The Fields of Death

Cameron struggled to contain his anxiety and nodded. As they passed through the farm Arthur noted that the fire in the yard between the buildings was fringed by the charred remains of other equipment: the spokes and timbers of a gun carriage, and what looked like the carcass of a horse, or a mule. Further on they came across a deserted camp site. Flattened grass gave way to latrine ditches and then a broad expanse of muddy ground, churned up by nailed boots, horseshoes and heavy iron-rimmed wheels. There were the remains of more fires where the remnants of equipment and looted furniture still smouldered.

Arthur turned to Cameron. ‘I’ve seen enough. Massйna is retreating. There’s no question of it.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Cameron paused a moment before he continued.‘What will you do, sir?’

‘I shall pursue him. I shall outmarch him and then, by God, I will destroy him.’

Marshal Massйna had gained over a day’s march by the time Arthur’s army took up the pursuit. The cavalry raced on ahead of the main column, tracking the line of retreat. The passage of the French army was not difficult to trace since they had left a now familiar trail of abandoned equipment and small bands of stragglers and wounded eagerly waiting to be taken into captivity rather than face the wrath of the local peasants. Further on the allied army came across the first of the villages devastated by the retreating French. Everything of value that could be carried away had been stripped from the houses. All the food was gone. Mutilated bodies lay sprawled in the streets. Three blackened bodies, a woman and two children, still hung from a tree over the remains of the fire that had been lit beneath them. The only survivor, an old man, bleakly informed Arthur that the dead had been tortured by the French in an attempt to discover any hidden supplies of food.

Thereafter the Portuguese battalions stopped taking French prisoners, and their British officers stood by in silence as the enemy’s throats were cut and their bodies left for the buzzards.

As the pursuit continued both armies crossed the frontier. Ahead lay the fortress town of Salamanca, where Massйna would be safe from his pursuers. That night, Arthur and Somerset rode to a small hill and surveyed the twinkling fires of the enemy sprawling across the rolling landscape half a day’s march to the east.

‘Frustrating, is it not?’ Arthur muttered as he stared towards the enemy. ‘To have chased them so far, but not quickly enough to force them to turn and fight.’

‘I suppose so, sir,’ Somerset replied. ‘But Massйna’s army is a spent force. It is a victory all the same.’

‘Victory?’ Arthur rubbed the bristles on his jaw. ‘No. Just a step on a very long road. But we shall reach the end by and by. Now we have to take the war into Spain. To do that we need to take the frontier fortresses of Ciudad Rodrigo, Badajoz and Almeida. It will be a bloody business, Somerset. Laying siege will take some time, and cost many lives.’

Arthur was about to turn his horse back towards the British camp when a cannon boomed out from the direction of the French camp, followed a moment later by another gun, and then more in a regular series of thuds that carried clearly to the ears of the British general and his aide. Arthur’s weary eyes scoured the ground between the two armies but there was no tell-tale flicker of shots to indicate a fight, just the steady report of French guns, firing into the night, one after another.

‘What the devil are they up to?’

Chapter 18

Napoleon

The Tuileries, Paris, 20 March 1811

‘Sire?’ The doctor stood away from the bed where the Empress lay moaning through gritted teeth. ‘May we talk?’

‘There is no time for talk,’ Napoleon said tersely as he sat on the edge of the bed, holding his wife’s hand.‘Just do your duty. See to it that my wife delivers the baby safely.’

The doctor glanced anxiously at Marie-Louise. She lay on her back, knees raised and arms flung out to each side. While Napoleon held one hand, one of her ladies in waiting held the other. Her face was waxen and gleamed in the shaft of light that entered the chamber through a tall window. Perspiration had matted her fair hair to her scalp, and as the doctor watched she let out another prolonged cry of agony before the contraction passed.

The doctor cleared his throat and then spoke softly.‘Sire, her imperial majesty has been in labour for nearly twenty hours. She is growing weaker all the time, and there is little sign of dilation. I must speak to you about the possible complications that may arise from a protracted labour.’

Napoleon stared at him for a moment and then nodded. He leaned across the bed and kissed his wife’s clenched brow. ‘My dearest, I must talk to the doctor. I’ll return in a moment.’

Following the doctor to the window Napoleon stood to one side, out of sight of the crowd that had been swelling outside the palace all day. Rumours concerning the Empress’s labour had swept through the capital all afternoon and now tens of thousands waited expectantly for the signal that a birth had occurred. Already a battery stood ready on Montmartre waiting for the pre-arranged signal. The guns would fire a steady salute to announce the birth. If it was a girl there would be twenty-one rounds fired; if a boy, then one hundred. If there was a tragedy there would just be silence.

The doctor took a quick look across the room to the bed and then spoke in a low urgent tone.‘Sire, I have to tell you that there is a danger that you may lose both your wife and the child if the labour continues much longer. If it comes to the crisis we may still be able to save one or the other. But I must know now which it is to be: the mother or the child.’

Napoleon raised a hand and clasped it to his forehead as he considered the doctor’s words. He had risen early the day before to deal with state business, and shortly before noon a breathless servant had arrived in his office with the news that the Empress had gone into labour. Napoleon had rushed to her side at once and remained there through the rest of the day, and on through the long night into the next morning. He was exhausted, and it took some effort to marshal his thoughts. The main purpose of his marriage to Marie-Louise was to secure an heir. Now he was on the cusp of achieving that goal. If it came to a choice he knew that he should put the child before the mother, in the interests of France.

And yet, he hesitated. It was true that he had married her out of cold-blooded self-interest, but since they had met, and he had bedded her on that first occasion, a genuine affection for her had grown in his heart. She was not beautiful, but she had an innocent grace about her. The first night the sex had been strained and functional, but she had quickly surrendered herself to the pleasure of the act. For his part, Napoleon enjoyed the thrill of bedding a virgin. Not just any virgin, but the flower of one of the oldest royal families in Europe. Now, finally, he had taken a wife worthy of an emperor and with good fortune there would one day be a prince who would unite the interests of France and Austria. For that reason, as much as any, he loved her.

And if he chose the child and let the mother die, then the damage to relations with Austria would be incalculable. At present, Napoleon was cultivating an alliance with Austria against the day when he would finally be forced to confront the Russians on the battlefield. That thought settled his calculations and he looked up at the doctor.

‘If it comes to a choice, save the mother.’

The doctor bowed his head. ‘Yes, sire.’

They returned to the bed just as Marie-Louise had another agonising contraction and the doctor examined her again, this time nodding with satisfaction. ‘The dilation has increased. The child is coming, sire.’

Napoleon resumed his place beside his wife and took her hand, and gently stroked her head with his spare hand as he spoke gently.‘Did you hear? The child is coming. Be strong, my love; it will be over soon and the pain will pass.’

She gritted her teeth and nodded, then strained again.

‘The child is coming, sire,’ said the doctor. ‘I can see the crown emerging now.’

Marie-Louise suddenly screamed and arched her back and a sudden, glutinous rush of liquids soaked the sheet covering her knees.

The crowd outside the palace stirred as the signal flag was hoisted up the mast above the Tuileries. There was a brief roar of relief and delight that the Emperor’s child had been born, then the cheers subsided as they waited to discover if it was a boy or a girl. A distant thud sounded from the battery at Montmarte, then another, and the crowd counted each discharge as it rolled across Paris like thunder. As the twentieth gun sounded the crowd fell absolutely silent, and waited.

Another gun fired, and some muttered to themselves, ‘Twenty-one.’

The sound died away and then there was a pause. No more than the regulation interval between shots, but the moment seemed to stretch out intolerably.

The boom of the next gun was instantly swallowed up by a roar of joyous exultation as the crowd waved their arms, and some threw their hats into the air. In amongst them were members of the Paris militia, and they stuck their cocked hats on the ends of their muskets and raised them high, the red plumes dancing above the crowd. Bottles and jars of wine were uncorked and passed around as the mob celebrated the arrival of the Emperor’s heir.

In the palace, Napoleon waited as the doctor and the midwife carefully swaddled the cleaned child. On the bed, Marie-Louise sat propped up. Now that the delivery was over she looked exhausted but radiantly happy, and she smiled at her husband.

‘Show him to the people, but not for too long. It is cold outside.’

‘Yes, my dear.’ Spontaneously, Napoleon rushed across the room and held her gently as he kissed her on the lips. ‘You have made me the happiest man in all Europe.’

‘That pleases me.’

He looked down at her fondly. ‘This means everything to me. My son, our child, marks the true union of France and Austria, and our own.’

She touched his cheek. ‘I am glad. I am also tired, my dear husband. I must sleep. But you must show our son to your people. Go now.’

Napoleon kissed her again and crossed to the midwife who was holding his child. As he took the small bundle in his arms and gazed down at the tiny wrinkled face he felt a surge of tenderness and love that he had never experienced before in his life. Then the doctor opened the long glazed door on to the balcony, and Napoleon emerged with his child. The cheers of the crowd reached a deafening climax as they beheld the Emperor and his heir. Napoleon turned slowly so that all the people who had gathered in the Place du Carrousel, tens of thousands of his subjects, could see the child as the guns continued to thunder out across the capital. Already the signal stations that stretched across France would be carrying the news to every city, town and village. Soon the guns of every French army would be echoing the salute across the empire, from the cold expanse of Poland to the hills and plains of Spain and Portugal.

The celebrations for the birth of the emperor’s son, whom Napoleon named Franзois Charles Joseph, soon abated and Napoleon turned his mind back to the growing number of problems besetting his empire. When his advisory council met in the palace on a clear spring day there was little sense of any good cheer that the change of seasons had brought to the capital. Looking down the table Napoleon was struck by how few men of genuine talent remained for him to call on. Talleyrand remained in disgrace. Fouchй had been removed from office after rumours had reached Napoleon’s ear that the Minister of Police was plotting against his master yet again. Fouchй had been attempting to negotiate with the English to discover what terms they would consider, if anything happened to the Emperor. It had been tempting to have Fouchй imprisoned, but the minister had many supporters in the capital, as well as a network of agents across the country. Napoleon could not risk becoming a victim of his vengeance.

Talleyrand had been implicated in the same plot, and had been stripped of his office as the Emperor’s Grand Chamberlain. There was no question that Talleyrand could ever be trusted, but his intelligence and peerless diplomatic connections meant that Napoleon did not dare dispense with his services completely. For the moment Talleyrand must be shunned, to teach him a lesson. In time Napoleon would readmit him to his close circle of advisors, but only when Talleyrand had come to appreciate that his influence and power were at the whim of his Emperor.

Napoleon had replaced Fouchй with General Savary, a man whose loyalty was unquestionable. Sadly, his ability was somewhat more uncertain, and he was neither as well connected as his predecessor, nor as clever and cunning. As a consequence government officials had returned to their old vices and were as corruptible as they had ever been under the Bourbons. The Minister of Finance, Cordet, was equally second rate and relied too heavily on the advice of his subordinates. Lastly, the new Foreign Minister, Maret, had no opinions of his own and merely deferred to everything that the Emperor said.

