alberche.

‘There. That’s where he is. That’s where he will be caught by us and our Spanish friends. I want the word passed down to all brigade commanders. We will be engaging the enemy in two days from now. We will outnumber Victor by nearly three to one. Have the men told that they will no longer have to tighten their belts once we have captured the enemy’s supplies. I’m sure that will please them.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Somerset nodded. ‘Provided that Marshal Victor holds his ground and does not decide to retreat.’

‘Why should he?’ Arthur smiled. ‘At the moment he assumes that he is faced by General Cuesta. I’m sure that Victor considers his twenty thousand more than a match for Cuesta’s thirty. He will welcome a battle. With luck he has no idea that we have added our strength to Cuesta’s. I think Marshal Victor may be in for the surprise of his life.’

‘I hope you are right, sir,’ Somerset replied. ‘For I fear that if we do not take Victor’s supplies then our men may well starve before they ever see Madrid.’

A thin sliver of moon hung in the star-speckled night sky and by its wan light Arthur surveyed the lines of his men, visible as the more uniform features in a landscape composed of little more than dark shades. The only spark of colour came from the sprinkling of camp fires on the far side of the Alberche river that marked the French picket line. Arthur felt a warm satisfaction in his heart that they had succeeded in closing on Marshal Victor without his being aware of the danger. Perhaps he had misjudged his Spanish allies, Arthur reflected. Following the meeting at Oropesa the two armies had advanced in parallel and made good time in their approach to the enemy position. As night had fallen, Arthur had led the British forward the last few miles to take up position opposite the enemy’s right flank. At the same time, General Cuesta would advance towards the opposite flank and make his headquarters at a small inn at Salcidas. Both armies should be in position by two in the morning and Arthur had conceded the honour of opening the attack to Cuesta. Three guns would be the signal for the attack to begin.

There was the clop of hooves as Somerset came up to report.‘All our men are in position, sir. The guns are deployed to cover the fords and General Hill sends his compliments and says the Second Division are champing at the bit.’

Arthur smiled. ‘Very good.’ He took out his watch, raised it close to his face and squinted to make out the hands. ‘Just after midnight. Send a message to Cuesta and tell him we are ready and waiting for his signal. Make sure that he confirms his army is in position. I don’t want our men to be facing Marshal Victor’s army on our own.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Oh, and tell him that all Spain will rejoice in today’s victory and that the name of Cuesta will be remembered for ever in the hearts of his people.’

Somerset was silent for a moment. ‘Isn’t that a bit vainglorious, sir?’

‘Of course, but if it helps to spur the old man into action then it’s worth it.’

‘Yes, sir. I’ll send the message at once.’

‘Thank you, Somerset.’

When his aide had left him Arthur again surveyed the lines of his men, and once more he recalled the ground he had seen late in the afternoon, when he had ridden forward in a plain brown coat and broad-brimmed hat to inspect the lie of the land. Leaving his small escort out of sight in a small grove of olive trees he had approached the bank of the river and casually trotted along its length to the junction with the Tagus. The French sentries on the far side had watched him, but paid no great attention to the lone horseman. Once he had identified the location of some of the fords, as well as the best routes to approach them without being detected, Arthur returned to the army and drew up his plan of attack.

Now, in the cool night air, all was calm and still. It was hard to believe that nearly twenty thousand men were poised to fight. At the moment they would be sitting in their companies, with their unloaded muskets at their sides. There was no talking as the order had been given for them to wait in complete silence so as not to alert the enemy as to their presence. The corporals and sergeants paced quietly up and down the lines ready to pounce on any man who uttered a word. Elsewhere the cavalry would be standing by their mounts, and aside from the odd scuffle of hooves and faint whinny, they too waited in quiet anticipation. The gunners, still hot and sweaty from their effort to wheel the guns into place as noiselessly as they could manage, stacked their ammunition a short distance from their cannon and carefully loaded the first round. Most men found the waiting intolerable, as every faint sound and movement of a shadow seemed threatening, and wore away at their nerves. Only a handful of fatalistic veterans, and a small number of men who had managed to suppress their nerves through surreptitious consumption of spirits, waited calmly.

Half an hour had passed when Arthur next checked his watch. With a click of his tongue he turned his horse to his right flank and made his way down the line, pausing every so often to exchange a quiet greeting with one of his officers and offer them a few words of encouragement. There was still no sign of the orderly who had been sent to find General Cuesta by the time Arthur reached the end of his battle line. He stopped his horse and strained his eyes to try to detect any sign of movement from the direction of Salcidas, but there was not enough light to make out anything more than the vaguest detail.

‘Damn, where is he?’ Arthur muttered. ‘Has the fool lost his way, I wonder?’

‘I doubt that, sir,’ Somerset replied. ‘I chose a good man to deliver the message. Cornet Davidson was confident he knew the ground well enough.’ He paused a moment. ‘It’s possible that General Cuesta may not have reached his position.’

Arthur turned to his aide. ‘By God, I hope you’re wrong. General Cuesta would have to be a consummate fool to let such an opportunity come to naught.’

He was about to continue when both men heard a distant clop of hooves and they turned to stare into the night. A figure on horseback emerged from the shadows.

‘Ours?’ Somerset whispered.

‘Only one way to tell,’ Arthur replied. He cleared his throat and called out, ‘Halt. Who goes there?’

The other rider reined in and hurriedly responded. ‘Cornet Davidson, of the Light Dragoons.’

‘Davidson, come here, man!’ Arthur called back.

The cornet spurred his horse forward and a moment later he reined in before his commander and saluted.

‘Did you find Cuesta?’

‘No, sir. I looked for him at Salcidas, but there was no one there, not even one of his advance patrols. So I tracked across the route he should be taking for a mile, perhaps two, and still saw no sign of him, sir. That’s when I decided I had better report back to you.’

Arthur’s jaw tightened with frustration. Where the hell was the Spanish army? By this time they should have completed deploying for their attack. He lowered his head for a moment and thought. Even if Cuesta was still moving up towards Salcidas he could not possibly be ready for at least another three hours. That would mean delaying the attack until four in the morning. It would still be dark then, and there was still a chance of surprising Marshal Victor’s men in their camp. Arthur looked up.

‘Davidson, I want you to go back and try to find Cuesta. Tell him that I have decided to delay the attack until four. He is still to give the signal we agreed on. Make sure that he understands the urgency with which he must act if we are to succeed.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Davidson nodded.

‘Off you go then.’

Davidson turned his mount and spurred it into a trot as he headed off in search of the Spanish army.

Somerset let out a weary sigh.‘Our Spanish friends are proving to be somewhat unreliable, sir.’

‘Indeed.’ Arthur was furious, and it took some effort to keep his tone neutral as he continued. ‘There are times when one might think that they actually pose more of a danger to us than the French do. Anyway, we are where we are, Somerset. We must return to the army and pass the word for the men to stand down for a few hours. I need them alert and fresh for when the fighting starts.’

They made their way back to the flank of the British army, and were challenged by the pickets before passing on and returning to the command post behind the centre of the British line. As they arrived an officer hurried up to Arthur and saluted.

‘Sir, we have visitors. General O’Donoju and some of his staff are waiting for you, down by the headquarters tent.’

Arthur turned to look down the hillock into the small depression where a handful of lamps glimmered, hidden from French view.‘Did he explain why he is here?’

‘No, sir. I asked, but he said his message was for you, and not your underlings.’

‘He said that?’ Arthur shook his head. ‘Come, Somerset.’

They continued down the slope to the tent and dismounted alongside the Spanish horses being held by some of Arthur’s orderlies. O’Donoju was waiting inside, with four of his officers. He rose to his feet when he saw Arthur and bowed his head.

‘It is a pleasure to see you again, General Wellesley.’

‘Where is Cuesta?’ Arthur cut in. ‘He should have been at Salcidas hours ago.’

O’Donoju frowned at the informal use of his superior’s name. ‘His excellency has sent me to inform you that he has been delayed.’

‘Delayed? Why?’

The Spaniard shrugged. ‘The men were slow to break camp. The night is dark, and they do not march as fast as they do during the day.’

‘Then why did your general not take account of that, and start out earlier?’

‘I do not presume to know the mind of my commander, sir.’

Arthur puffed his cheeks irritably. ‘Where is he now?’

‘Perhaps three miles east of Salcidas. His excellency says that he will be in position to attack at six in the morning.’

‘Dawn will have broken by then. The French will be aware of our presence. We will have lost any element of surprise.’

‘Perhaps, sir,’ O’Donoju countered. ‘Even so, we can still proceed with the attack. After all, the odds are vastly in our favour.’

Arthur thought a moment. The Spaniard was right. Provided Victor did not react swiftly and break camp before the attack began, he would be obliged to stand and fight.

‘Very well then. General Cuesta must begin his attack at six. No later. Is that clear?’

O’Donoju stared back defiantly. ‘If that is the wish of his excellency, then yes. Now, I bid you farewell, sir. My officers and I must return to our army.’

‘Yes, you must, as swiftly as you can. There must be no further delay.’

The rest of the night passed slowly, and as the sun fringed the eastern horizon in a pale orange glow Arthur gave the order for his army to stand to. All along the line, the men wearily rose to their feet, stretching their muscles before forming ranks. As the light strengthened the French sentries on the other side saw the massed ranks of the British army and at once a warning shot was fired to alert the main camp.

‘There goes our surprise,’ Somerset said bitterly.

‘That can’t be helped,’ Arthur responded. ‘We just have to hope that Cuesta begins the attack before Victor can break camp.’

‘Sir, what is to stop us beginning the attack ourselves?’

Arthur turned to his aide. ‘My dear Somerset, if we attack across a river against defensive positions without support then we will suffer grievously. So much so that I doubt we could continue offensive operations in Spain. I would be obliged to fall back, and if we were pursued then I dare say we would be forced to repeat General Moore’s retreat to Corunna. England can endure only so many such defeats before being forced to kneel to Bonaparte.’ He paused to let his words sink in. ‘We must wait for Cuesta.’

Now even the minutes seemed to drag by, and as the first brilliant rays of the sun broke across the eastern horizon the first French battalions hurriedly marched forward to cover the fords, together with several guns. The opportunity to attack was fast slipping away and Arthur forced himself to remain still in his saddle, ears straining for the first sound of cannon fire that would announce Cuesta’s attack. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Somerset discreetly draw out his pocket watch, glance at it with a raised eyebrow, and then slip it back into his waistcoat.