The members of the council, and two of the imperial secretaries, had arrived first, as protocol dictated, and stood beside the table as they waited for their master to appear. Napoleon arrived promptly at the scheduled time and took his seat. Once he had made himself comfortable he waved a hand at the others. ‘Sit down, gentlemen.’

Their chairs scraped as the officials took their seats, and the secretaries settled at their desks, set to one side. They hurriedly took out inkwells, pens and notebooks from their satchels and prepared to take notes. When he could see that they were ready, Napoleon began.

‘Gentlemen, we have a considerable number of difficulties to resolve, foremost of which is the need to increase the flow of revenue to the treasury. Even allowing for the corruption of sundry officials, our receipts continue to fall. This is not acceptable at a time when it is essential to expand the army and the navy to meet current and future threats. Cordet, you speak for the treasury. What are your plans to deal with the situation?’

Cordet swallowed as he flipped open his folder and quickly consulted his notes. ‘Sire, my officials are doing all that they can to collect taxes efficiently. I am told that a drop in tax raised from trading activities is the area where our loss of income is most pronounced.’

‘And why is that?’

‘Sire, trade is increasingly restricted right across Europe, due to the Continental Blockade,’ he ventured warily. ‘The embargo on trade with England is stifling all of the economies of Europe, including ours.’

‘I am aware of that,’ Napoleon cut in tersely. ‘But we are at war with England. If we are to defeat them then we must strike at their weak spot. England needs to trade with other nations, or die. There is no question of lifting the restrictions on trade with our enemy.’

‘All nations need to trade with England, sire, or their economies will wither. We and our allies have suffered enough already. In fact, I would argue that the Continental Blockade is doing far more to harm France’s cause than to assist it.’

Napoleon frowned. He knew that Cordet spoke the truth. In Holland, Napoleon’s brother, King Louis, had all but abandoned any adherence to the system and the Emperor had been forced to annex the country and run it as a province of France. Louis had fled and gone into hiding, eventually resurfacing in the court of a Bohemian prince. Napoleon had been furious at first, but in the end he put his brother’s resistance to his will down to weakness of mind, and insanity.

Cordet continued.‘Sire, for the good of France, it would be better to dismantle the system at once. Allow free trading to resume and tax revenues will rise.’

Napoleon shook his head. ‘We have almost brought England to her knees. I know it. All it requires is one last push. If we can bind Europe to the system just a little longer England must sue for peace.’

‘With respect, sire, the Continental Blockade is failing. It is openly flouted right across Europe. Why, our ambassador to St Petersburg reports that English goods are freely available in the shops and markets there. English ships come and go from the port without the slightest hindrance. Is that not so?’ Cordet turned to the Foreign Minister.

Maret looked pained, and shrugged. ‘That is what Ambassador Lauriston says. However, he is relatively new in his post and he may have been responding to hearsay. I shall write to him to ask for a more detailed report, sire.’

Cordet shook his head in derision.‘You do that, Maret. Anything but make a decision, eh?’

‘Silence!’ Napoleon intervened. He stared round the table, daring anyone to defy him. Then he continued. ‘While we are at war with England, while our soldiers are needed to subdue Spain and Portugal, and while Russia seems intent on provoking us into a war, then the needs of our economy must serve the needs of our army, and our navy. Therefore we need to raise sufficient funds to pay for them. That is the problem we need to resolve, gentlemen.’

There was a brief silence. Cordet shifted uneasily in his chair.

‘Sire. We have no choice but to cut back on our spending. Since military costs consume such a high proportion of government expenditure, they must be cut back.’

‘No,’ Napoleon responded sharply. ‘There is no question of cutting military expenditure. It would be madness to do that now, on the very cusp of victory.’

‘But, sire, the nation will be in debt for generations to come if you continue spending as you are.’

‘If a country is at war, then it must spend whatever is required to achieve victory. We can worry about the debt when we have achieved peace.’

‘And if we don’t have peace?’ Cordet countered. ‘Our economy will be crippled. Sire, might I remind you that it was the debt of the last of the Bourbon kings that brought on the Revolution. Would you risk a similar fate?’

‘There will not be another revolution. King Louis was weak. He gave too much ground to his opponents and his reign slipped from his fingers. I will not repeat his mistake. I rule with an iron fist.’ He nodded towards Savary. ‘My Minister of Police will ensure that the newspapers report what I want them to report. His agents will ensure that even the smallest hint of conspiracy will be investigated and any plotters eradicated. Is that not so, General?’

Savary nodded. ‘As my Emperor wishes.’

‘Indeed. As I wish,’ Napoleon repeated emphatically.‘Very well, then. Now that we all understand how things stand, let me relate my military requirements to you. Cordet, take note.’ Napoleon continued without any need to refer to his notes. ‘One: the Army of Germany requires eighteen thousand more horses. These must be bought and delivered to training depots before the end of the year. Two: I will need another fifty thousand recruits to bring the armies of Germany and Spain up to full strength. Massйna’s reverses in Portugal have cost France dearly. He must be reinforced so that he can crush Lord Wellington and his army before the year is out. Three: the navy must be expanded as soon as possible. We must make good the losses of Trafalgar and then shift the balance in our favour sufficiently to overwhelm the Royal Navy. To that end I will issue orders for the construction of a hundred new ships of the line, together with seventy-five frigates.’

He looked round the table. Cordet looked stunned.

‘Sire, you ask the impossible. We cannot possibly afford such an expense.’

‘Nevertheless, it will be done. We must be ready for war with Russia, when it comes. I shall expect a report from you within the month explaining to me how these requirements will be financed.’

‘A war with Russia is not inevitable,’ said Maret. ‘We should be concentrating our energies on finding an accommodation with them. It is by far the least costly option, in gold as well as lives.’

‘There can only be one great power in Europe,’ Napoleon said firmly. ‘It must be France, whatever the cost. As things stand, the situation is propitious for striking at Russia next year. At present the Tsar is engaged in a war with Turkey and a large army is tied down in that conflict. For the moment we enjoy good relations with most of the lands bordering Russia and they can be persuaded to contribute men towards the armies we deploy against the Tsar. Now Bernadotte has been called on by the Swedes to be their Crown Prince, we have a united front running from the Baltic to the Black Sea. The time is ripe, gentlemen. We have but to seize the opportunity afforded to us by fate.’

There was another silence before General Savary cleared his throat and spoke up.‘Sire, I have no doubt that you are right about the timing. However, we are heavily committed in Spain. Is it wise to fight two campaigns at once?’

‘I have considered that,’ Napoleon replied, and then smiled faintly. ‘You are right, my dear general. We must deal with Spain. To that end I have already sent word to my brother, King Joseph, to come to Paris to confer. Once our remaining difficulties in Spain are resolved then nothing shall stand in the way of humbling the Tsar.’

Chapter 19

The baptism of the new prince was set for June and the Emperor summoned his family, the leading aristocrats of the empire and foreign dignitaries to witness the ceremony. When King Joseph arrived towards the end of May, the Paris newspapers reported that he had travelled from Madrid to celebrate the arrival of his brother’s heir. The other purpose of his visit - to brief Napoleon on the situation in Spain - was kept secret from the people, particularly since Joseph was the bearer of bad news.

‘Massйna failed to relieve the fortess at Almeida,’ Joseph explained as he walked round the garden at Fontainebleau. It was a fine early summer day, and the new leaves gleamed a vibrant green on the trees, while the last of the cherry blossom floated down on the light breeze. On the lawn, in front of the orangery, the Empress and her ladies in waiting were fussing round the infant boy as he lay in his cot. Napoleon spared them a quick glance as he continued listening to his brother’s report.‘He was turned back by the British army at Fuentes de Oсoro and was forced to retreat. The last message I received from the garrison at Almeida said that the food had run out and their ammunition was almost exhausted. If they were not relieved within ten days the commander said that he would be forced to surrender. There was nothing I could do. Almeida has fallen to Wellington’s army.’

‘Yes. But it can be retaken in due course.’

Joseph paused in mid-stride and turned to his brother. ‘You think it is that simple, brother? I think you overestimate the soundness of our position in Spain. We are fighting a new kind of war in the Peninsula. In order to control the country we have to disperse our troops to police every town, village and road. It is the only way to keep the people in check. Yet whenever Wellington advances we are forced to concentrate our forces and abandon control over the countryside. And if we advance against Wellington with an army large enough to overwhelm him, he simply gives ground, luring us on, to the limit of our supply lines, until we are forced to give up the pursuit. And then we have to pacify the countryside all over again. I tell you, we will lose the war in Spain. While our numbers are whittled away, the enemy grows ever stronger. Our soldiers have been pushed out of Portugal and the British are poised to seize all the frontier fortresses and invade Spain.’

Napoleon shook his head. ‘Wellington is not strong enough to launch an invasion. He has no more than a fifth of the number of men available to you. Besides, I think you overrate his ability. He is the same as all the other British generals - too cautious to cause us much trouble. He cannot afford to lose any men. The longer the war goes on, the more certainly the English army will be frittered away. Besides, he lacks the experience of my marshals. Before he arrived in Portugal he commanded very modest forces out in India. I hardly think that a general of sepoys would be capable of besting the commanders of the finest army in Europe.’

‘Yet that is precisely what Wellington has done,’ Joseph countered. ‘He has beaten Junot, Jourdan, Soult and now Massйna. He is a man to be reckoned with.’

‘As I said, you overrate him. I have read the reports of those battles Wellington claims as his victories. He did not win them, he simply allowed our commanders to lose them through their recklessness. That is all. Hardly a firm basis upon which to build such a reputation as you would ascribe to him, Joseph. I tell you he can, and will, be beaten.’

‘Then why don’t you test yourself against him?’ Joseph stared at his brother intently. ‘The Army of Spain needs you, Napoleon. The men’s spirits are low. They have suffered too many reverses at the hands of that cursed English fox and their nerves are worn down by the bands of peasants that dog them wherever they march. The men are a long way from France, from home, and they can see no end to the war they wage in the Peninsula. They say that they have been forgotten by their Emperor.’

‘Forgotten?’ Napoleon exhaled irritably. ‘Who do they think sends the convoys of gold to keep them paid? Do I not make them plenty of awards for bravery and fine performances? Well?’

‘It is not enough. They need you to lead them. To fill their hearts with inspiration once again. Then we could be sure of crushing Wellington once and for all. After that the Spanish will give up the fight and we will have peace.’

Napoleon considered his brother’s words for a moment. He did not deny it was tempting to teach his marshals in Spain that the redcoats were not invincible, as some of them seemed inclined to believe. But then, defeating Wellington would hardly be an achievement worthy of him, he concluded.

‘Joseph, I cannot afford to leave Paris. There are matters here that demand my attention.’

‘More than settling the issue in Spain?’

‘Even more important than that.’ Napoleon turned and continued walking along the path between the flowerbeds, head down and hands clasped behind his back. He had grown heavy from taking too little exercise in the past year and after a moment the discomfort of his arms pressing round his portly body made him release his hands and fold them across his chest instead. Joseph took a few quick steps to resume his place at his brother’s side. They walked in silence for a moment, and the only sounds were the gravel that crunched under their boots, the occasional cry of a peacock, and the laughter and faint snatches of high-spirited conversation of the Empress and her coterie. High above, puffy clouds floated across the sky, serene and unblemished.

‘It is a fine day,’ Joseph said. ‘I had almost forgotten that a man could feel peace like this. It has been such a long time. I would give up the Spanish throne in an instant - if I was permitted to.’

‘You shall do no such thing,’ Napoleon responded without looking up. ‘I have already removed one brother from a throne. I dare not risk the same happening to another Bonaparte. You will remain in Spain, on the throne, and we will win the war there.’

‘And if we don’t win? If we can’t win? Then what? You would leave me there to be torn apart by the mob? Have you not read of what they do to the French officers they capture? Why, the bastards sawed one of our generals in half, and they boiled another alive. Can you imagine that?’ Joseph shook his head in horror. ‘We should cut our losses and abandon Spain completely. That’s my advice, brother.’

‘And that is why you are not Emperor,’ Napoleon replied curtly.‘You lack the necessary appreciation of the wider situation. Spain is but one theatre of war. However, what happens there influences the rest of Europe. If you fail me in Spain, then our enemies will be emboldened to defy us elsewhere.’

‘Then find another king. I am finished with Spain.’

‘Another king?’ Napoleon looked at his brother with a bitter expression. ‘Do you imagine that kings grow on trees that I might just pluck down another whenever I wish it?’

‘I find it hard to believe that you will struggle to find any man who would not wish to be a king.’

‘I will struggle to find one whom I can trust implicitly.’ Napoleon cast his arm wide. ‘I am surrounded by ambitious men who would be king, and most of them would betray me without a moment’s thought. Men like Bernadotte. For the moment he relishes the prospect of the crown of Sweden, but how long before he covets my throne?’ He turned and placed his hands on his brother’s shoulders. ‘That is why I depend on you, Joseph, as I always have. Will you abandon my cause now?’

Joseph did not reply, but stared mutely at his younger brother.

‘My brother.’ Napoleon softened his tone and there was a pleading edge to it when he spoke. ‘Please, I need you. Now as never before.’

Joseph tried to pull away, but Napoleon held his shoulders firmly and refused to let him move. ‘I need to know you are with me.’

‘I must think.’ Joseph glanced down at his brother’s hands. ‘Please, release me.’

Napoleon pursed his lips, then nodded, and his arms fell to his sides. Joseph walked a little further and then sat down on a bench. Napoleon joined him. For a while neither spoke, until Joseph broke the silence.

‘You made me King of Spain, yet the marshals of the Army of Spain refuse to obey my orders. When I have issued commands to them they refer to Paris for permission to carry the orders out. Some have openly said that they will only answer to you, Napoleon. Soult does not even reply to my letters.’

‘They are only carrying out their orders.’

‘Your orders. So you don’t trust me to rule my own kingdom, then?’

‘You are a fine administrator,’ Napoleon said patiently. ‘But you have had little chance to develop your military skills. I decided that it would be most effective to entrust the governance of Spain to you, and the command of my troops there to experienced soldiers. Besides, I have certain plans for the northern provinces of Spain.’

Joseph stared at him. ‘Plans? What plans?’

‘France needs secure frontiers,’ Napoleon explained. ‘It is my intention to annex the territory to the south of the Pyrenees. It will provide me with secure routes into Spain, and it will remove some of the burden from you.’

‘I see.’ Joseph shook his head sadly.‘And you did not think to consult me over this . . . small matter?’

Napoleon pressed his lips together briefly. He was pricked by guilt, and then a wave of self-justification swept the sentiment away. Had he not given his brother every privilege and opportunity that he now enjoyed? Had he not placed Joseph on the throne himself? Had he not given him ample military power to enforce his rule and bring peace to the turbulent Spaniards? What had Joseph given him in return? Incompetence and failure.

‘I am not obliged to refer my decisions to anyone. If I choose to seek advice then I will. In any case, I need to secure peace in Spain as swiftly as possible. So far you, and my marshals, have failed me. Which is all the more galling bearing in mind that I have provided you with such rich rewards.’

‘The Spanish throne is not a reward, it is a curse.’

Napoleon struck him on the shoulder, hard. ‘Ungrateful fool! Is that how you repay me?’

Joseph stared hard at his brother, eyes narrowing slightly. He took a deep breath to calm himself and spoke in an undertone. ‘Did I ask for the crown of Spain? No. You forced it on me. And I forced it on the people of Spain. Now they revile me for it, almost as much as they revile you.’ Joseph’s shoulders drooped as he clasped his hands together. ‘It is hopeless, I tell you.’

‘It is never hopeless. Those are the words of a coward,’ Napoleon replied coldly.

‘No, they are the words of a reasonable man who knows when the game is up.’ Joseph stiffened his posture. ‘I have made my decision, my brother. I will abdicate from the throne. I will leave Spain and retire to my estates in France.’

There was a brief silence before Napoleon turned away and clasped his hands behind his back. When he spoke again it was in a strained voice. ‘You will not abdicate. I forbid it.’

‘You cannot forbid it.’

‘I forbid it. What is more I will have you treated as a deserter if you ever leave Spain again without my express permission.’

‘A deserter?’ Joseph could not help smiling thinly. ‘You would have me shot?’

‘That is the fate of deserters,’ Napoleon replied coldly. ‘Though you are my brother, and I love you, I would have you put up against a wall and shot without the slightest compunction.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

Napoleon turned round, his stare piercing and merciless. ‘Believe it.’

Before Joseph could reply, his brother’s face creased in a sudden expression of agony and he staggered a pace towards Joseph before sinking slowly on to the path, propping himself up on one hand as he gasped for air.

‘Napoleon!’ Joseph crouched down beside him, supporting his shoulder. ‘What is it? What’s the matter?’

‘My stomach . . .’ Napoleon hissed through clenched teeth. ‘Christ, it hurts.’

His brother glanced up, but could see no one in the grounds around them. The imperial staff were keeping a discreet distance from their Emperor and the Spanish King.

‘I’ll get help,’ Joseph said, then looked down at his brother anxiously.

Napoleon nodded, gritting his teeth as he fought off another wave of burning agony from low down in his abdomen. ‘Go.’

He slumped back on to his elbows as Joseph hurried off in search of assistance. The pain in his stomach felt as if a heated iron bar had been pressed into his groin. It was not the first time that he had experienced the pain. Over the last year it had struck him down on several occasions - usually when he was exhausted by the demands placed on him by the endless calls on his time and strength.

‘What is wrong with me?’ he growled bitterly. Ten years before he could have endured such strains on his constitution without any complaint when he had campaigned in Italy. He had marched, eaten and slept in the open with his soldiers, even in the depths of winter. Many times they had forsaken sleep for days as they dashed to confront yet another Austrian army.

Napoleon closed his eyes and sank down on to the path, curling slightly on his side. ‘So many battles,’ he murmured wearily. ‘I am growing old.’

His heart felt heavy and he wondered at the process by which time had laid the years upon him so subtly that he had not really noticed their effects until recently. In the last two years he had grown heavy, fat even, and now there was this pain in his stomach. With a stab of fear Napoleon wondered if this was how his life might end, struck down by a common malady. He had always imagined he was most likely to die on the battlefield, like Desaix or Lannes. A death with some dignity. The thought of dying in agony from some ignoble sickness, before his life’s work was complete, terrified him.

He heard the sound of boots crunching on the gravel of a nearby path and blinked his eyes open.

‘This way!’ Joseph yelled. ‘Quickly, now.’

Napoleon rolled slowly on to his back and waited a moment before Joseph knelt beside him, breathing hard and looking anxious. Other men appeared around him.

‘Take me inside,’ Napoleon commanded.

‘I’ve sent for the doctor,’ Joseph panted. ‘He’s coming directly.’

‘Take me into the house,’ Napoleon replied firmly. ‘I don’t want to be seen lying out here like an invalid. Get me inside.’

For a moment Joseph looked as if he might protest; then he nodded. He rose up and turned to the servants he had fetched from the house. ‘Pick his majesty up. Gently as you can. Take him to the couch in his study.’

Napoleon felt their arms slip beneath his shoulders and legs and a moment later he was carefully hoisted off the ground. He grimaced. ‘Does the Empress know?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Then don’t tell her. No need to cause her any concern. Let her enjoy the day.’

Joseph nodded.

‘Besides, I don’t want her to see me like this. Weak. If word of this got back to the Austrian court . . .’

‘I understand.’

The little party skirted round some neatly clipped bushes to keep out of sight of the Empress and her guests and made their way through the long glazed doors into Napoleon’s private study. Once he had been placed on the couch he dismissed all the others except Joseph as they waited for his personal surgeon to arrive.

‘Where the hell is he?’ Napoleon groaned.

‘He went for a ride. I’ve sent one of your staff officers after him.’

‘Damn the man.’

Joseph pulled up a small chair and sat beside his brother, and hesitantly patted his shoulder. ‘You need to rest. You look exhausted.’

‘I am exhausted.’ Napoleon breathed deeply, fighting the pain as it began to recede, very slowly. ‘But there’s so much for me to do. All the time.’

‘Indeed.’ Joseph nodded. ‘But you cannot do it all. No man can.’

‘No ordinary man.’

‘Ordinary or extraordinary, you are still just a man,’ Joseph countered. ‘And you must look after yourself. You have a duty to your people, and your family. They need you, Napoleon. Now more than ever.’

Napoleon looked up at his brother with a calculating expression. ‘And I need you, more than ever. In Spain.’

The door to the study opened and the imperial surgeon came hurrying in, flushed from his ride. Joseph rose up and stood aside for him.

‘What happened to his majesty?’

‘I can speak for myself,’ Napoleon grumbled, easing himself up. ‘It’s my stomach.’

‘Again?’ The surgeon felt for his pulse, and while he counted he glanced over his Emperor. ‘Sire, you have not been heeding my advice. You need a rest. We have spoken of this. You must rest, before you work yourself into the grave.’

Napoleon frowned and glanced towards his brother and sniffed. ‘Doctors! Nothing but a pestilence.’

Joseph forced a smile, and Napoleon beckoned to him to come closer, suddenly taking his hand as Joseph reached the couch.

‘Swear to me that you’ll stay in Spain!’

‘What?’ Joseph tried to back away, but his brother’s grip was too tight.

‘Swear to me, now, that you will keep the crown. Swear to me!’ Napoleon stared intently at his brother. ‘I need your answer.’

Joseph lowered his head, and then nodded. ‘I will not give up the throne. There. You have my word.’

Napoleon breathed deeply.‘I thank you. And you have my word that I will do all that I can to help you defeat Wellington. You’ll see. A year from now, the British army will be broken. Besides, I doubt that the rest of Europe will care much about our affairs in Spain by then.’

‘Why not?’