‘You might as well tell me the time,’ Arthur muttered.

‘Ten minutes gone six, sir.’

Both men were still for a moment, then Arthur took up his reins and slowly turned his horse. ‘The army is not to move until I return. If the enemy opens fire, then have our fellows fall back to cover and leave our guns to their work. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, sir. Might I ask where you are going?’

‘To find Cuesta. It is time to speak plainly to his excellency.’

General Cuesta was taking his breakfast in a large open carriage when Arthur rode up to him near Salcidas. The leading units of the Spanish army had downed their packs and some were already busy foraging across the surrounding countryside for the day’s meal. The following columns were still strung out along the road, cloaked in the dust kicked up ahead of them. Arthur regarded the scene in a cold rage for a moment before he approached Cuesta. The Spanish commander regarded him warily. He bowed his head briefly in greeting and called for O’Donoju to attend him.

Arthur touched his hand to the brim of his hat. ‘Good day, sir. Or at least it would have been, had the battle begun. It was my understanding that we should attack at two in the morning. Where were you, sir?’

Cuesta shrugged and then made a curt comment to his translator.

‘His excellency says that you asked the impossible of our soldiers. The distance was too great to march in the darkness. Your plan was flawed.’

‘Nevertheless, my army has been in position since midnight. After having marched through the night to take up its appointed position. If my men could do it, then why not yours? It was not the fault of the plan.’

General Cuesta lurched forward as Arthur’s comments were passed on to him. He stabbed a fleshy finger towards Arthur and launched into a bitter tirade which O’Donoju struggled to keep up with.

‘His excellency says that he tires of the demands you make of him and his army . . . Who do you think you are to order him to provide you with food? To tell him where and when to wage his battles? The English are every bit as arrogant as he had heard. He will not endure this any longer.’

‘Enough!’ Arthur raised a hand. He drew himself up to his full height on his saddle and tilted his head slightly to look down his nose at Cuesta before he continued. ‘I’d be obliged if you tell General Cuesta that I have never heard of a situation where an ally has been so ill-treated. You gave me your word that my army would receive supplies and yet my men are forced to march on half-rations thanks to your broken promises. And now you have failed to grasp the chance to strike a humiliating blow at the enemy. Hear me clearly, O’Donoju. As soon as Marshal Victor realises that he is outnumbered he will fall back. I tell you now that I will not lead my men one step further towards Madrid until you hold good to your word, and give me the supplies I was promised. Moreover, I am not prepared to extend any further military co-operation until General Cuesta concedes overall command to me.’

Cuesta’s mouth sagged open as O’Donoju translated. Then his thick eyebrows knitted together and his expression tightened into a scowl. When the last of Arthur’s remarks had been heard he made his reply in an umistakably furious tone.

‘His excellency says that you and your soldiers can stay here and rot for all he cares. Why should he feed you? You are parasites. The Army of Extremadura does not need you. We can defeat the French on our own. While you sit here, his excellency will pursue Marshal Victor alone. The glory will be his and you will be left to wallow in your mire of shame.’

Once the Spaniard had finished Arthur nodded. ‘It seems I am done here. I will return to my army and await your general’s apology at my headquarters.’

Arthur clicked his tongue, and turned his horse round before spurring it into a trot, anxious to quit the presence of General Cuesta. It would be rash in the extreme for Cuesta to act without support. Only a fool would contemplate such a course of action,Arthur mused bitterly. He had said his piece. Hopefully there were enough wise heads amongst the general’s staff officers to persuade him against the folly of advancing alone. If not, then disaster threatened and Arthur feared that he would not be able to do anything to prevent it.

Chapter 6

Talavera, 27 July 1809

Arthur watched as the long column of Spanish troops trudged into the town. Many were wounded and blood seeped through their hastily applied dressings and bandages. Hundreds of them carried no weapons, having thrown them aside as they fled back down the road from the direction of Madrid. There was little sense of order as men from different battalions blended into one long stream of rabble fleeing from the pursuing French army. A handful of guns had been saved and moved steadily along the column as a squadron of blue-jacketed hussars cleared the way ahead of them. Only a handful of senior officers were in evidence, marching with their men. The rest had accompanied General Cuesta as his mule-drawn carriage had led the retreat back to the banks of the Alberche where he had decided to rally his men and make a stand.

‘Not a pretty sight, is it?’

Somerset shook his head. ‘A beaten army never is, sir. All the more unfortunate that this was avoidable in the first place.’

‘That it was,’ Arthur replied with feeling.

Having failed to make a co-ordinated attack on Marshal Victor six days earlier, General Cuesta had waited three days before continuing the advance alone to try to run down the French. The result was predictable, Arthur mused. The garrison of Madrid had advanced to join forces with Victor and the French had turned on Cuesta and broken his army, sending it reeling back in confusion. The crisis had almost turned into a complete disaster when the Spanish commander had ordered his men to turn and fight with a river at their back. On hearing this Arthur had galloped forward from the British camp outside Talavera to persuade Cuesta to fall back to a less dangerous position. The old general, still bitter over their previous confrontation, had at first refused to listen. Fearing that Cuesta’s obstinacy would allow the French to destroy each army in turn, Arthur had swallowed his pride and begged Cuesta to reconsider.

Cuesta had sneered as he had made his reply via O’Donoju.

‘On your knees, Sir Arthur.’

Arthur could not hide his astonishment. ‘What?’

‘His excellency wants you to beg on your knees. You have humiliated him enough by refusing to accept his command. Now he wants to see you humiliated.’

At first Arthur was too surprised to react. Surely the man must be mad. With his army facing certain defeat if it stayed where it was, and a powerful French army only hours away, Cuesta was wasting time settling such a petty score. For the first time Arthur fully appreciated the depths of the man’s vanity, selfishness and arrogance. If Arthur refused to do as the Spaniard demanded then thousands of his men would die unnecessarily, and the British army would be left hopelessly exposed in the heart of Spain with almost no supplies left to sustain the men as they were pursued back into Portugal. He swallowed his distaste for the Spanish general. What did it matter if he suffered a moment of humiliation if it saved the men of two armies?

He swallowed bitterly and eased himself down on one knee as he stared straight into Cuesta’s mocking eyes and spoke steadily. ‘Tell his excellency that I beg him to fall back to defend Talavera with my army.’

The memory of that moment burned in Arthur’s soul. It was only partly shame; the rest was anger and disgust at his ally. But at least his humiliation had bought time for the men of the Spanish and British armies as they prepared to turn and make a stand against the French.

Arthur had chosen the ground carefully. Between the Tagus and the steep hills of the Sierra de Segurilla stretched an undulating plain. Closer to the hills there were two large ridges that created a narrow valley on the far side before rising up again into hills. A small stream, called the Portina, running from the hills cut across the plain to the Tagus and formed a natural line for the combined army. With the flanks secured by the Tagus and the hills all that the allies had to do was hold their line.

Mindful of the rough handling the Spanish had recently endured Arthur had left the right of the line to Cuesta. Here the Spanish would be protected by a line of ditches and walls stretching out from the town. More fortifications in the form of barricades of felled trees had been constructed by British troops. The defences were formidable enough to deter the enemy and therefore could be safely entrusted to Cuesta’s badly shaken troops. That left the more exposed part of the line to the British.

Once he was certain that the Spanish were indeed taking up the positions allotted to them, Arthur gestured to Somerset to follow him. They trotted across the plain towards the small force sent forward towards the Alberche river to cover the retreat of the Spanish. The twin towers of an old fortified manor house rose above the olive groves and small oak trees that grew along the near bank of the Alberche and Arthur followed the road that ran through the trees towards the building. He passed through one of the brigades spread out through the trees and nodded a quick greeting to their commander, General Mackenzie, as he saw him in a clearing. When they reached the manor house Arthur saw a number of his men resting around the walls, with their muskets stacked as they talked quietly. More men were visible, spread out through the trees. Those closest to the entrance to the manor hurriedly rose and stood to attention when they spied their general and his aide approaching. Arthur dismounted and went inside.

The manor was built round a courtyard, and seated on the edge of a small pool into which a fountain trickled was the officer charged with guarding the route through the surrounding olive groves.

‘Good morning, Donkin,’ Arthur nodded as he strode up. ‘How is it with you?’

Major Donkin stood smartly and brushed away the crumbs of a pie he had been breakfasting on. ‘All’s well, sir. No sign of the French yet, but my lads will send ’em packing the moment they show up.’

‘Glad to hear it.’ Arthur pointed to the nearest tower. ‘Come, let’s see what’s happening.’

Stuffing the last morsel of the pie into his mouth and chewing ferociously, Donkin followed Arthur to the narrow staircase that ascended inside the tower. At the top they climbed out through the narrow opening into a square room with open arches on each side that afforded good views across the olive groves. A mile to the west Arthur could see the narrow course of the Alberche river, and on the far bank some swirling black clouds of smoke where several buildings were on fire. The smoke made it hard to see the river at that point and Arthur glanced further to the south, towards where the road from Madrid crossed a bridge. Clouds of dust indicated where the main French columns were closing on the river and with an anxious twist in his stomach Arthur estimated that the enemy must have some fifty thousand men.

He pointed towards the burning buildings. ‘What happened there?’

‘Mackenzie’s men set fire to them before they retreated back through my line.’

‘Why?’

‘To prevent the French from using them as strongpoints, sir.’

‘And what is the point of that?’ Arthur responded tersely. ‘Our line is over two miles back from the Alberche. All that he has done is deprived the local people of their homes. For which they will not be inclined to thank us.’

‘No, sir. I imagine not.’

Suddenly Arthur saw a movement through the distant smoke. A file of enemy soldiers was making its way down the bank and into the river, where they crossed and filtered into the trees. He turned to Donkin. ‘Best have your command stand to. The French will be on your pickets soon.’

‘Pickets?’ Donkin frowned, and then looked alarmed.

‘Good God, man, you must have posted them?’

‘Well, no, sir. I mean not yet.’

Arthur glared coldly at the major and was about to berate him for his reckless inattention to his duties when there was a shout from below the tower and a moment later a musket cracked amid the trees. Some of Donkin’s men sprang to their feet and peered into the nearest olive groves. As Arthur followed the direction of their gaze he saw blue-coated figures swiftly passing through the trees. He cupped a hand to his mouth and leaned over the parapet and bellowed down at Donkin’s men.

‘To arms! To arms! The enemy’s here!’

More shots were fired, and Arthur saw jabs of flame and puffs of smoke on three sides of the manor house. One of the British soldiers below doubled over and collapsed on the ground with a deep groan. The quicker-witted of the redcoats were sprinting for their stacked muskets, but several were cut down before they could take up their weapons. There was a crack and plaster exploded off the tower wall just below the parapet.

‘Damn!’ Arthur stepped back. ‘We’re in a damned bad fix, Donkin.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Without another word Arthur hurried back down the steps, the sound of boots ringing off the hard walls. At the bottom he ran through the courtyard and out of the main entrance. From the ground the position looked ever more desperate. French skirmishers were rushing out from the trees, shooting down Donkin’s men who had no chance to form ranks, or look to their officers for orders. Most had gone to ground, and those without weapons crouched down low with fearful expressions as the enemy closed round them.

‘Sir!’ Somerset had grabbed the reins of Arthur’s mount and was riding towards his commander, ducking low over his saddle.

Arthur glanced round. ‘Donkin, get your men out of here at once. Get back to our line as best you can.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Donkin nodded, crouching and holding his hat down on his head as if that would prevent it from being shot off. There was no time for any more words, and Arthur sprinted towards Somerset. Seeing a prize target the nearest enemy skirmishers took aim and fired. A bullet whipped past Arthur’s head, while another spat up a divot of earth a yard in front of him. As soon as he reached his horse, he placed a boot in the stirrup and heaved himself into the saddle with a grunt, taking the reins from his aide.

‘Get you gone, sir!’ Somerset called out, drawing one of the pistols from his saddle holsters. He glanced down to ensure the percussion cap was in place and thumbed back the hammer.

Arthur dug his spurs in and wheeled his horse round, urging it into a gallop down the road leading back through the trees. Glancing back he saw Somerset steady his horse, raise his pistol and take aim. There was a flash and the dull detonation and then Somerset thrust the weapon back in his holster and galloped after his general. Behind them, Major Donkin was bellowing orders for his men to fall back on him and make for the road.

Keeping his head down, Arthur rose up in his saddle as his horse thundered down the dry track. The sound of firing steadily faded behind them but Arthur continued riding as fast as his mount would carry him. Then, a half-mile from the manor house, he came across the first of Mackenzie’s pickets at the side of the road and reined in.

‘Stand to! The enemy’s coming. Take care not to fire on Donkin’s men!’

A sergeant nodded and saluted, and then turned to relay the order down the line in a parade ground bellow. Arthur waved Somerset on and the two of them continued at a less breathless pace down the road until they came to the clearing where Mackenzie still sat with a handful of his officers. Arthur reined in and thrust his arm back down the track.

‘The French have surprised Donkin’s men! Have your brigade formed up at once. We have to stop them here, or they’ll press on right up to our main line. You must drive them off before re-joining the main army.’

‘Yes, sir!’ Mackenzie was on his feet at once, shouting out his orders. As they were repeated Arthur saw figures scrambling from under the low boughs of the olive trees and taking up their positions in each company. The sergeants paced down each line, dressing the ranks and shouting threats at those who were slow in joining their comrades in the line. Within five minutes the men of Mackenzie’s brigade stood ready, watching the trees ahead for sign of the French.

Arthur trotted over to Mackenzie’s side. ‘Make sure your men don’t fire until they are certain they see the enemy. Donkin, and what’s left of his men, will appear first.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Mackenzie hurriedly briefed two officers and sent them down the line in each direction to pass on the instruction. There was not long to wait. The uneven crackle of muskets quickly drew closer and then the first British soldiers could be seen, some helping wounded comrades while others fired their muskets and fell back to take cover behind trees where they reloaded and fired again at their pursuers. The first of the French skirmishers were not far behind, flitting through the sunlit shafts of powder smoke that hung in the still air of the olive groves. As the last of Donkin’s men passed though the gaps in the line, Mackenzie bellowed out the order.

‘Present arms! Make ready to fire!’

There was a muted shuffling as his men raised their muskets and waited for the next command.

‘Cock your weapons!’

A sharp clatter passed down the line as the men thumbed back the firing hammers of their primed muskets.

‘Take aim!’

Up came the muzzles as the soldiers pointed them in the direction of the enemy soldiers who had halted and now flinched as they faced the first volley.

‘Fire!’

The command merged with the crash of volleys fired by each company along the length of the British line. A dense cloud of smoke instantly filled the air beneath the trees. From his vantage point in the saddle Arthur saw the withering hail of lead slash the French ranks, cutting down a score of men and sending others reeling, while leaves, twigs and bark exploded off the trees.

‘Reload!’ Mackenzie shouted. ‘Fire by companies!’

The shaken French fired a few hurried shots in return before a second British volley struck home, and then Mackenzie gave the order to fix bayonets. There was a brief clatter as the men slid the bayonets over the end of their muskets and twisted them into the locked position.

‘Advance!’

The British line paced forward into the slowly dispersing powder smoke and became spectral figures in the gloom before they emerged on the far side, scarcely twenty paces from the nearest Frenchmen. The grim faces of the redcoats and the deadly glimmer of their bayonets were enough to send a ripple of mortal terror through the enemy ranks, and those nearest edged back, then turned and hurried away, despite the shouted encouragement and threats of their officers and sergeants.

Satisfied that Mackenzie had the situation in hand, Arthur let out a deep sigh of relief and nodded with satisfaction. ‘That will do for now. Come, Somerset.’

They turned away and spurred their horses down the track, through the groves and back on to open ground. Ahead of them the allied armies had almost finished forming up between the Tagus and the hills and Arthur was struck by the thinly stretched British line, two men deep, that stood ready to hold their ground against the French without the benefit of the field defences afforded to Cuesta’s men. There was little doubt in Arthur’s mind where the main weight of the French attack would be launched. Leaving a small force to occupy the Spanish the French commander would send in upwards of forty thousand men against Arthur’s twenty thousand.

Arthur slowed his horse to a walk as he contemplated the coming fight. ‘This is not the battle I would choose to fight, Somerset.’

‘Indeed, sir?’ His aide urged his horse alongside. ‘Our position seems strong enough, and the French cannot outflank us. It will be our line against their column, just as it was at Vimeiro, and we won that day.’

‘Vimeiro was different. Junot’s army was no stronger than ours. If we had been worsted then the coast was a few miles away and the Royal Navy would have covered the shore while the army embarked.’ Arthur paused a moment. ‘If the Spanish break, or give up their position, then we will be outflanked and cut to pieces. If we attempt to retreat then the enemy cavalry will harry us all the way. The men are half starved as it is. If they are not able to forage, then any retreat will degenerate into a rout. So, my dear Somerset, we must fight here, and we must win. That is the only road open to us now.’

Chapter 7

In the thin light of the first hour of dawn Arthur gazed steadily towards the east as, column after column, the French army formed up ready to begin their attack. The Portina divided the two armies as it flowed, almost straight, across the plain to the Tagus and the pickets of both sides were already withdrawing, with a few men exchanging final, fatalistic farewells with their opposite numbers. The sight briefly moved Arthur, who could not help wondering at the nature of men that they could be so civil to each other one moment, and intent on each other’s destruction the next. His body felt stiff after sleeping the last few hours on the open ground, covered in his cloak. He stretched his back with a slight groan as he surveyed the enemy’s dispositions with grim satisfaction.

As Arthur had hoped, the main strength of the French army had been drawn opposite the British. Over forty thousand of them, he estimated, while a few thousand faced the Spanish. It was an odd thing to have wished for, he mused, but the situation was such that the battle could only be won if the French were persuaded to concentrate their efforts on the British alone. Cuesta’s army was largely a spent force, and most of his men would only be onlookers in the day’s fighting.

‘Sir?’

He turned and saw Somerset approaching with a stoppered jug and a loaf of bread.

‘Thought you might like some breakfast, sir.’

‘Yes, yes I would. Thank you.’

As he watched the French gunners bring forward the first rounds of ammunition Arthur tore off small chunks of bread and chewed quickly. He swallowed, pulled the stopper out of the jug and took a swig. Instantly his face screwed up and he spat to one side. ‘By God, what is this?’

‘Wine, sir. I found it in a tavern outside the town. The French must have overlooked it when they passed through.’

‘Small wonder.’ Arthur put the jug down and nodded towards the enemy. ‘This is going to be a hard-fought battle, and the men know it.’ He glanced at Somerset. ‘I’ve seen their faces. They know the odds are against us.’

‘Then they will fight all the harder for it, sir.’

Arthur looked at him again and smiled. ‘I only hope they have as much spirit as you do. We shall know soon enough.’

A dull thud sounded and both men stared across the battlefield to where a plume of smoke eddied in the faint morning breeze as the French fired a signal gun. A moment later the main battery of enemy cannon sited opposite the ridge opened up, spitting flame and smoke before the roar carried up the slope like an uneven peal of thunder. The ridge was defended by General Hill’s division, formed up across the slope in two lines. The first shots began to strike home, smashing men into bloody fragments as they tore through the British ranks. The outnumbered British guns fired back, exacting a smaller toll of their own amongst the French infantry massed on the far side of the Portina. Arthur watched for a moment before he turned to Somerset.

‘Ride over to Hill and tell him to withdraw his men back over the crest of the ridge. Have them lie down, but be ready to rise up and advance at once.’

‘Yes, sir.’

While Somerset rode off with his orders for Hill,Arthur watched the French advance begin. As usual, the three dense columns of the attacking division were preceded by a wave of skirmishers who scurried from cover to cover as they exchanged fire with their British counterparts. As the enemy numbers began to tell, a shrill bugle signal recalled the defenders, and they began to give ground as they made their way back up the ridge. It was clear that the ridge was about to become the most vital part of the battlefield and Arthur decided that it would be best if he was at the heart of the fight, where he could control and inspire his men. He mounted his horse and rode forward to join Hill by the colours of the Twenty-ninth Foot. Besides the colour party, the only men between the officers and the approaching enemy were the skirmishers, and the French artillery was still firing over the attacking columns. Roundshot smashed into the ground, kicking up bursts of earth and stone, and Arthur had to steel himself not to flinch as a ball took the head off a sergeant standing at the end of the colour party line. The body collapsed like a sack of wet sand, the spontoon slipping from the lifeless fingers and clattering on the stony ground. An ensign who had been standing close to the sergeant grimaced as he wiped the man’s blood and brains from his cheek.

‘It might be as well for you to retire to a safer distance, sir,’ Somerset said quietly.

‘No. This will do. Besides, we must all lead by example today.’