Napoleon gave his brother’s hand a squeeze and then released it. ‘All in good time. Now, I must thank you, Joseph, and ask you to leave, so that I might rest.’

‘Hmph.’ The doctor snorted. ‘I’ll believe that when I see it.’

Joseph nodded and turned towards the door. Napoleon watched him leave, and then smiled contentedly to himself. As long as a Bonaparte remained on the throne in Madrid, then he could proceed with other plans. Perhaps the greatest plan of them all.

Chapter 20

Arthur

Albuera, 21 May 1811

Arthur reined his horse in as he and his small escort reached the top of the ridge above the town. Even though General Beresford and his army had fought their battle five days ago, the ground was still covered with the bodies of the dead. The camp followers of both sides, as well as the local peasants, had stripped most of the corpses of anything of value and now the battlefield was abandoned to a handful of allied patrols, and the predations of carrion, wild dogs and buzzing swarms of flies.

Somerset walked his mount forward, instinctively raising the back of his gloved hand towards his nose as the stench of corruption struck him. ‘Good God, what a sight,’ he muttered. ‘What a bloodbath.’

Arthur nodded distractedly. His eyes were covering the salient features of the battlefield as he tried to make sense of the reports he had received of the encounter. General Beresford had been sent south with a third of the army to take the fortress of Badajoz while Arthur and the main army set about the defences of Ciudad Rodrigo. The antique artillery of the nearby town of Elvas had been stripped to supply Beresford with a siege train but it had made little impression on French defences. Then news came that Marshal Soult was marching to relieve the garrison. Beresford had been obliged to abandon the siege and turn to face the threat. Outnumbered, he had chosen to fight a defensive battle of the kind Arthur had found so effective on previous occasions.

Only this time the French had succeeded in turning the allied flank. In the ensuing confusion battalion after battalion had been thrown into the fight piecemeal. It had been a decidedly chaotic and desperate affair and only the raw courage and professionalism of the common soldiers had prevented disaster. Even so, Beresford had suffered grievous losses, nearly five thousand men, most of whom had been British.

Arthur felt numbed by the sight that lay before him. Across the length of the ridge that had formed Beresford’s right flank, the trampled grass and rough heather was covered with the mottled flesh of the dead, still half clad in uniform after the looters had sated their appetite for the bloody harvest of the battlefield. He clicked his tongue and walked his horse on towards the point where the heaviest fighting had occurred. Here the bodies were heaped in places, possibly where some of the British battalions had been caught by the enemy’s lancers before they could form square. Small groups of men had clustered together to try to fight off the lancers before they were overwhelmed and cut down. Elsewhere, two long lines of men lay where they had been blasted by muskets and cannon. Arthur estimated that the best part of a battalion lay dead on the ground. Men who had held firm, steadily firing and reloading even as their comrades had been shot down either side of them, until they too were hit. Arthur regarded the scene with a great sadness weighing on his heart, but pride in these men too. They had served their country with unshakable dedication, and paid the supreme price.

The French had suffered grievously in turn, and small piles and rough lines of blue-coated bodies marked their position on the battlefield. Soult’s losses were even greater than Beresford’s, and it was the French marshal who had first baulked at the carnage being wrought in the thick banks of powder smoke drifting across the ridge. Soult had called off the attack and retreated back towards Madrid.

‘And Beresford calls this a victory?’ Somerset mused as he stared round the battlefield.

‘It is a victory of sorts. He fought off Soult and forced the French to give up their attempt to relieve Badajoz. However,’ Arthur paused and gestured towards the bodies littering the surrounding area,‘another such victory would ruin us.’

Beresford’s army was camped a short distance outside Elvas. The general had fallen back beyond Badajoz to give his men time to recover from their ordeal at Albuera. Only a token force remained outside Badajoz to continue the siege, digging a handful of approach trenches. The motley collection of cannon fired occasional shots at the sturdy defences of San Cristobal, the outlying fort that dominated Badajoz from the high ground on the far side of the Guadiana river. A distant tricolour rippled in lazy defiance above the walls of the fort.

Of all the forts that guarded the routes leading from Portugal into Spain, Badajoz was the most formidable by some margin, Arthur reflected as he rode past. Protected on two sides by the wide Guadiana and one of its tributaries, the city was surrounded by a massive curtain wall, with powerful bastions at regular intervals. On a rock, in one corner of the city, the citadel was defended by yet another tough wall. The choice facing the British was whether to reduce San Cristobal and then use that as a platform to bombard the city, or to attempt to breach the walls from the other side, and then assault the defences. Either would be a costly affair. Casting his eye over the fort across the river, Arthur considered that it was all but impregnable and decided that he must instruct Beresford to abandon his designs on San Cristobal and concentrate his efforts directly on Badajoz.

The subdued spirits of the men of Beresford’s column were readily apparent. The pickets covering the approaches to the camp made little effort to patrol their ground, but sat in the shade, muskets leaning against the trunks of the nearest tree. Further on, the tents and shelters sprawled across the rolling hills in makeshift clusters, rather than the neat lines that Arthur insisted on. The men, stripped down to shirtsleeves, patched trousers and felt caps, were resting in small groups as they talked quietly or slept. The lively ambience of a normal camp was absent.

As some of the men spied the new arrivals a handful stood up.

‘Why, it’s Nosey!’ a voice cried out.‘It’s Nosey! He’s ’ere! Hurrah for old Nosey!’

Scores more of the men rose to their feet and most of them cheered. Others, Arthur noted sadly, did nothing but stare as their commander in chief and his escort rode through the camp.

Arthur sensed Somerset stiffening by his side. The aide cleared his throat. ‘Er, want me to shut them up, my lord?’

‘No. It’s not necessary. If it pleases them, then it serves my purpose, for the present.’

‘Yes, sir.’

They rode on through the camp, accompanied by a ripple of cheers so that by the time they reached the farmhouse that served as Beresford’s headquarters several officers had stirred to witness his approach. Arthur’s heart sank a little further as he saw that some still wore the bloodied and dirty uniforms they had on the day of the battle. None the less, they made an effort to stand to attention as he rode up and dismounted, handing the reins over to one of Beresford’s grooms.

‘Good day, gentlemen.’ Arthur touched the brim of his hat and the officers saluted in return. There was a brief silence as Arthur glanced round, and then he continued in a neutral tone. ‘It would seem to me that you could use a change of clothes, and in some cases a shave, gentlemen. Please see to it before I have the honour of dining with you tonight.’Arthur nodded towards a face he recognised.‘Major Templeton, where is General Beresford?’

‘Within, my lord.’

‘Then I will see him directly. If you would see to the needs of my escort?’

‘Of course, my lord.’ The major bowed his head.

With a gesture to Somerset to accompany him, Arthur went through the farm gate and crossed the courtyard towards the house. A narrow colonnade ran round the inside of the whitewashed walls and a trellis with a leafy vine offered shelter from the sun. A sentry snapped to attention outside the open doorway, and Arthur paused in front of him, then tapped him gently on the breast with his riding crop.

‘Where is your stock?’ he asked mildly.

‘Dunno, sir,’ the soldier replied, staring straight ahead over Arthur’s shoulder. ‘Must ’ave lorst it in the battle, sir.’

‘I think not. Even so, I would expect a good soldier to find a replacement within a day or so. See to it.’

‘Yes, sir!’ The soldier nodded and started to move off.

‘Not now! You’re bloody well on duty, man! See to it the moment you are relieved. Somerset!’

‘Sir?’

‘Make a note to pass that on to this fellow’s company sergeant. I will not have headquarters sentries stand their duty out of uniform.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Arthur stared hard at the soldier a moment longer and then trotted up the small flight of stairs leading into the house. A large hall was well lit by a series of arched windows running along the rear of the building and a handful of Beresford’s staff were busy compiling casualty lists to be sent back to London. There was a scraping of chairs as they hurriedly rose to their feet.

‘Easy, gentlemen. Pray continue with your work. Where is your general?’

‘In there, sir.’ A corporal indicated a closed door to one side of the hall.

Arthur crossed to the door and rapped on the weathered surface.

‘I left orders not to be disturbed, damn your eyes!’ Beresford’s voice bellowed from within.

Arthur and Somerset exchanged a brief look, then Arthur grasped the handle and opened the door. The room was dimly lit; a single narrow shaft of light entered through a window. Adjusting his eyes to the gloom Arthur saw that they were in the dining room. Beresford sat on a plain wooden chair on the far side of a long, sturdy table. A pile of reports and other papers lay to one side. To the other side were two bottles of claret and a glass. Beresford sat in his shirt and breeches, pen in hand as he leaned over a document on the table. He stared at Arthur for a moment and frowned.

‘I wasn’t expecting you, my lord.’

‘Evidently.’Arthur crossed the room, drew up a chair and sat opposite General Beresford. ‘I was on my way to assess the progress of the siege when we received the first report of the battle. I take it that you have written a full account for me?’

Beresford nodded towards the papers immediately before him. ‘I was just writing the conclusion. Rather, I was rewriting it. It’s been hard to relate precisely what happened. They will not understand back in London. Nor forgive.’

‘That remains to be seen, my dear Beresford.’ Arthur smiled gently. ‘Now then, if I may read your report, while Somerset finds us something to eat. It’s been a long, hard ride and I am famished. See to it, Somerset.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Once the aide had left them, Arthur gestured towards the report. ‘I’ll look at it while I wait.’

Beresford glanced down at the slim sheaf of papers and bit his lip. Then he lowered his pen and slid his report across to Arthur. ‘Yes, of course.’

Arthur turned in his chair to let the light fall across his lap and began to read. It was as he feared. Beresford had been badly shaken by the mauling he and his men had endured. It was evident in the dark tone that pervaded his description of the conflict and Arthur could readily imagine the stir it would cause if the document reached the London papers in its current form. Especially the conclusion, where Beresford dwelt on the heavy losses he had endured, and the large number of men who had been injured, and the savage blow that had been dealt to the men’s spirits.

Somerset returned with a servant carrying a tray of cold chicken, bread and a jug of watered wine which he set down at one end of the table before quitting the presence of his superiors. Arthur finished reading the report as the others waited in silence. He placed the papers on the table and eased himself back in his chair as he stared across at Beresford.

‘You had a hard fight of it, that much is clear. But you won the day, and that is what counts.’

‘Won the day?’ Beresford sniffed. ‘I hardly think that is of any comfort to the families of the dead men, nor those who will have a cripple return home from the war.’

‘We must make up our minds to affairs of this kind sometimes, or give up the game. That is the price of war, my dear Beresford. It is a necessary evil if the world is to be free of bloodthirsty tyrants like Bonaparte. You must accept that, just as you must accept that the army has won a victory. England needs victories. Her people need to believe that we are slowly but surely progressing towards a successful outcome to the war. What England does not need is despondent descriptions of the efforts and sacrifices of her soldiers.’ Arthur tapped the report. ‘This will not do, Beresford. You must write me down a victory.’

‘I have written the truth, my lord. I owe nothing less to the men who fell at Albuera.’