General Hill nodded. ‘Aye, sir. The men will expect nothing less.’

The British skirmishers had reached the crest and were falling back to cover. A moment later the French guns ceased fire. Their skirmishers also fell back, between the dense columns climbing up the slope. The colour party, standing defiant on the crest, seemed to act as a beacon, and the centre column of the advancing French division made straight for the handful of redcoats.

Arthur cleared his throat and spoke calmly to Hill. ‘I think the time has come to bring your fellows forward.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Hill smiled and wheeled his horse about. Cupping a hand to his mouth, he bellowed over the crest of the ridge. ‘The brigade will advance, at the double!’

The three battalions of Stewart’s brigade that had been lying down just behind the crest rose up at once, as if out of the ground, and trotted forward in a line that stretched across the crest. They swept on, past Arthur and Somerset, and drew up a short distance in front of the colour party. Less than a hundred yards beyond, the head of the French column hesitated, and Arthur heard an officer shout an order to deploy into line. But even as the first men began to shuffle to the side, Stewart’s brigade levelled their muskets, aiming straight into the dense ranks of the enemy.

General Hill raised his hat to attract the attention of his officers, paused a moment and then swept it down as he bellowed, ‘Fire!’

At close range, over fifteen hundred muskets poured their bullets into the head of the French column. To Arthur it seemed as if the front rank simply collapsed as men toppled forward or crumpled to the side, leaving a narrow fringe of blue and white uniformed bodies sprawled in the dry grass. A second, and a third, volley cut down scores more of the enemy so that the dead and wounded now lay heaped one upon the other. By now the French were firing back, at will, since there was too much chaos in their leading ranks for the officers to organise a proper firing line. Despite outnumbering the British, they could bring only a limited number of muskets to bear and all the time fresh casualties added to those piled in the grass.

Arthur saw the column begin to give ground, slowly edging back down the slope. To the right and left the other French columns were being given similar punishment and endured little longer before they too were in retreat. Squinting through the powder smoke engulfing his line, General Hill saw that the gap between his men and the enemy had widened and gave the order to cease fire and advance. As the brigade moved on, they left their own dead and injured scattered across the crest, but no more than thirty or forty men, Arthur estimated. An acceptable loss when compared to the hundreds of Frenchmen who had been shot down.

Hill pursued the enemy with his brigade at a measured pace, stopping every so often to pour another volley into their ranks and press them back down towards the thin band of the Portina. As they reached the bottom of the slope Hill gave the order to charge, and with a hearty roar the men lowered their bayonets and ran towards the battered French column. Most of the enemy turned and fled across the stream, splashing through the water to the far bank and then back towards their guns. Before the British soldiers lost their heads a bugle sounded the withdrawal and the men hurriedly re-formed their line, then turned about and climbed back up the slope. General Hill urged his mount ahead of his men and rode back up to Arthur, greeting him with a barely suppressed smile and an amiable nod of the head.

‘The lads have seen ’em off, sir. But hot work indeed! Never seen them fire and move so smoothly.’

‘A fine performance, Hill,’ Arthur agreed. ‘But you can be sure that we have repulsed only the first attack.’ He drew out his pocket watch and glanced at it briefly. ‘Just gone eight. The day is young, gentlemen, and the enemy is still far from beaten.’

As the sun edged higher into a clear blue sky the slight breeze faded and the air began to feel hot and heavy. A lull had settled over the battlefield and Hill gave the order for his dead to be buried at once, so the heat would not corrupt the bodies. Lower down the slope, the British skirmishers had once again gone forward, but they held their fire as small parties of the French waded across the Portina to retrieve their wounded and the bodies of their dead officers. Once again, warily at first, the fraternisation resumed. Those who had little knowledge of each other’s language made signs and mimed to communicate, while others sat and talked, sharing drink and food, amid the dead and wounded of the earlier fighting.

‘Ought we to stop that, sir?’ Somerset gestured towards the Portina.

‘Why?’

‘One wouldn’t want the men to become too fond of their enemy, surely? Otherwise it might predispose them to be merciful when they should be ruthless?’

Arthur briefly removed his hat and scratched at his close-cropped hair. The heat was making him perspire freely and his scalp itched. He regarded Somerset thoughtfully. His aide was still young enough to have rather fixed opinions about the nature of war and experience had not yet tempered his judgement with a wider understanding of military life.

‘Somerset, those men down there know their trade and can be trusted to act as they must when called upon. War is a cruel, brutal business. If we are not to make brutes of those who are obliged to practise it, then we must indulge the better side of their natures whenever we can.’

Somerset was still for a moment and then nodded. Arthur sensed that his aide had not fully accepted the point. Perhaps he would one day, if he lived long enough. Arthur replaced his hat and resumed his consideration of the enemy’s intentions. The first attack had been repelled. The question was, would they repeat the attempt? If not, where would they press next? For the moment, the enemy’s formations stood their ground under the baking sun and waited for orders. Arthur pulled out his telescope from his saddlebag and began to scan the enemy’s positions until he located their senior officers.

He found them easily enough, a gathering of figures in neat blue jackets heavy with gold lace and bullion epaulettes, with feathered bicornes. Some of them were examining the British line through their telescopes and Arthur was briefly amused by the thought that they might well be trying to divine his intentions in turn. A cluster of senior officers seemed to be engaged in a heated debate, with much gesturing towards the British line. Arthur watched them a moment longer, then lowered his telescope and sent Somerset to tell Hill that he could stand his men down for a while and encourage them to find what shade they could for the present.

The lull in the fighting continued for the rest of the morning, and both sides took the chance to send small parties of men, loaded with canteens, down to the Portina to refill them. Elsewhere men, stripped down to their shirts, continued to dig graves and remove as many bodies from the field as possible. Arthur moved to the shade of a small grove of olive trees close to the crest of the ridge and sat and rested in the shade, leaving strict orders that he was to be disturbed if necessary. Overhead, the sun climbed to its zenith and the battlefield became a stifling cauldron of hot air and painfully bright light, infused with the irritating drone of flies as they swarmed over the corpses still awaiting the burial parties.

Arthur stirred as he became aware of a presence close by, and he blinked his eyes open to see Somerset standing over him. ‘What is it?’

‘Sir, the French are on the move.’

Arthur was on his feet at once, quickly rolling his head to ease the stiffness in his neck. He looked down the slope. Sure enough the French army was spreading out across a wider front as more cannon were brought forward from the reserve and manoeuvred into position a short distance beyond the Portina, ready to bombard the British line.

‘They mean to attack along the entire front,’ Somerset commented.

‘I have eyes and a brain of my own,’ Arthur replied tersely. As his embarrassed aide kept his silence Arthur quickly thought through the coming phase of the battle. The French were doing the right thing, he realised. Their earlier attempt to seize the ridge had allowed Arthur to redeploy men to meet the threat, but an attack along the entire line of his army would mean that there would be little chance to shift his outnumbered forces about to bolster weakened points. As before, the defences manned by the Spanish were being avoided as the enemy was determined to shatter the British army first. The hour of gravest danger was swiftly approaching.

Shortly after noon the massed artillery of the French army opened fire. Over eighty guns were answered by Arthur’s thirty in a one-sided duel. Once again, bloody gaps were torn in the thin red lines waiting to receive the enemy attack. The French generals were clearly impatient, since the bombardment was mercifully short. As the guns fell silent the drums of the French infantry rolled out, signalling the advance. The skirmishers waded across the Portina and fell in with their British counterparts in a brief exchange of crackling musket fire. Beyond the Portina Arthur saw that the main enemy formations were advancing with broader fronts, as he had expected. There was to be no repeat of a narrow frontal attack this time. The survival of his men would depend on their rigorous training. They would have to fire and reload faster than the French in a bludgeoning exchange of massed volleys.

Campbell’s Guards brigade, on the extreme right of the line, was the first in action, waiting until the French had closed to within eighty yards before unleashing their first volley. A moment later the enemy halted and returned fire. After the first few exchanges, the space between the opposing sides was filled with smoke and the combatants were obliged to fire blindly at each other. Watching through his telescope Arthur could see that the enemy were having the worst of it, firing no more than two volleys to the redcoats’ three.

Closer to the ridge, the French line closed up on Cameron’s brigade and the men of the King’s German Legion. Seemingly not to be outdone by the Guards, Cameron allowed the French to close to within fifty yards before unleashing his first volley. With a clear view of the target, and at such close range, nearly every bullet struck home and the French line stopped dead in its tracks as the front ranks were annihilated by the withering fire. Without waiting to let off another volley, Cameron’s men fixed bayonets and briskly advanced through the thin screen of smoke and charged at the disorganised French line.

‘That’s the spirit!’ Arthur clenched his fist.

The mкlйe was brief, and then the French gave ground and began to retreat across the Portina. Cameron’s men, overcome by the excitement of breaking the attack, streamed after them, thrusting their bayonets into the fleeing enemy, or clubbing them down with the heavy butts of their muskets. Some cooler heads paused to reload and fire on the enemy, thereby inadvertently contributing to the loss of cohesion of the brigade.

Somerset sniffed with derision. ‘What do those bloody fools think they’re doing? They can’t take on the whole French army by themselves.’

Arthur’s jubilation of a moment earlier turned to dread as he watched the tiny figures in red dissolve into a formless swarm as they crossed the brook and pursued the French into their own lines. Already another enemy line was moving forward to counter the British charge, and their beaten comrades flowed round them to the rear, where their surviving officers began to steady them, and re-form their units. As the screen of fleeing Frenchmen thinned out, the soldiers of Cameron’s brigade suddenly found themselves confronted by a new enemy force. While Arthur watched with a sinking heart, the French halted, made ready and unleashed a lethal volley. The redcoats were cut down in swathes, and while a few men returned fire it was clear that most were momentarily stunned by the sharp reversal of fortune. Another volley sealed their fate, and leaving their stricken comrades on the far bank of the Portina the survivors hurried back over the brook, losing more men as the French skirmishers rushed forward to pursue the broken British formation.

It was clear that there was no question of Cameron’s rallying his men, and their foolhardiness had left a gaping hole in the centre of the British line. Arthur turned to Somerset.

‘We must fill the gap at once! Get you to Mackenzie and order him to move his men across and stop the French. Go!’

While his aide spurred his horse down the slope towards the brigade waiting in reserve, Arthur galloped across the crest and reined in at General Hill’s side. The sudden spray of dirt startled Hill’s mount.

‘What the devil?’The general looked round irritably until he saw his commander.