‘You have written a truth, that is all. One of many truths that could be told about the battle. The trick of it is to write the most effective one. Let the English people know that our men fought like heroes and died with the contentment of knowing that they had done their duty. Tell England that we sent the enemy reeling and once again we have proved, before Europe, that our army has no peer.’ Arthur folded his arms. ‘That is the tale you must tell.’

Beresford continued his commander’s words for a moment and then sadly shook his head. ‘That is not a tale that would sit easy on my heart, or my conscience.’

‘Damn your conscience!’ Arthur suddenly snapped. ‘Do you think you have a monopoly on the suffering that we have endured during the years that we have fought here? Do you not think that I, and every British general, feels the loss of his men in battle like a great weight on his soul?’ He paused and took a calming breath. ‘Look, Beresford, the war in the Peninsula is broadly going in our favour. I wish that were true of the wider conflict but our allies come and go, beaten again and again. Yet still they come back to the fight. Do you know why? Because we provide them with hope. As long as England endures. As long as her army prevails, then Bonaparte is denied his ultimate victory.’

He leaned closer to his subordinate.‘Your report is a self-indulgence. You have allowed yourself to be too much the man, and too little the general. I cannot afford such self-indulgence in my senior officers. It undermines the morale of the men. A general must stand above the passions of ordinary men. He must be the rock upon which his army is founded. When men have endured as much as they think they can it is to the general that they look for the will to endure more.’

Beresford lowered his head in thought and sat silently for a moment. In truth, Arthur was bitterly disappointed with the man. He was a fine trainer of men and had fashioned his Portuguese battalions as well as Arthur could have hoped, but he lacked the necessary ambition and confidence to act independently.

With a sudden insight, Arthur realised that this was part of the price of being a successful commander. The more he achieved, the greater the degree to which his men depended on him and came to distrust their own abilities.

He cleared his throat. ‘Well, Beresford? What’s it to be?’

The other man looked up, staring into his commander’s eyes, and then nodded. ‘I’ll do as you wish. If it helps our cause.’

‘Good man,’ Arthur replied warmly, and then before Beresford could speak again he rose to his feet. ‘I will leave you to compose your report again, then. Be sure to send a fair copy to me to read before you return to Lisbon.’

‘Return to Lisbon? I don’t understand, sir. Are you relieving me of my command?’

‘Your skills are needed elsewhere. I need more men. You are to return to Lisbon to recruit and train more Portuguese battalions to fill out our ranks.’

Beresford stared at him a moment. ‘Sir, I do not deny that I am weary, and my heart is heavy with the thought of all those who were lost at Albuera, but I beg you, do not humiliate me in this way.’

‘That is not my purpose. I no more desire to humiliate you than I would thrash a horse who had stumbled beneath me. It is clear to me that you require a rest from the strains of command. That is all. Once you have made me some more soldiers you shall return to the campaign. You have my word.’

‘I see. And what of my army? Who will command it?’

‘I shall. Since I am here. I will continue the good work that you have begun here, my dear Beresford.’

Beresford considered the situation for a moment and then nodded. ‘As you wish, sir. Thank you.’

It pained Arthur to see the pathetic look of gratitude that Beresford shot at him but he nodded anyway and turned towards the door. ‘Send the report to me as soon as it is rewritten.’

‘Yes, sir. Where will you be?’

‘I’ll see the wounded. Where were your casualties taken?’

‘They’re in Elvas, sir. Being well cared for at a Franciscan monastery.’

‘Then that is a small mercy.’ Arthur nodded. ‘Send the report to me at Elvas.’

The monastery was on the edge of the town, set into the sturdy wall that ringed the town. General Beresford’s chief surgeon commanded a small team of overworked orderlies who did what they could for over a thousand of their comrades wounded at Albuera. As Arthur and Somerset entered the refectory they saw that the long tables and benches had been pushed to the sides and the vast open space was now crowded with row upon row of wounded British soldiers. Their limbs were wrapped with soiled bandages and hundreds of them had suffered amputation of an arm or a leg, and now lay in miserable contemplation of a life of begging and reliance on others. Many were groaning or crying out in pain, or were tormented by hunger and thirst, since the medical orderlies had no time to see to their needs as they dealt with the more seriously wounded.

‘This is a disgrace,’ Somerset muttered as he scanned the dim interior of the monastery, and wrinkled his nose at the smell of the soldiers who had soiled themselves and now lay in their own filth. ‘Why aren’t there more men assisting the surgeon’s team?’

‘I suspect that our friend Beresford has been too preoccupied to consider these men’s needs. That must change.’

‘My lord . . . sir . . .’ a voice called hoarsely. Arthur turned and saw a young corporal staring at him from one of the few mattresses the monks had been able to spare for the soldiers imposed on them. ‘Sir, a drink. For pity’s sake.’

Arthur nodded and turned to Somerset. ‘Find this man some water, or small beer.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Arthur found a stool and eased himself down beside the corporal. For a moment he said nothing, and then, as the soldier turned his head slowly to face him, he saw that a blast of grape had mutilated the other half of his face, which was now a mass of dried blood and purple flesh.

‘What is your regiment?’ Arthur asked.

The corporal licked his lips. ‘Twenty-ninth Foot, my lord.’

‘How did the Twenty-ninth fare?’

The corporal gestured to the rows of men surrounding him. ‘Most of ’em are from the same regiment, sir. We were pretty badly cut about.’

Arthur looked round at the casualties before he continued in a muted voice, ‘By God, I am so sorry to see so many of you wounded.’

The corporal nodded. ‘If you had been commanding us, my lord, then there wouldn’t have been so many of us lying here.’

Chapter 21

Badajoz, 9 June 1811

Once Beresford’s rewritten report was safely on its way to London and the general had returned to Lisbon, Arthur directed his attention to the siege of Badajoz. On first hearing the news of the battle at Albuera he had sent for the main column, ordering that a small covering force be left behind to keep the defenders of Ciudad Rodrigo bottled up behind their walls for as long as possible. Due to the heavy losses at Albuera, Beresford’s command was too weak to continue the siege on its own and Arthur was reluctantly compelled to concentrate all his strength against Badajoz.

General Beresford and his engineers had bungled their initial attempt to capture Fort San Cristobal. The approach trenches crossed open ground and had not been dug deeply enough, so that they filled with water and mud every time it rained. They also provided inadequate shelter from enemy fire and Beresford had lost hundreds of men to the blasts of grapeshot and bursts of mortar shells as they laboured to dig their way towards the fort. The difficulties facing the allied army were compounded by the lack of decent siege guns. The guns stripped from the walls of Elvas dated back two centuries and lacked accuracy, calibre and ammunition. The batteries that had been constructed for the guns were too far from the fort and as a result it was a chance shot that ever actually struck the areas targeted for breaches.

Had there been sufficient time Arthur would have given the order to abandon the attempt on the fort and turned the army’s efforts towards the walls of Badajoz itself. However, the network of spies run by his quartermaster general, John Waters, had reported that Marshal Massйna had been replaced by Marshal Marmont, who was already marching his army south to join forces with Soult for another attempt to relieve the garrison at Badajoz. The French would be able to muster more than sixty thousand men against Arthur’s fifty thousand, a third of whom were Portuguese and Spanish. Such odds were not favourable, and unless Badajoz could be reduced quickly then the allied army would be obliged to withdraw.

As the sun rose over the rolling Spanish countryside, bathing it in a dusty orange hue, Arthur glanced down at his pocket watch.

‘Ten to six,’ he muttered.

Around him a small cluster of staff officers nervously glanced at their watches and some adjusted them to synchronise with their general. Arthur clambered up on to an upturned gunner’s tub to peer out of the embrasure. Ahead of him the trenches zig-zagged across the bare ground, scored by heavy iron shot. Only a handful of heads and hats bobbed up occasionally as the engineers risked a quick glance towards the fort. The men of the assault party, and the brigade assigned to follow them up if they succeeded in clearing the breach, remained out of sight, crouched down in the churned mud at the bottom of the closest length of trench. Arthur raised his telescope and scrutinised the defences the small force would have to overcome. There was perhaps a hundred yards of open ground to be crossed before the men would reach the base of the hillock upon which the fort stood. Then they would have to clamber up the slope, negotiating the abattis that had been placed at all angles to break up any assault. Then there was the fort itself, protected by thick walls twenty feet high. Expending the last of the ammunition, the siege batteries had succeeded in battering a small gap that ran most of the way down the wall. Arthur estimated that the breach was perhaps ten feet wide. Barely enough to be considered practicable for an assault, yet there was no choice in the matter. Arthur was running out of time. A few days from now Marmont would join forces with Soult and the combined French army could arrive before the walls of Badajoz in less than a week.

‘Let us hope that your men succeed this time, seсor.’

Arthur turned to the neatly uniformed Spanish officer standing at his shoulder. General Alava was a slight man with a ready smile who had been assigned by the junta in Cadiz to act as Arthur’s liaison officer. Although Alava had only been on Arthur’s staff for a brief time he had already begun to win Arthur’s respect by offering a considered opinion when he was asked for one. He was also honest about the shortcomings of those who commanded the Spanish armies and the politicians who were supposed to pay and supply their soldiers. In short, General Alava was exactly the sort of man Arthur required to mediate between himself and the Spanish authorities, who promised so much and delivered so little. It was a great pity, Arthur mused, that the patriotic fervour of the common soldiers and people of Spain was so ill served by many of their leaders.

Arthur puffed his cheeks as he considered Alava’s remark. Three days earlier he had given orders for the first attempt on the breach. A hundred and forty men, weighed down by ladders, had dashed towards the fort, into the face of a withering fire of musket balls and case shot. They had not even reached the wall before half of them had been cut down and the rest had gone to ground. Neither their officers nor their sergeants and corporals could get the men moving again and Arthur had been obliged to have the recall sounded. Since then the aged siege guns had managed to widen the breach and the bottom of the gap was now within easy reach of the base of the wall. However, the enemy would be expecting another attack and casualties were bound to be high again. Arthur lowered his telescope.

‘They have a decent chance of success, General. Otherwise I would not have given the order to attack.’

Alava nodded, then glanced round the battery. The guns were well served with powder, but the racks of iron shot at the rear of the battery were nearly empty. He cleared his throat.‘I would imagine that the guns will be forced to fall silent within a day for want of shot, seсor. Is that not so?’

Arthur was silent for a moment before he replied. ‘You are right. There is little more damage we can do to the walls of the fort. My men will settle the issue by cold steel.’

‘And if they fail to take the breach?’

Just beyond Alava, Somerset stirred irritably. ‘They will take the breach. Our men are amongst the best in Europe, and certainly the best in Spain.’

Alava did not react to the implied slight to his countrymen and nodded sombrely before he replied. ‘Of course. But, for the sake of argument, what would your intentions be if the attack failed?’

‘Then we will be obliged to give up the siege. Without ammunition for the guns we can do nothing, and by the time any more could be found Marmont and Soult would be upon us. Our only hope is to take the fort and turn its guns on the town to blast our way through the walls.’