‘Hill, Cameron’s brigade has broken. I need your men.’ Arthur gestured to the Forty-eighth Foot, on the right of Hill’s command. ‘Whatever happens you must hold your ground here.’

‘I will, sir. Have no fear of that.’

‘Thank you.’Arthur touched the brim of his hat and turned his horse to the south, thundering along the rear of Hill’s brigade until he reached the colonel in command of the Forty-eighth, where he gave his orders breathlessly.‘Double your men to the right. I want them in a line to take the French in the flank.’ He pointed out the French pushing Cameron’s chaotic brigade across the Portina. ‘If they are not stopped and sent back, then the battle is lost.’

‘I understand, sir.’ The colonel saluted and turned to shout the necessary orders. Arthur stayed with him and led the regiment down the side of the ridge at a steady trot, the men’s knapsacks and bayonet scabbards slapping and jingling as their nailed boots trampled down the dry grass. As he watched the French attack press forward, into the British line, Arthur willed his men on. The enemy had to be stopped swiftly before they managed to cut his army in two. To the right he saw the two thousand men of Mackenzie’s brigade trotting across the plain to head off the French column.

‘Not enough,’ he muttered softly to himself.

Mackenzie’s men faced at least a division of the enemy, ten thousand of them, as the French, scenting victory, marched more men into the breach. Mackenzie’s brigade halted, and turned from column to line as they prepared to face the onslaught. Cameron’s survivors flowed through the gaps between the companies ahead of them and paused a safe distance beyond, breathless and shaken as their officers rallied them. The British line fell silent as the French came on, drums beating while the men in the rear ranks sang lustily. Those at the front held their muskets ready as they paced towards the waiting redcoats, who were standing still, muskets grounded, as if they were on parade. As the enemy closed, the order to make ready echoed down the line and with well-drilled precision the muskets came up, the weapons were cocked and the men took aim. As the first volley was fired, Arthur halted the Forty-eighth and wheeled the formation into line, perpendicular to the head of the attacking French column.

‘Advance!’ he ordered and the men, two deep, marched forward to add the weight of their fire to that of Mackenzie’s brigade.

The first volleys had caused the French to stop and now they began to fill out their flanks as they formed a firing line. The quicker they could do it, the quicker they could overwhelm the firepower of the last line of British infantry standing between them and victory.

‘Keep moving there!’ Arthur called to his right as one of the companies began to lag slightly behind the others. The men obediently quickened their pace and pulled back into position. Ahead of the regiment Arthur could see the faces of the men on the right of the French column, glancing anxiously towards the new threat closing on their flank. He had time to reflect that this was further proof of the inferiority of the French system. Once their columns were unleashed they were unwieldy giants lumbering forward and unable to manoeuvre freely enough to cope with threats from either flank or the rear.

The two sides closed, and all the while Mackenzie’s brigade continued to exchange fire with the head of the column, pinning the French in place while Arthur came up with the Forty-eighth Foot. A handful of French skirmishers had run forward to interpose themselves between the column and the approaching British line, and opened fire. A handful of men went down, one after another, and Arthur heard the faint whip of a bullet close by as they closed to within a hundred yards of the enemy. This was the moment, he decided, and filled his lungs.

‘Forty-eighth will halt! Make ready to fire!’

The line ceased its advance and the front line shifted a pace to the right to present a staggered wall of men, all of whom could now bring their muskets to bear. As soon as he saw they were ready Arthur called out, ‘Take aim! Fire!’

Those skirmishers still standing were struck down, and then their comrades in the flank of the French column, wheeling round under the impact, toppled. As the redcoats hurriedly lowered their muskets and reached for the next round, Arthur heard a faint groan of dismay and fear from the French ranks.

‘Pour it on, boys!’ shouted the colonel of the Forty-eighth. ‘Pour it on!’

The flank companies of the French column began to shuffle round, their progress being held up by the bodies underfoot, but another volley swept into them, striking down more men and creating further chaos, and the attempt to present a firing line to Arthur and his men collapsed. The men of the Forty-eighth methodically loaded and fired with a ruthless efficiency, cutting down swathes of Frenchmen with each volley. Yet the column stood its ground, hemmed in by the bodies of its fallen. At the front their losses had been grievous, but then so had the losses amongst Mackenzie’s brigade, Arthur saw. Perhaps a third of his men were down already and Arthur knew they could not stand much more punishment. If the French could hold their nerve for a few more minutes then victory was surely theirs. Behind Mackenzie’s men the remains of Cameron’s brigade were still re-forming, and could play no part in the action at this critical moment. Arthur was seized by frustration at his powerlessness to affect the outcome. All now depended on which soldiers endured this terrible punishment for longest.

Then a movement caught his eye. From the saddle he could just see over the mass of the French column to the ground beyond. Through the thin smoke wafting back from the men firing along the front, something flashed. And then again, and more - sunlight reflecting off polished steel, he realised. Fresh hope stirred in his heart as he saw a line of cavalry sweeping in against the far side of the column.

‘By God, it’s the Light Dragoons!’ he exclaimed through gritted teeth. ‘Ride on. Ride on and break them!’

Attacked from three sides now, the less spirited of the Frenchmen began to back away, seeking escape from the sweep of British bullets and the slashing of the dragoons’ swords as they carved at the enemy’s left flank. More men backed away, and despite the frenzied encouragement and fury of their officers the contagion spread and the column lost what little cohesion it had left as the men broke, falling back in a frightened mass towards the Portina and the greater safety of the far bank. The battered regiments of Mackenzie’s brigade followed up, pausing to fire volleys whenever the enemy retreat showed any sign of slowing. The sight of the fleeing enemy gave heart to Cameron’s survivors, who hurried forward to join the flanks of Mackenzie’s line.

Arthur left orders for the Forty-eighth to remain on the plain and then, when he was satisfied that the danger had passed, turned and galloped back up to his vantage point on top of the ridge. The rest of the line had held off the French, who had pulled back to re-form their savaged columns. Looking over his own men,Arthur was shocked to see how many had fallen. Almost every battalion had closed its ranks, leaving large gaps along the line. If the French launched another attack then it would surely smash through the exhausted and bloodied redcoats.

When he returned to the crest he heard the sounds of fresh fighting coming from the valley on the other side of the ridge. Fearing a new threat Arthur anxiously rode forward until he had a clear view of the fighting below. Three large squares of French infantry were slowly picking their way back towards the Portina, followed up by the cavalry of the King’s German Legion, and a Spanish regiment that Cuesta must have sent to aid the British. The artillery further down the slope was taking advantage of the large targets being presented by the enemy and firing roundshot through their ranks as they retreated, leaving a scatter of blue-uniformed bodies in their wake.

As the French passed out of range of the British guns, they fell silent one after another and the cavalry withdrew and re-formed further down the valley to wait for the next French attack. Somerset joined his commander shortly afterwards, his face ashen and streaked with grime from the powder smoke of the desperate fight down on the plain.

Arthur greeted him with a faint smile. ‘I was beginning to fear you might have become a casualty. Where have you been?’

‘I stayed with Mackenzie’s brigade through the attack, sir.’

‘Ah, yes, I must remember to tender my thanks to him. That was a fine stand he and his men made.’

‘Mackenzie is dead, sir.’

‘Dead?’ Arthur’s expression hardened. ‘A pity.’

Somerset cleared his throat and continued hoarsely. ‘Together with seven hundred of his men. Cameron is dead as well. He was shot on the other side of the Portina.’

‘I see.’ Arthur nodded sadly.‘This is only the start of a long list, I fear. But we have no time to mourn them now. Later, after the battle. The French may still be game enough for another attempt to break us.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Somerset stiffened his spine and sat as erect as he could in his saddle. ‘I understand.’

As he spoke there was a ripple of flashes along the French line as their cannon fired again, bombarding the men on the ridge and spread across the plain towards Talavera. It was late in the afternoon, and Arthur was reeling with exhaustion and a blinding headache from the glare of the day’s sunlight. He knew that his men must share his condition and would be in poor shape to continue the fight. As the sun sank towards the horizon behind the British, the shadow of the ridge stretched across the rolling landscape and over the French troops massed opposite. Even though the enemy guns continued firing, there was no sign of another attack. The enemy simply stood and waited as the light started to fail.

‘Do you think they will make another attempt tonight?’ asked Somerset.

‘It is likely,’ Arthur replied. ‘Hill’s division must stay in position in case they do. I’d be obliged if you would ride to him and let him know that he may stand his men down, but they must be ready to fight again at a moment’s notice.’

‘Very well, sir.’ Somerset saluted and turned his horse down the slope to Hill’s command post.

The French guns continued firing while there was light, and then fell silent. An uneasy stillness fell across the battlefield, and men whose ears had rung with the sound of cannon and muskets all day seemed stunned by the quiet of the gathering night. Only the faint cries of the wounded and the occasional whinny of stricken horses broke the spell. Then, as the men of the British army sat on the ground in their regiments, a faint glow flickered into life at the bottom of the ridge. Flames licked up amid the dry grass, and the fire quickly spread across the lower slopes. Some wadding from one of the French guns must have caused the blaze, Arthur realised. At first he welcomed the fire. It would show up any attempt by the enemy to take the ridge under cover of darkness, and possibly impede them. But then a thin wail of terror reached his ears. There were more cries for help and then screams of agony from lower down the slope.

‘It’s the wounded,’ Somerset said quietly.‘There must be hundreds of men out there, ours and theirs. We have to send men to save them, sir.’

‘No,’Arthur said firmly, and then swallowed to try to ease the dryness in his throat. ‘We cannot afford to have men looking for the wounded if there is another attack. There’s nothing we can do for them.’

As the fire spread the screams increased and cut through the night so that, even as exhausted as they were, few of the men on the ridge could sleep. Satisfied that there were no signs of a new attack being prepared by the enemy, Arthur made a quick tour of his command and offered words of encouragement to the gaunt figures he came across. Most of the men seemed too numb to continue the battle and when he returned to the ridge Arthur lay down on the ground and tried to rest. But his mind would not be still. When the morning came he had little doubt that his army would face another onslaught such as the one they had endured that day.

He rose just before dawn and stood, straining his eyes and ears for any indication that the French were preparing for another attack. As the eastern horizon grew more distinct the first bugles sounded from the French camp, and then the faint cries of command and the crack of whips as the artillery crews moved their guns.

The light continued to strengthen as Arthur tried to concentrate his thoughts on what needed to be done to prepare for the first attack. Then, as he stared towards the French positions, he frowned. The artillery batteries had gone. There were no lines of infantry and cavalry massing for attack. Only a handful of enemy horsemen remained on the far side of the Portina, keeping watch on the British line.

‘What the devil?’ For a moment Arthur was struck by a terrible anxiety as he wondered if the French were attempting to move through the hills to the north to try to cut him off from his lines of communication back to Portugal. Then, as the first rays of the sun filtered out across the landscape, he saw the French army. Dense columns of men, horses, cannon and wagons, marching to the east, back in the direction of Madrid. It was a while before his mind, dulled with exhaustion, finally grasped the truth.

‘They’re retreating . . . By God, they’re retreating,’ he muttered to himself. The British had won the battle after all. There was no elation in his heart. None. Only relief, and that soon faded as the morning light revealed the terrible cost of victory spread across the still smouldering lower slopes of the ridge and out on to the plain towards Talavera.

THE BATTLE OF WAGRAM

Chapter 8

Napoleon

Lobau island, July 1809

‘This will do,’ Napoleon nodded. ‘Mark it down, Massйna.’

‘Yes, sire.’ Massйna took his pencil from behind his ear and carefully noted the location on the folded map he was holding, then quickly tucked it away again before they attracted the attention of the Austrian sentries on the opposite bank, scarcely a hundred paces away. Napoleon and Massйna had borrowed the jackets and caps of two sergeants and set out without an escort in order not to provoke scrutiny of their reconnaissance work.

They were selecting the sites for the series of pontoon bridges that were to be thrown across the final stretch of the Danube. The first attempt to cross at the end of May had ended in a humiliating reverse that had cost thousands of lives, including that of Marshal Lannes. Napoleon’s enemies across Europe had been greatly encouraged by the news from Austria. The only way to retrieve the situation was to deliver a crushing blow against Archduke Charles and his army.

The difficulty was that the Danube separated Napoleon from his prey. In addition, the Austrian army had erected a formidable array of field fortifications in a wide arc that stretched across most of the bank that faced Lobau. The enemy had made no moves to carry the fight to Napoleon and seemed content to sit and wait for him.

With all Europe watching the conflict, Napoleon was determined to make another attempt to cross the river, and this time the result would be very different.

Every soldier that could be spared had been summoned to Vienna, where the army steadily increased in size until over a hundred and sixty thousand men had gathered to take part in the attack on Archduke Charles. The troops left to guard the army’s communications with France were thinly stretched and if only one more of the European powers chose to intervene on the side of Austria then there would be little to stand in their way.

Meanwhile Lobau was turned into a fortress. By the end of June over a hundred and thirty cannon were sited in batteries covering the far bank. Two strong bridges had been constructed across the main channel of the Danube as well as three new pontoon bridges. Stakes had been driven into the river bed upstream of the bridges to ensure that they would be protected from any Austrian fireships or floating rams. There was to be no dependence on a single, vulnerable bridge across the river this time.

The enemy had made no attempt to intervene. The French had even managed to land a force across the river to seize the salient on which the hamlet of Mьhlau stood. Within hours the French engineers had thoroughly fortified the village and mounted powerful batteries in redoubts to cover the approaches. The enemy had reacted with their usual plodding deliberation and by the time a column had arrived to retake the village it was clear to Archduke Charles that it would cost him far more men than the village was worth and he opted to enclose the salient within the wider system of fieldworks designed to contain any French attempt to break out on to the Marchfeld. Napoleon had been careful to ensure that the Austrians saw the construction of the elaborate series of batteries to cover a landing between Aspern and Essling. Moreover, the elite Imperial Guard had loudly paraded opposite Mьhlau, and two additional bridges had been constructed to the salient. The enemy could hardly be in any doubt where Napoleon’s blow would fall.

Which was as well, he mused to himself as he strolled further along the bank of Lobau island with Massйna. For it was all an elaborate ruse, calculated to draw the enemy’s attention away from the true direction in which the French would strike. Already, ten pontoon bridges had been constructed out of sight of the Austrians, ready to be towed into position on the night of the attack. It was these bridges that Napoleon and Massйna were choosing positions for as they made their way along the eastern end of the island in their borrowed jackets.

Napoleon paused to survey the opposite bank once again. A party of Austrian soldiers were bathing in the shallows, their laughter and sound of splashing carrying clearly across the water. Beyond the Austrians the bank sloped gently up to higher ground.

‘What do you think?’

Massйna stared across the river for a moment before he nodded. ‘Looks good to me, sire. The river bed must be firm there, and our guns will be able to negotiate the far bank easily enough.’

‘I agree. Mark the position.’

They worked their way steadily along the bank, choosing the points where the ground was most solid and the bank posed no obstacle to the swift crossing of the river. When the last site had been marked on the map they turned to make their way back across the island to the Emperor’s forward headquarters. Behind the screen of forests that surrounded the heart of the island sprawled a vast camp. Marshal Oudinot’s corps had joined Massйna’s men, and once night came Davout’s thirty-five thousand soldiers would swell the ranks of the army waiting to be unleashed on the unsuspecting Archduke Charles. Obedient to their strict orders the men had not lit camp fires, and sat quietly resting. Some were stretched out asleep, others were cleaning their weapons, the cavalry rasping whetstones along the edges of their sabres. Although no orders had been issued for any attack, the concentration of so many men was evidence enough that their Emperor was preparing for an imminent battle.

As they walked through the camp Napoleon felt the keen sense of anticipation amongst his soldiers. So different from little over a month earlier when the army had been thrust back on to the island by the Austrians. Napoleon’s brow creased into a frown as he recalled the scene. The survivors of the battle had slumped on the ground in exhaustion. Thousands of injured men had been forced to spend two nights in the open, and hundreds had died from their wounds and been buried in a mass grave on the south of the island.

Eventually the wounded had been evacuated to Vienna, including Marshal Lannes, whose legs had been smashed by a cannon ball. With both legs shattered the imperial surgeon, Dr Larrey, had no choice but amputation. Napoleon had gone to his friend’s side after the operation and found the veteran of many campaigns lying on a bed in a small chapel. A thin sheet covered Lannes and his arms lay at his sides. The sheet fell flat to the bed from his thighs down. Lannes was in a troubled sleep, his face slick with perspiration, as Napoleon and Dr Larrey entered the room.

Napoleon turned to Dr Larrey and asked quietly, ‘What are his chances of surviving?’

‘Good enough. The marshal has a strong constitution. Provided there is no corruption of the wound, the stumps will heal in time.’

Napoleon nodded. ‘Keep me informed of his progress.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Napoleon glanced back through the door and felt a great sadness over the knowledge that the courageous and utterly dependable Lannes would never again be at his side during a battle. It would be hard for a man so full of vitality to accept life as a cripple, Napoleon realised. As he closed the door, he wondered if it might not have been kinder if Lannes had been killed outright.

Marshal Jean Lannes died eight days after he had been wounded. The pain of his loss still burned in Napoleon’s heart. He had wept at the news, and the army had been stunned. Many had seen Lannes in the front rank in battle and had been steadied by his example. He had risen from amongst their ranks and had shared their perils and their wounds, and they openly grieved for him as the news spread through the ranks.

Jean Lannes would be avenged, Napoleon vowed silently as they approached a group of sergeants sitting beside the track running across the camp. The men had a small keg of brandy with them and a haunch of cured venison. One of them looked up as Massйna and Napoleon passed by.

‘Hey, friends, join us for a drink?’

Massйna was about to refuse the offer when Napoleon nudged him and smiled a greeting. ‘Why, yes. Thank you.’

Massйna shot him a surprised glance, but Napoleon simply pulled his cap down a bit further as he sat on the crushed grass. After a moment’s hesitation Massйna joined him. The sergeant who had invited them held out two battered copper cups and lifted the keg to pour a small measure into each. Napoleon raised his cup. ‘Good health!’

The other sergeants, ten or so of them, raised their cups to return the toast and then, after a sip of the fiery liquid, Napoleon wiped his lips and asked, ‘So what unit is this, then?’

‘First battalion, Eighty-second regiment of the line. In Friant’s division.’

Napoleon nodded. ‘Davout’s corps, then. Only just arrived.’

‘Not only that,’ the sergeant continued, ‘but only just formed. The battalion’s marched here from the depot at Lyons.’

Another sergeant cleared his throat and spat on to the ground beside him. ‘Most of the recruits are just boys.’

‘And what about you lot?’ asked Massйna. ‘What’s your service record?’

‘Us?’The first sergeant laughed.‘Up until a couple of months ago we were just customs officers. Then the call-up comes from Paris. The Emperor needs a new army and his recruiters are scouring France for discharged veterans, National Guard officers and NCOs, and finally, at the bottom of the barrel, us. That’s why I asked you to join us.’ He pointed at their jackets.‘You’re from the Imperial Guard. You must have seen a thing or two.’

Massйna nodded.

‘Then you must have been here when the army last went up against the Austrians.’

‘Yes.’

‘The army newspapers say that it was a tactical withdrawal after the enemy had been given a good hiding. Of course, no one believes a word of it. From what we’ve heard, it was a bloody disaster. Is that true?’

Massйna glanced at Napoleon, who was still for a moment before he nodded discreetly. This was a rare chance to hear what his soldiers really thought. Freshly arrived from Lyons, it was likely that none of them had ever set eyes on their Emperor. Most of the paintings and prints that were to be found around the country had him bedecked in glittering uniforms. They would not guess his identity, for now at least.

Massйna looked at the sergeant and nodded. ‘It was a hard fight, and yes, they drove us from the field. We lost good men, thousands of them.’

‘How did that happen?’

Massйna shrugged. ‘We advanced too far too quickly and the reconnaissance was sloppy, and somehow the cavalry patrols managed to miss spotting the Austrian army. That’s how.’

‘Then it’s like we were told,’ one of the others intervened. ‘The Emperor fucked up.’

Napoleon sensed Massйna freeze by his side, and he coughed and leaned forward.‘Careful, that’s dangerous talk. I wouldn’t let any officers overhear such an opinion. But, for what it’s worth, the Emperor made a mistake. I doubt he’ll make the same one again.’

‘Really?’ The sergeant raised his eyebrows. ‘What makes you think so?’

Napoleon gestured at the vast camp surrounding them. ‘Every preparation has been made. I doubt there’s any army in the whole of Europe that could beat us now.’