‘I see.’ Alava nodded. ‘Then we had better pray for success.’

‘Pray if you like,’ Arthur said quietly. ‘But this matter will be settled by cold steel and stout hearts.’

The blast of a whistle pierced the cold dawn air. At once the volunteers of the Forlorn Hope clambered out of the trench and began to dash towards the wall, burdened down by their ladders. Their distant cheers carried thinly as they ran forward over the torn-up ground. Arthur felt his pulse quicken as he stared towards the fort, waiting for the inevitable reaction. Already a drum was sounding the alarm, a tinny rattle that brought the tiny figures of men scrambling up from inside the fort to man the wall. A tongue of flame leaped from the muzzle of a cannon mounted in the nearest bastion. Arthur saw a patch of earth ripped up as the blast of case shot tore up the soil and felled one of the attackers, who was slammed back on to the ground as if he had been kicked by some invisible titan. Another gun opened up, cutting down another two men. Then a series of small stabs of flame and puffs of smoke rippled along the wall as the defenders opened fire with muskets, adding the crackle of their shots to the booming roar of the cannon. More of the redcoats were struck down, some killed outright, while others lay wounded and a few began to crawl back towards the British trenches, desperate to escape the enemy fire that flayed the approaches to the fort.

‘Keep going forward,’ Somerset muttered through clenched teeth. ‘Forward, by God.’

The scattered figures of the assault party dashed on, gaining the foot of the slope leading up to the fort. There they bent forward, using one hand for support as they struggled up the steep incline. All around them were the abattis with their savagely sharpened wooden points waiting to impale the unwary. Arthur felt a surge of relief that the French guns could no longer be brought to bear on his men. But now the wall either side of the breach was bristling with muskets as the defenders continued to pour their fire on to the hapless figures struggling up towards the bottom of the breach. Arthur estimated that a score of men had fallen on the slope, in addition to another thirty or so who had been cut down after leaving the safety of the trench.

Those that remained had reached the foot of the wall, clustering against it for shelter while the lieutenant commanding the party helped to plant one of the ladders below the breach. Drawing his pistol he scrambled up the rungs. As he reached the breach he heaved himself on to the crumbling masonry filling the gap, only to be shot down the moment he stretched up to his full height. The body fell back, arms outstretched, and landed in a crumpled heap to one side of the ladder. But there was already another man on his way up, musket slung across his shoulders as he mounted the rungs. He was shot down even before he reached the breach. Five men were lost in this way before the rest refused to climb the ladder and crouched against the wall, occasionally risking a shot at the defenders above.

‘Damn them!’ Somerset balled his hands into fists. ‘Don’t just stand there. Get up the bloody ladder, you fools . . . you cowards.’

Arthur frowned. He turned to look at his aide with a flash of anger in his eyes. ‘I’ll thank you not to accuse our men of such a base sentiment. Especially as we are standing well out of range of their guns.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘In future you might care to endure what they do before you pass judgement on them. Now be so good as to have the recall sounded.’

Somerset saluted and hurried away down the communication trench leading towards the fort. Arthur watched him for a moment, until he disappeared from view. Then he raised his telescope and examined the situation of his men at the foot of the wall. For the moment they were relatively sheltered from enemy fire, since the defenders had to lean out from the top of the wall to take aim on those below, and thus expose themselves to fire. Then Arthur saw one of the French near the breach drop something. A moment later there was the flash of an explosion close to the ladder and three of the redcoats were flung back down the slope, where they lay motionless.

‘Grenades,’ Arthur muttered distastefully. ‘Infernal devices.’

‘None the less effective, seсor,’ Alvara replied. ‘Let us hope your aide orders the recall before too many more men are lost.’

Arthur nodded and watched as two more grenades burst close to the wall. A short time later the shrill notes of the bugle signalled the recall and the men at the wall fell back, half running and half sliding down the slope as they sought to escape the renewed firing from the defenders. Several more were lost before they reached the bottom of the slope and began to sprint back across the open ground towards the shelter of the trench, pursued by renewed blasts of case shot from the guns mounted on the bastion. The last of the survivors of the attack dropped out of sight and the enemy guns fell silent, not deeming it worth the powder to kill the handful of wounded men who were still staggering or crawling back to the allied lines.

Arthur snapped his telescope shut and turned away from the scene. He strode through the battery towards the horse lines, swung himself up into the saddle and spurred the mount back towards his headquarters.

‘What was the butcher’s bill this time?’ Arthur folded his hands together as he looked up at Somerset.

The latter glanced down at his open notebook.‘A hundred and forty men this time, my lord.’

‘A hundred and forty? With the ninety casualties of the first attack and the two hundred and fifty that we lost while the men were digging the trenches, that’s nearly five hundred men.’ He sucked in a quick breath. ‘We have lost the best part of a battalion and achieved nothing here.’

Somerset kept silent. It was not his place to criticise Beresford’s plans for the siege.

There was little choice in the matter, Arthur reflected. The attempt to take Badajoz had failed. There was no shot for the siege guns, and without them the outwork of San Cristobal would continue to defy any attacks Arthur launched. Finally, a report from a cavalry patrol revealed that Marmont and Soult’s force was no more three days’ march away. Their combined armies outnumbered Arthur’s. No choice then. He looked up at his aide.

‘The army will break camp at first light. We will withdraw to the north. Have the orders drawn up, and make sure that the head of the commissary sends his men ahead to purchase rations.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘One final thing. I want the siege guns returned to Elvas. If they are moved quickly they should reach Elvas before the French can catch up with them.’

‘Why take the risk?’ Somerset shrugged.‘We could roll them into the river, to ensure that the French don’t capture them.’

‘I cannot guarantee that they would not be retrieved. Besides, the guns belong to our Portuguese allies. It would be unseemly for us to allow them to fall into French hands.’

‘Why not let the French have them, my lord? They are more of a hindrance than a help. Let the enemy have the burden of them.’

‘No.’ Arthur shook his head.‘We shall return the guns to their proper owners, if only as a token of our goodwill. Make sure the appropriate orders are given.’

Somerset nodded and made a note with his pencil.

Arthur sat back and wearily eased a hand through his close-cropped hair. ‘Next time I will be my own engineer, by God. There will be no more hasty decisions and half-measures. I will have a proper siege train, and when we lay siege to a fortress we will pound it to pieces and make damned sure that we take it. Once we have all the frontier forts securely in our grasp there is nothing that the French can do to force us out of Spain.’ He smiled at his aide. ‘Every small step matters, Somerset. No matter how long it takes, we will wear our enemy down and drive him back across the Pyrenees.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

Arthur picked up the report from the cavalry patrol.‘For now, we are obliged to retreat from Badajoz. Once we have rested the men and gathered enough force together we will turn and face the enemy.’

For the rest of summer, and on into the autumn, Arthur was powerless to intervene as the French resupplied and reinforced their frontier forts. The months passed in frustration for Arthur. While he was free to threaten the enemy at any point along the frontier between Spain and Portugal he was still obliged to retreat when the French gathered superior forces to repel the allied army. To add to his frustration the enemy seemed to have learned the lessons of earlier battles and now refused to attack whenever Arthur found a good defensive position and turned to fight.

Even as the series of marches and counter-marches and bloodless confrontations became a source of discontent for the rank and file, Arthur was steadily preparing the ground for the following year’s campaign. His requests for more reinforcements, particularly cavalry, had been agreed by the government. A siege train of good-quality heavy guns was landed at Oporto and then laboriously hauled overland to Almeida where supplies of ammunition and rations were being stockpiled. When the time came for the allied army to advance again, they would be properly supplied, and ready to batter down the defences of any fortress that stood in their way.

Chapter 22

Paris, 2 December 1811

Even though the night was raw and cold, much of the population of the city had turned out to celebrate the anniversary of the emperor’s coronation. The crowds lined the banks of the Seine, waiting in excited anticipation for the fireworks display to begin. Three barges had been anchored in the middle of the river, opposite the Tuileries palace. By the light of carefully shielded lanterns the crowds could make out the dim figures making the final preparations. The display marked the end of the day-long celebrations to mark the eighth year of Napoleon’s reign. At dawn a battery of twelve-pounders had thundered out a salute from the heights of Montmartre. Each boom had echoed across the roofs of Paris, slick and glistening in the light mist that coated every surface with damp.

Early that morning, the battalions of the Imperial Guard had begun to march into the city from their billets in the suburbs. Their route was lined with crowds, cheering proudly as the elite soldiers in their towering bearskins marched past in neat ranks to the rhythm of the patriotic music played by each battalion’s band. Interspersed between the infantry were squadrons of Guard cavalry, large men in shining high boots and breastplates, mounted on powerful horses whose coats were brushed to a satin gleam.

A reviewing platform had been erected in the great courtyard of the Tuileries where a more select audience had been permitted into the palace grounds to witness the military parades that took place in the afternoon. On the platform sat Napoleon, his Empress, and senior members of the court, as well as guests from the courts of the other Euopean powers.

One by one the battalions of the Old Guard marched past with their muskets shouldered, campaign stripes adorning their immaculate uniforms and medals pinned to their breasts. After the guardsmen came a small party of junior officers, each man carrying one of the Prussian, Austrian and Russian standards captured in the campaigns of the previous years.

Napoleon turned his head slightly to glance at Prince Metternich, the Austrian Foreign Minister. Metternich’s normally curly hair was plastered to his head by the faint drizzle, yet his expression of resentment was clear to see and it warmed Napoleon’s heart. Never let the Austrians forget that they had been humbled by Napoleon whenever they had dared to wage war on France. Beyond Metternich sat the Russian ambassador, Kurakin, his head inclined towards Talleyrand as the two exchanged a few muttered comments. The Russian turned at that moment, and met Napoleon’s stare. He smiled faintly and bowed his head to the French Emperor before turning his eyes back to the captured standards passing by. Talleyrand pursed his lips and looked directly ahead as he slowly twisted his walking stick.

Napoleon turned his face back towards the passing flags, acknowledging the salutes of his officers automatically, but his mood had been soured by the sight of the two men conversing. What was that devil, Talleyrand, up to now, he wondered. It was possible their exchange of comments was innocent enough, but with the steadily growing rift between France and Russia Napoleon was inclined to be suspicious of every Russian, and those they chose to associate with. Only a few months earlier the Tsar had increased the import duties on French goods yet again, at the same time as he continued to turn a blind eye to the English goods that were being landed at Russian ports. And now the Tsar was protesting about the presence of French troops in Poland, and demanding that Napoleon agree to his annexation of some Polish territories that bordered Russia. This, on top of his demand that Napoleon give him a free hand in the crumbling Turkish empire. The reports from the ambassador to St Petersburg spoke ominously of the growing anti-French feeling at the Russian court. Increasingly, there was talk of war with France and a new alliance with England.