‘I’m not worried about other armies. I’m worried about the one that’s waiting for us on the other side of the river. They’ve beaten us once. They’ll be thinking they can do it again.’

‘Then they’re wrong,’ Napoleon replied, and jerked his thumb at Massйna. ‘We’ve fought ’em before. Trust me, the Austrians can be beaten, and they will be beaten.’

The sergeant still seemed doubtful. ‘Well, I hope you’re right. God knows we need to beat them and end this war. Let’s hope this time we can have a real peace at the end of it all. Perhaps we’ll live to see the day when the Emperor has finally had his fill of war. All I want is peace, and the chance to go home to my family.’

‘Peace, and the chance to go home?’ Napoleon shrugged. ‘I’m sure that’s what the Emperor wants as much as the next Frenchman. The question is, will the other nations let us have peace?’

‘No chance,’ the sergeant replied bitterly. ‘War is all that kings, tsars and emperors understand. They love the uniforms, and pushing tokens round on maps, and all the time it’s the lot of common people to die. I thought the Revolution was supposed to put an end to all of that. We got rid of the King, and the aristos. Now look at us. Dukes, princes and barons as far as the eye can see, and Napoleon sitting on top of it all with his crown. What’s changed, tell me that?’

The first sergeant laughed.‘Ignore him. Pierre’s just an old-fashioned Jacobin. He’s always grumbling. I wonder . . .’ He looked eagerly at Massйna and Napoleon. ‘You must have seen him. What’s he like?’

‘The Emperor?’ Massйna puffed his cheeks at the awkward situation. ‘Well, he’s just a man, like any of us here. He may be Emperor when he’s in the palace in Paris, but here, in the field? Here, he’s a soldier. He takes his risks with the rest of us.’

‘And what about you?’ asked the sergeant called Pierre, staring directly at Napoleon. ‘What do you think?’

Napoleon stared back at him for a moment, tempted to reveal his identity, but at the same time loath to break the illusion that they were all comrades. He set down his cup and stood up, punching Massйna lightly on the shoulder. ‘I think it’s time we got back to our battalion. It’s going to be a busy night.’

Massйna handed back his cup and stood up. ‘Good luck to you all.’

‘And you,’ the first man nodded back.

‘What do you think?’ Napoleon asked quietly, as he and Massйna strode off.

Massйna glanced at him. ‘Sire?’

‘Don’t be a fool, Massйna. I’m talking about what those men said. Are they right? Have I betrayed the Revolution and simply created a new form of tyranny?’

‘You are talking about politics, sire, and I am a soldier. It’s not my field.’

‘You are evading the issue.’ Napoleon laughed softly. ‘When a man fears to speak the truth then he does indeed live in a tyranny. It seems that the sergeant was right.’

‘King or emperor, what difference does it make?’ Massйna responded. ‘The fact is, France is at war and it is the duty of every soldier to fight for his country. When the fighting begins there is no place for questioning the cause of it.’ He was quiet for a moment. ‘Besides, what use have I for peace? It would do me out of a fine living.’

Napoleon looked at him and shook his head. ‘Marshal Massйna, you have a brutally practical way of looking at life. Even so, I must admit I had hoped that a little idealism burned in your heart.’

Massйna shrugged. ‘I’ll leave idealism to the philosophers, sire. As long as there’s fighting, fucking and fortunes to be made, I am your man.’

‘And what if I make peace? What of your allegiance to me then?’

‘Sire, that sergeant was right about one thing. While you are Emperor there cannot be peace in Europe, whether you will it or not. And that suits me perfectly.’

They returned their borrowed jackets when they reached headquarters and made their way into the map room. Berthier was leaning across the table with a pair of dividers as he calculated the march timetables for the remaining columns still moving forward to join the army. He straightened up and bowed his head as the Emperor and Massйna entered.

‘Everything proceeding to plan?’ asked Napoleon.

‘Yes, sire. The entire army should be over the river by the second day. One hundred and eighty thousand men, less the garrison to cover the bridges.’

‘What’s the latest intelligence on Archduke Charles?’

‘According to the reports from the cavalry corps, the Austrians have something in the order of one hundred and fifty thousand men concentrated against us. Of course, we are still unsure of the precise location of Archduke John’s army. He began his withdrawal from Italy two weeks ago, and might be close enough to intervene.’

‘What’s his strength?’

‘No more than fifteen thousand, sire.’

‘Then he is of little consequence to us,’ Napoleon decided. He clicked his fingers. ‘Massйna, the map.’

Massйna took out the diagram of the river crossings and unfolded it beside the larger-scale map that Berthier had been working on. Napoleon tapped his finger on the pencilled markings on the eastern side of Lobau island. ‘This is where we cross. Have the map copied and sent to the commander of the engineers. He is to have the pontoon bridges ready to move into position at nightfall.’

‘Yes, sire.’

Napoleon studied the map in silence for a moment before he nodded with satisfaction. All the pieces were in place. Archduke Charles had concentrated his army around the French troops in the Mьhlau salient. It appeared that he had taken the bait and was waiting to meet the French attack over the same ground as where they had attempted to force a crossing just over a month earlier. Instead, Napoleon would strike two miles to the east, towards the village of Wittau. In overwhelming strength the French would pour across the Danube and immediately wheel round to take the Austrians in the flank and rear and crush them. Napoleon looked up at Marshal Massйna and smiled.

‘We have the enemy precisely where we want them. Tonight, you will have the honour of leading the army across the Danube and on to victory.’

Chapter 9

The storm broke just after night fell over the Danube. Lightning illuminated the landscape in brilliant flashes of dazzling white which caught thousands of men, horses, guns and silvery streaks of rain in a frozen tableau for an instant before plunging the world back into darkness. Then, as the men marched forward through the mud towards the pontoon bridges, the thunder crackled and boomed like a vast cannonade in the heavens.

‘It could hardly be better,’ Napoleon commented to Berthier as they sat on their horses, watching the first columns of Massйna’s corps move forward to the river bank, ready to cross over the moment the bridges were swung into place. Napoleon gestured towards the western side of the island, nearly two miles away. ‘This storm, and the diversionary attack from Mьhlau, will provide perfect cover for Massйna’s assault.’

Berthier nodded, and reached for his pocket watch. He waited a moment, and then read the time as lightning flashed overhead.

‘Just gone nine o’clock, sire. Less than ten minutes to go now.’

They waited in the darkness while the rain hissed down, pattering off the flat tops of the soldiers’ shakos and soaking through their greatcoats and the uniform jackets beneath. Around them, the trees that lined the river bank swayed in the gusts of wind that sounded like the sea as it swept through the leafy boughs. Every time the lightning burst across the landscape the soldiers looked like statues, Napoleon mused as he hunched his neck down into his collar to try to keep the water from trickling down his neck. Then, at the appointed time, there was a deep roar from the west that echoed across the island as the guns massed opposite Mьhlau blasted the Austrian lines. At the same time General Legrand would be launching his diversionary attack, engaging the enemy outposts as aggressively as he could to draw Archduke Charles’s attention away from his left flank.

As soon as the cannonade began, the five hundred grenadiers of Massйna’s assault force rushed the small boats they had been issued down the bank and into the river, before clambering aboard and paddling across the current as swiftly as possible. No shots were fired from the Austrian sentries, who were either sheltering from the storm or distracted by the furious sounds of battle away to the west. In the darkness, Napoleon could just make out the boats surging across the river, the men landing and then heading cautiously up the far bank, muskets at the ready.

As soon as the assault force was across, the first of the pontoon bridges was towed into position. Behind it came the other nine, emerging from the small channel where they had been waiting, hidden from Austrian eyes. The engineers hauled them into position and fastened them to the posts already driven into the bank of Lobau island. Napoleon urged his mount forward to the nearest of the pontoon bridges and sent for the officer in charge.

‘How long will it take you to get the bridge into position, Lieutenant?’

‘Fifteen minutes, sire,’ the engineer replied at once.

‘I will give you five minutes,’ said Napoleon as he reached for his pocket watch. ‘I’ll be timing you.’

‘Yes, sire.’ The engineer saluted and turned to run down the bank to his men, already shouting his orders to get a boat across the river with a cable and some stout stakes to drive into the far bank. As soon as the stakes were pounded into position the engineers pulled the cable attached to the end of the bridge and with ponderous grace the line of pontoons and trestles angled across the current until it extended from bank to bank. As soon as the last cables had been tied securely to the stakes the engineering officer sprinted up to his Emperor and saluted as he stood to attention, chest heaving from his exertions.

‘Beg to report, the bridge is ready, sire.’

Napoleon thrust his pocket watch back inside his coat. ‘With nearly half a minute to spare. Fine work.’

‘Thank you, sire.’

‘Now, I’d be obliged if you would get the first of Massйna’s men across that bridge of yours.’

‘Yes, sire.’ The engineer saluted smartly and hurried off to the head of the bridge and waved the first company forward. The soldiers broke step as they reached the first trestle and then strode as quickly as they could across to the far bank. Further downriver Napoleon could just discern the outlines of the other bridges being swung into position across the current, and more of Massйna’s corps quickly crossed to the far bank. A few hundred paces inland, individual muskets flared as those enemy soldiers on watch who had managed to keep their powder dry opened fire on the assault party. Once the first division was across it marched off along the bank of the river to the north, making for the fortified village of Gross-Enzerdorff before pressing on to Essling.

To the right, Oudinot and Davout led their men across and drove the enemy back as they fanned out across the plain and formed their corps up on Massйna’s right flank. By the early hours of the morning half of the Grand Army was already over the Danube. Napoleon and his staff crossed the river and set up headquarters in the hamlet of Uferhaus, where the Emperor’s bodyguard unceremoniously turfed out the owner of a small estate and surrounded the walls with pickets. Inside Napoleon sat at a hastily arranged map table and took a bowl of soup as Berthier eagerly read over the reports sent back from each of the three corps which had already crossed the river.

‘No reports of any serious opposition, sire. The Austrians seem to be retreating right across our front.’ Berthier sifted through a few more sheets of paper before he looked up again. ‘Casualties are minimal.’

‘Good. And what of the bridges? Are they still in one piece?’

‘As far as I know, sir. At least, there have been no reports to the contrary.’

Napoleon stared at his subordinate for a moment, wondering if he could trust his junior officers to keep him fully informed of the army’s progress across the river. After the debacle of the last attempt to force a crossing of the Danube, Napoleon was determined to ensure that the army’s lines of communication were unhindered. He pushed the bowl to one side. ‘Berthier, send an officer to the river bank. I want to know the instant anything happens that might frustrate our plans, in any way. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, sire.’

Napoleon gazed at the map, deep in concentration. By dawn three army corps and the Imperial Guard would be drawn up in a line facing north across a six-mile front from the bank of the Danube across the plain to the east. A hundred thousand men. Opposed to them would be a hundred and fifty thousand Austrians. Napoleon was confident that his men could hold their line, even though outnumbered, until the last formations of the Grand Army crossed the Danube and swelled the total to over a hundred and eighty thousand men. If Archduke Charles retreated, then the Grand Army would be obliged to pursue him, all the time stretching their lines of communication, and being forced to leave behind men tasked with guarding vital supply routes.

Very well, then, Napoleon resolved, the enemy must not be given any chance to break contact. At first light, the first three corps must be launched against the Austrians, forcing them to stand and fight.

When the sun rose across the plain in the morning, it was clear that the Austrians had been caught by surprise. Through his looking glass Napoleon could see enemy lines scattered across the landscape. The largest concentration of Austrian forces was between the villages of Aspern and Essling where the diversionary attack had struck the previous evening. Elsewhere individual units were hurriedly forming up into lines to face the coming onslaught. As the light strengthened across the drenched fields, he saw that some of the enemy formations were already pulling back, heading for the Russbach river. The bank was raised on the far side of the river and would provide the Austrians with some defence against a French attack.

During the first hours of the morning there was no attempt to counter-attack and most of the French soldiers had the chance to chew on some bread and sip some water. They stood in the muddy fields, muskets slung over their shoulders as thin wisps of steam rose from their uniforms into the warm air. As they waited a steady stream of infantry, cavalry and artillery hurried across the river. Three more corps were due to cross the Danube during the day, and the last, commanded by Marmont, would join them on the morrow. In little over a day, almost all the army would have reached the far bank. It was an achievement to be proud of, Napoleon mused to himself as he stretched his shoulders and watched the men of Prince Eugиne’s corps stepping out across the pontoon bridges.

His heart warmed at the thought of his stepson. Eugиne had proved himself to be an able commander and, more important, a loyal subordinate - unlike the commander of the corps that was waiting to cross after Eugиne’s men. Marshal Bernadotte had become increasingly arrogant in the years since Napoleon had been crowned Emperor. Recently, there had been reports from some of his officers that Bernadotte had been speaking very openly of his superiority to the Emperor in military affairs. While it was tempting to dismiss the marshal and be done with him, the fact was that Bernadotte was popular with his men, and well connected amongst the politicians in Paris. He would present more of a danger if left to his own devices in the capital than here in the field, where Napoleon could keep a close eye on him. Even so, there was a limit to how far the Emperor would tolerate such a troublesome officer.

He thrust Bernadotte from his mind and returned to his consideration of Eugиne. It was a shame that he had not fathered such a fine man, Napoleon reflected sadly. That had been a fond hope and ambition of his marriage to Josephine. But there was no chance of her bearing another child now. She was too old for that, and even if she had still been fertile she would not be prepared to risk another childbirth. Yet France needed an heir to the imperial throne. Without a son to succeed him, Napoleon could not give his empire the stability it so desperately needed. Since he had fathered a son by the Polish Countess Walewska, he knew that his own fertility was not at fault. If there was to be an heir, then he must find himself a new wife. Yet he shrank from the consequences of that knowledge. Despite the discovery of Josephine’s numerous affairs, and her failure to give him a son, Napoleon loved her more deeply and surely than any woman he had ever known.

He sighed heavily. Once the campaign was over, and Austria had been humbled, then he would have to deal with the matter of providing his empire with a successor, no matter how much pain that would cause him, and Josephine. Duty and destiny must prevail over emotion, he resolved.

He was disturbed by the arrival of a young dragoon officer who stood to attention and saluted as he stood before his Emperor.

‘What is it?’ Napoleon snapped.

‘Sire, Marshal Massйna sends his compliments and begs to inform you that the Austrians are beginning to withdraw from Essling.’

‘Are they now?’ Napoleon frowned. It seemed that Archduke Charles had finally realised the danger of his situation and was starting to extricate his army. ‘Tell Massйna that he is to press forward at once. He is to push the enemy back, and stay in contact with them. They must not be allowed to escape, or be given any respite. Massйna must drive all before him. Now go!’

‘Yes, sire!’

Throughout the afternoon the French soldiers pressed forward, driving the enemy back across the plain. The last clouds had long since gone and the sun blazed down from a clear blue sky. But while there was serenity in the heavens, the Marchfeld was marked by great banks of rolling gunpowder smoke and the litter of war. Bodies of the dead and wounded lay strewn in the trampled grass, together with discarded equipment, shattered gun carriages and lame or abandoned horses that grazed between the corpses. The air was heavy from the heat, and reverberated with the sounds of cannon and the lighter crackle of musket fire.

Late in the afternoon Napoleon and his escort rode forward to assess the situation. He stopped by a small church on a dusty road heading north from Aspern, and climbed its tower with Berthier. There was little space at the top, and they had to squeeze past the old bronze bell before they could open the shutters and look out over the battlefield. Both men raised their telescopes and slowly swept them along the French line, taking in the formations of men and horses advancing under their tricolour and imperial eagle banners. They were dark against the shimmering gold of wheat fields, and the verdant green of meadows.

Napoleon could see that his army formed a giant wedge, driven into the centre of the Austrian line. He felt the familiar excitement tingle in his scalp as he viewed the over-extended enemy.

‘Berthier, do you see?’

‘Sire?’ Berthier lowered his looking glass and waited patiently while his Emperor briefly examined the battlefield once again before he lowered his own glass and turned round with a cold smile.

‘Berthier, we have them, provided we strike swiftly. Come!’

Napoleon led the way back down the narrow steps of the tower and they emerged in the cool plastered nave. Striding across to the altar, Napoleon swept the ornaments aside.

‘Let me see the map.’

Berthier unfasted the strap of the leather document case hanging from his shoulder. He took out the map, unfolded it and spread it across the altar. Napoleon leaned forward and stared at it a moment, eyes darting across the features, and then he nodded.

‘Our line extends thus.’ He drew his finger east from the Danube, towards Wagram, and then angled it south, along the length of the Russbach river. ‘The enemy’s right wing hinges on Wagram. Massйna can pin their right, Oudinot and Davout can strike against their left, and then we use our reserves to punch through, here.’ He tapped the map. ‘At Wagram. If we succeed, then we can turn and trap their right flank against the Danube and annihilate a third of Archduke Charles’s army.’ His eyes glittered.

Berthier studied the map a moment. ‘But what of Archduke John, sire? What if he appears on our flank? It could be dangerous.’

Napoleon shook his head. ‘Send a cavalry division to screen our flank. If he nears the battlefield before we have dealt with his brother, they can hold him off while we defeat Archduke Charles.’

‘Very well, sire. What time shall we begin the attack?’

Napoleon took out his watch. ‘It’s five o’clock. We should begin no later than seven. That gives us the best part of three hours of daylight to break the Austrians. The orders have to be sent out no later than six.’ Napoleon took off his jacket and threw it to the side of the altar. ‘To work, Berthier!’

The massed guns of the Grand Army opened fire on the enemy just after seven that evening. Napoleon watched with satisfaction as solid shot ploughed through the dense enemy formations. Then their own guns replied, smashing gaps in the French columns waiting for the order to advance. Once he judged the Austrian centre was beginning to waver under the intense bombardment, Napoleon gave the order for the attack to begin. As the French guns fell silent, the drums began a deep rolling beat and the infantry closed up on the waiting Austrians. Again, the long smears of dense smoke spread across the landscape, shrouding the battle, and Napoleon waited with the Imperial Guard, just behind Eugиne’s corps.

As the sounds of the assault rose in a crescendo Napoleon rose up on his stirrups and strained his eyes to see how the leading division was progressing. Eugиne had chosen General MacDonald, the descendant of an exiled Scottish aristocrat, to lead the way with his division of Italian soldiers. In the fading evening light, Napoleon could just make out the distant figures of his men beginning to enter the streets of Wagram. He nodded approvingly.

‘I have misjudged MacDonald’s men. I had feared they might lack the elan of French men, but look at them now. Charging in like lions!’

‘Yes, sire,’ Berthier replied, looking up from the first reports that had arrived from the other sectors of the battle line. He cleared his throat nervously and addressed his Emperor. ‘Sire, Oudinot and Davout are taking heavy losses.’

‘Of course they are. It’s to be expected in a frontal attack.’

‘But the enemy are holding their ground, sire. Our columns have been stopped in their tracks. And they’re losing men.’

Napoleon’s brow creased and he thought for a moment before responding. ‘It does not matter. The battle will be decided at Wagram. Once we have that, the enemy’s spirit will break. I know it.’

As he watched MacDonald’s men advance into the town Napoleon felt a glow of triumph kindle in his breast. The Grand Army was on the cusp of another great victory. Once Austria was defeated he would make sure that they would never again dare to defy France and her Emperor. But harsh terms in any treaty would not be enough. Napoleon intended to find a way of tying the destiny of both nations together.

A sudden intensification of musket fire from the direction of Wagram broke into his thoughts.

‘Sounds like MacDonald has run into some determined opposition,’ Berthier commented.

‘Archduke Charles must have reinforced Wagram. Even he isn’t so stupid that he does not see a danger when it stares him right in the face. Still, it’s of no consequence. Eugиne will reinforce his leading division in turn. The Austrians will run out of reserves before we do.’

‘You are right, of course, sire.’

Napoleon raised his nose and continued to gaze towards Wagram, trying to discern how the battle was going. Then the first Italian casualties began to limp out of the town, making their way back towards the rest of Eugиne’s corps formed up a short distance ahead of Napoleon and his staff. After the walking wounded came those who were being helped to the rear by their comrades and Napoleon regarded them coldly, always suspicious of unwounded men who fell out of the battle line, for any reason. There were always men who took advantage of a comrade’s injury to duck out of the fight. Soon the trickle emerging from the town became a flood; some had even abandoned their weapons in their haste to get away.

‘Bloody cowards!’ a voice called out from the front rank of the nearest battalion of the Old Guard.

‘Silence there!’ a sergeant bellowed. ‘I’ll have the balls of the next man who opens his mouth!’

The veterans stood and watched as hundreds of men from MacDonald’s division streamed out of Wagram. The sounds of fighting began to diminish, and a faint cheer rose up in the distance.