Napoleon felt his stomach clench tightly as he was gripped by a familiar rage at the thought of his old enemy, defying him from behind the wooden walls of the Royal Navy. It was a perverse freak of geography that had separated England from the rest of the continent by that narrow, unbridgeable channel. From behind that cursed channel, England, a nation of petty businessmen, mocked him. But for that strip of water, it would all be over. England would be occupied, its fleets broken up, and Europe would be enjoying peace under the leadership of France, and Napoleon, and his heirs. Instead, the war continued, slowly eating away at the flower of French manhood down in Spain.

There was scarcely any good news from Madrid. Just endless lists of casualties and demands for more men, supplies and gold. Spain was like an open festering wound in the side of his empire, Napoleon decided. Worst of all, his marshals seemed to have got it into their heads that their English opponent was some kind of military genius. It was clear from their reports that they had begun to fear Lord Wellington. Even though the forces commanded by the marshals outnumbered the English, and could outmarch them, it seemed that when the English general was forced to fight the courage of Napoleon’s marshals withered and they were too nervous to finish off the fox that they had successfully cornered. If only there was time for him to go to Spain and face this English aristocrat himself, Napoleon thought bitterly. He would manoeuvre Wellington into a trap and crush him in short order. The thought of proving to his marshals how groundless their fears were was most appealing. He would triumph where they had wavered, and he would prove before all Europe that he was the finest general of the age, or indeed any age.

But there was little chance of finding the time to campaign in the Peninsula, Napoleon realised. There was an empire to rule, and enemies to be faced here in Paris, as well as the other great capitals of Europe. If there was going to be a war between France and Russia then he would need to bend his full concentration towards preparing for that conflict. It would be a struggle on a gigantic scale. As his mind grappled once again with the complexities involved in an invasion of Russia, Napoleon briefly wondered if it could be done. The distances concerned were greater than any he had led an army before. There would be a huge wastage of men, horses and wagons, long before he could engage the Tsar’s armies, or, failing that, seize St Petersburg or Moscow and dictate his terms for peace from one of the Tsar’s palaces.

Napoleon knew that there would not be enough men in France to fill out the ranks of the army he would need. He would be forced to depend upon contributions from his allies. Meanwhile, over a quarter of a million of his soldiers were tied down in Spain. It was maddening. Napoleon clenched his fist and frowned, and then he felt his stomach knot again, tightly, and the now familiar pain stabbed into his guts. Overwork and too much anxiety - that’s what caused the stomach pains, according to the imperial surgeon.

The last of the captured colours passed by the reviewing stand and the parade was over. He thrust all thought of war from his mind and turned to his Empress. He took her hand and squeezed it gently, smiling as she turned to look at him with a questioning arch in her finely shaped eyebrows.

‘I hope you are not cold, my dear. You have been sitting here for over two hours.’

‘I am warm enough.’ She smiled sweetly. ‘It pleases me to be at your side.’

‘Really?’ Napoleon shook his head. ‘I suspect you are being kind to me. I should think only soldiers, and those who want to be soldiers, enjoy such parades.’ He leaned closer to her and nodded in the direction of Kurakin and Talleyrand. ‘Others, however, evidently find such occasions a bore.’ Napoleon suddenly released her hand and straightened up. ‘Is that not right, Talleyrand?’

Talleyrand turned quickly, his face wearing its usual neutral expression. ‘Pardon, sire?’

Napoleon rose from his seat and gestured to Marie-Louise. ‘I was explaining to the Empress that not all men feel comfortable in the presence of soldiers. Men like yourself, and Ambassador Kurakin there.’

‘I am not uncomfortable, sire.’ Talleyrand gave the faintest of shrugs. ‘It is just that I find that my tastes, and manner of conversation, have little in common with the sentiments of those in the military.’

‘Is that so?’ Napoleon enquired frostily, then pointed towards Talleyrand’s deformed foot. ‘But for that I am sure you could have served your country in a more useful capacity than you have endured.’

‘I think the word is enjoyed rather than endured, sire.’ Talleyrand bowed his head. ‘In either case, I am sure that soldiers and statesmen alike would prefer to repair to the palace than remain here in the cold.’

‘Soldiers are hardened to such temperatures,’ Napoleon responded with contempt. ‘As are Russians, eh, Kurakin?’

The ambassador nodded. ‘Indeed, sire. The winters are so harsh in Russia that only those born and bred to it will ever survive there.’

Napoleon stared at him. ‘You think so?’

‘I am sure of it, sire. A man would be a fool to fight a campaign in the depths of a Russian winter.’

He held the Emperor’s gaze and both men were silent for a moment before Napoleon suddenly smiled and turned back to Talleyrand. ‘The mere mention of Russia is making me feel cold. Come, let’s go inside.’

With the Empress on his arm, Napoleon led his guests from the reviewing platform across the courtyard to the doors leading into one of the reception chambers. A long dining table had been laid for the guests and polished cutlery, crystal and porcelain gleamed from end to end. Napoleon took his place at the head of the table, the Empress at the foot, and once they were seated the rest moved towards their assigned places. Footmen stood behind each chair, smoothly pulling them out and easing them back under the guests as they sat down. Talleyrand, Metternich and Kurakin had been placed close to the top of the table and as several imperial servants entered carrying steaming tureens Napoleon lifted his nose and sniffed.

‘Onion soup! Now there’s a hearty dish to warm a man through.’

‘That, or a rare brandy,’ commented Talleyrand.

Napoleon wagged his finger. ‘Your fondness for fine things is a weakness, my friend.’

Talleyrand smiled, and no more was said until the soup had been served and a good-natured hubbub of conversation gradually rose around the table. Napoleon waited until he could be sure that his words would not easily be overheard by any but the intended recipients, and then turned to Kurakin.

‘Tell me, Ambassador, does the Tsar really think that I do not know that he has all but abandoned the trade blockade against England?’

Kurakin slowly lowered his spoon as he composed a reply. ‘Sire, you can rest assured that the Tsar is aware of his obligations. However, he wonders how you can insist on Russia’s keeping faith with an agreement when you yourself break it when it suits the needs of France. There is something of a double standard being applied here, is there not?’

Napoleon felt his veins burn with irritation at the man’s bold exposition of the tensions between the two rulers. Yet it would be hard to defend the trade deals in boots and uniform cloth that had been conducted between France and England, two nations implacably at war.

‘It was a question of expediency. France benefited more from the arrangement than England. And if it was to the benefit of France, then it is also to the benefit of her allies.’

‘That is an argument that applies equally to Russia, sire. Or, indeed, any of the other nations that count themselves amongst your allies. On that basis, one might ask what is the purpose of maintaining the blockade? Since it is an open secret that the blockade is flouted by every nation in Europe.’

‘You are wrong, Kurakin. I have tens of thousands of customs officials enforcing the blockade in every port in France. Elsewhere, my soldiers enforce it. If only my cousin, the Tsar, would enforce the blockade as diligently, we could force England to sue for peace within the year. Once there is peace, there will be no further need for the blockade and we can all reap the rewards of unrestricted trade again.’ Napoleon leaned forward and emphasised his next words. ‘But we must bring England down first. That is all that matters. All that stands between us and an age of prosperity for both our nations. You tell him that.’

‘I will tell him, sire.’

‘See that you do. And remind him that when we first met, at Tilsit, it was I who offered the hand of friendship. I could have chosen to continue the war and crush the Tsar’s armies, but I was merciful. I chose peace and offered to share the spoils of Europe. For that,Alexander owes me a debt of gratitude.’ Napoleon’s tone hardened. ‘Instead, he insults me. He lies to my face, while all the time conspiring to steal away my lands piece by piece. Like a common thief.’

Talleyrand cleared his throat. ‘Sire, I hardly think this is the place to broach such matters. Later, in private, would be better.’

Napoleon shook his head. ‘No. I want the matter settled as soon as possible. I’ve spoken my mind; now let the ambassador carry the message back to his master.’

‘Sire,’Talleyrand turned in his chair so that he could face his Emperor more directly, ‘it would be wiser to confer with your advisors before agreeing on the form of any message to be sent to the Tsar. That would reduce the impact of any . . . inflammatory language, before it does any harm.’

‘Damn your diplomatic niceties!’ Napoleon snapped. ‘This has gone on long enough. Either the Tsar is a friend and ally, or he isn’t. I demand to know which path Alexander chooses.’

‘I am sure the Tsar wants peace,’ Talleyrand continued calmly. ‘Isn’t that so, Kurakin?’

The ambassador nodded, keeping a wary eye on Napoleon’s darkening expression as he did so. ‘Sire, with your permission, may I try to explain the Russian view of the situation?’

Napoleon took a calming breath and folded his arms. ‘By all means.’

‘Very well. When Russia looks towards Europe she sees an unbroken line of nations under the sway of France. She sees French troops in towns and fortresses along much of the frontier. We are not blind to the aspirations of the Poles towards becoming a fully fledged nation, with French encouragement. The antipathy between the Poles and Russia is as old as history and you would place a bitter enemy on our doorstep, sire.’

Kurakin paused and gently pushed his unfinished soup away from him. A servant nimbly reached round to remove the bowl as he continued, ‘Then there is the matter of the damage the Continental Blockade is causing to our economy. Every day the Tsar is deluged with petitions from merchants who are suffering because of France’s efforts to strangle trade with England. Even if the Tsar turns a blind eye to those who flout the blockade, our trade still suffers as French officials intervene further down the chain. Sire, it seems that you would beggar the whole of Europe to defeat the English. While I am confident that your imperial majesty will succeed in humbling England, we in Russia are looking to the future. With England reduced, what then will France aspire to? There are Bonapartes and Bonapartists on thrones across Europe. Your majesty is a man of ambition. We ask ourselves if such a man can ever be satisfied with what he already holds.’ Kurakin leaned back in his chair, his explanation concluded.

Talleyrand and Metternich glanced from the Russian to Napoleon, nervously trying to read his reaction.

Napoleon felt the blood drain from his face, and a cold rage seized his body, making his hands tremble. How dare the Russian accuse him so boldly? How could the Tsar betray the amity that Napoleon had so carefully contrived between the two of them? It was clear that every concession made to Russia had been taken as a matter of right. This was no alliance of mutual interest. It was the Tsar whose ambition was unbridled. He took everything and gave nothing. Why, when France had last faced Austria the campaign was over and peace declared long before the Tsar’s army had marched to assist his ally. Even then, the Tsar had taken the opportunity to snap up some of the Austrian lands bordering Russia. The fruits of a victory paid for by French blood, Napoleon concluded bitterly. He glared at Kurakin, tempted almost beyond endurance to explode and expose the duplicity of the Tsar, and those who lied on his behalf . . .

With a great effort, Napoleon held back his anger. This was not the time. His tirades were a weapon to be deployed with care. More often than not they were calculated to have a specific effect. Uncontained rage could be as dangerous to himself as it was frightening to others, if it then caused advisors to be restrained, and provoked enemies to revenge.

Napoleon glanced outside. Dusk was falling over the city and soon it would be dark enough for the fireworks. They were scheduled to begin after the dinner was over, but Napoleon’s suppression of his anger had left him feeling brittle and impatient. Abruptly, he waved to the chamberlain in charge of the entertainments and the man came hurrying over.

‘The dinner is over,’ Napoleon announced.

‘Over?’ The chamberlain raised his eyebrows. ‘What of the other courses, sire?’

‘They will not be needed. Pass the word to the officer in charge of the fireworks. I want the display to begin in thirty minutes.’

‘Yes, sire, but—’

‘But?’ Napoleon frowned at him and the chamberlain lowered his gaze nervously.

‘Yes, sire. As you command.’

The man bowed and backed away the regulation number of steps before turning to issue the orders to the staff waiting the tables. As soon as the Emperor’s guests had finished their soup the bowls were whisked away, and when the last of the waiters had filed out of the room the footmen stepped up behind the chairs. The chamberlain rapped his rod on the tiled floor and the conversation quickly died away.

‘At his majesty’s command, the banquet is over and his majesty is pleased to request that his guests now repair to the river terrace in preparation for the fireworks.’

The guests glanced at each other, surprised that the banquet to celebrate the coronation of the Emperor amounted to no more than a bowl of soup. At the head of the table, Napoleon abruptly rose to his feet, sweeping the napkin from his lap. The footman behind him just caught hold of the chair in time to prevent it from falling back, or scraping in an undignified manner. The Empress rose quickly and then the rest of the guests got to their feet. Napoleon turned to the footman.

‘Bring me my coat and hat.’

‘Yes, sire.’

As soon as he was well wrapped against the cold of the evening Napoleon led the way through the palace to the long wide terrace overlooking the Seine. Guardsmen were spaced at regular intervals overseeing the braziers that provided a little light and warmth for the small crowd filing out on to the terrace. As the crowds packed along the river bank saw the figures emerging from the Tuileries they let out a great cheer and the sound continued along the river, far beyond the range of those who could see the imperial party.

The Emperor and Empress took their seats, and once the other guests were in place he pulled out his pocket watch. Angling the face towards the nearest brazier he read the time, and then he replaced the watch in its fob. There were still ten minutes to go before the half-hour was up.

Napoleon coughed at the sharpness of the night air. ‘Tell them to start.’

The chamberlain opened his mouth slightly, then quickly nodded and hurried away. There was a band just below the terrace and a sudden beating of drums silenced the guests and the crowds. The pounding rhythm echoed off the surrounding buildings as tens of thousands of people waited excitedly for the spectacle to begin. Then the drums stopped, and a moment later the band struck up the Marseillaise. Along the river the people joined in and sang with full hearts as they were caught up in the thrill of the occasion. As the last note faded away there was a brief flicker out on one of the barges, then a flare of sparks and a brilliant thread of light as a rocket shot up towards the overcast sky with a harsh hiss. It exploded in a cloud of star-like sparks that briefly illuminated the scene below, and the crowd let out a collective sigh of pleasure. More rockets whooshed into the sky and burst overhead. On the two flanking barges, carefully arranged combinations of fireworks gushed fountains of red and white sparks into the air to accompany the rockets, and all the while the band continued to play patriotic tunes, competing with the crackle and detonations of the fireworks.

Napoleon watched the display with little pleasure. His mind was still concentrated on the accusations that the Russian ambassador had made against him. Every now and then, he glanced to his left and saw the profile of Kurakin, lit up by the lurid glare from the display. The Russian had overstepped the mark. In doing so, he was clearly repeating the views of his master back in St Petersburg. If that was the case, then Alexander was spoiling for war, despite any protestations to the contrary. In that light, every slight and snub that Napoleon had received at the hands of the Russians, every breach of the terms of their alliance, every expansion of Russian power over new tracts of land, was all calculated to provoke France into open conflict.

He felt a moment’s sadness at the memory of the friendship he had shared with the Tsar at Tilsit. For a time there he had felt a fondness for the Russian ruler, as an elder brother might feel for a sibling in need of guidance and a good example. Now he had been rejected, and, worse, the Tsar seemed bent on becoming the dominant voice in Europe, brooking no rival.

Across the water on the centre barge, a giant N flared into life and the Emperor’s guests applauded appreciatively. On the opposite side of the river, the letter was reflected in the water of the Seine and the crowd lifted their voices in a vast, deafening cheer.

Napoleon shifted in his chair and turned towards the Russian ambassador. ‘Kurakin!’

The man looked towards him, and Napoleon raised his voice so that as many as possible of his guests would hear. He stabbed his finger towards the ambassador. ‘You have enjoyed the spectacle?’

‘Yes, sire.’

‘Good. I want you to tell your master, the Tsar, that it is clear to me that he wants war with France. That is the only explanation behind all that he has done to undermine our alliance. He has proved himself a false friend. You tell him that if he wants war with France then he will have his war. I swear by all that is holy that I will wage it on a scale beyond anything that Europe has ever seen.’

THE RUSSIAN CAMPAIGN 1812

Chapter 23

Paris, January 1812

Talleyrand looked up from the document and gently stroked his chin with the tips of his fingers while he digested the information.

‘Well?’ Napoleon’s voice broke into his thoughts. The Emperor was seated on the other side of the large table in the planning room of the Tuileries palace. A built-up fire blazed in the grate, casting a warm glow about the room, but not enough warmth for Talleyrand, sitting on the far side of the table. Behind him the tall windows overlooked the courtyard. Snow had fallen and blanketed the cobbles with an even layer, broken up now by the ruts of a handful of carriages and the footsteps of sentries. An icy wind was blowing across the city, occasionally rattling the windows and moaning across the chimney, causing the fire to flare and flicker.

‘What do you think?’ Napoleon pressed.

‘This list.’ Talleyrand tapped the document lightly. ‘This list of grievences, sire. What do you hope to achieve by presenting this to the Tsar?’

‘It will serve to remind him of all the agreements he has broken. It will provide the basis for a new agenda when we meet to renew our alliance.’

Talleyrand looked up. ‘A meeting has been arranged, then?’

‘No. Not yet. It is my hope that when the Tsar reads through the list of grievences and realises that the likelihood of war is very real, he will come to his senses and agree to negotiate.’

‘On these terms?’Talleyrand nodded at the document. ‘You say here that you demand that Russia enforces the Continental Blockade to the fullest extent. Our ambassador in St Petersburg says that there is a great deal of anger over the issue. Moreover, there are many in the Tsar’s court, and also officers in his army, who are openly demanding war with France. I suspect that Alexander is living in daily fear that some coterie of malcontents is already plotting his murder and preparing the way for a more belligerent ruler. Either way, war is a distinct possibility.’

‘It is more than possible, Talleyrand. It is inevitable, unless the Tsar bows to my demands.’

‘I see. Then this document is designed to provoke him into declaring war.’

‘I suspect that he will choose war as the lesser of two evils.’

Talleyrand stared at him.‘In my experience war is always the greatest of evils.’

‘You say that because you are not a soldier. There is more to war than death.’

‘Oh, yes, so I have heard. In addition to death, there is the devastation and despoiling that follows in the wake of an army. Hunger, looting, rape, torture and massacre. Not to mention the huge cost in gold that it takes to wage war on the scale that you envisage.’

Napoleon stared back at him. ‘You speak like the consummate civilian you are. If it were left to the likes of you, then every nation would be crawling on its belly, prostrating itself to its neighbours.’

‘If international affairs were left to my kind, I suspect that there might be an end to the curse of war that has blighted humanity throughout history, sire.’

‘Then you are a fool, Talleyrand. The history of mankind is the history of warfare. Men have always fought each other. They always will. Which means that the primary quality in all men is their adeptness at war. Anything else is subordinate to that need. You speak of diplomacy as if it were an art in itself. It is not.’ Napoleon leaned forward as he continued. ‘Diplomacy can only succeed in so far as it is backed up by force. For all your fine words, do you really think that you could persuade other nations to do as we wish if they did not fear the military consequences of defying us? Your kind merely provide the illusion that the affairs of nations are governed by discussion. Such delusion merely flatters the weak and undermines the strong. Any man who cannot see through such a charade fails to grasp the fundamental reality. Power defines progress. Nothing else.’

‘Then why do you have need of men like me, sire? Why waste time with diplomacy if you have such contempt for it?’

Napoleon smiled thinly. ‘Even if we are little more than brawling barbarians wrapped in fine clothes, the idea that we might be something better than that is a comforting solace to the common man. If it serves my purpose to indulge such an idea then I will do so without hesitation.’

Talleyrand considered this for a moment and shook his head. ‘There we differ, sire. You see, I believe that we are not barbarians. That we are capable of barbaric acts is beyond question. Therefore, it behoves the best of men to persuade the rest to embrace civilised values, for the long-term good of all. That is the sacred duty of the good and the great, in my view.’

‘No doubt you feel that I am not of that class?’

‘On the contrary, sire. I have always known that you possessed one of the most brilliant minds of our age, despite the disadvantage of humble origins. I do not mean that as a slight on your character. I admire you for what you have achieved. When I first met you, before your campaign in Egypt, I counted it a blessing for France that young men of such promise were available to serve her interests and see that the ideals of the Revolution lived on. Then, when you became First Consul, you dragged the governance of France into the modern age, as well as securing her safety from foreign powers on the battlefield. Your achievements were prodigious, sire. When the Peace of Amiens began I felt sure that you were about to lead us into a new golden age. But then the war resumed, and has plagued France ever since.’

Talleyrand paused and a look of sadness crossed his features. A rare expression of feeling, Napoleon noted, as the other continued. ‘It is my fear that you have lost the sensibility of a just ruler, and that you have been seduced by the glory and power of military command. At present it seems that France is being ruled according to one principle - that of facilitating the waging of war. That, sire, is a perversion of power.’

The two men stared at each other. Napoleon was quite motionless as he considered this astonishing interpretation of his character and motives. It would be easy to dismiss Talleyrand from his presence, and yet Napoleon said nothing. There was much to despise about this aristocrat, yet he had always proved to be an effective and useful sounding board to refine Napoleon’s thinking. But there was something more. Despite all the treachery of the past, the Emperor still felt an affection of sorts for Talleyrand. They were both products of the Revolution. Talleyrand had as much of a hand in Napoleon’s rise to power as any man, and he in turn had benefited from the generosity of Napoleon, first as Consul and then as Emperor.

Talleyrand broke the tense silence. ‘Sire, do you remember Tilsit?’

‘Of course. It has been much on my mind lately.’

‘Then you will remember the high hopes we had for the future. The war with the Tsar was over. Better still, when you and he met, man to man, there was a mutual regard for each other, was there not? I recall how he looked up to you, as a man of destiny. On your part, there was a certain fondness.’

‘What of it?’ Napoleon cut in tersely. ‘What is your point?’

‘You must reach an accommodation with the Tsar. You must do everything that you can to rekindle that mutual regard, and affection. There must be peace between you. Great nations must find ways to live alongside each other, or they will surely tear each other to pieces.’

‘You speak of compromise,’ Napoleon replied with disdain. ‘Compromise is nothing but the death of a thousand cuts. It bleeds a great man of his determination, of his sense of direction, of his sense of purpose, until he is nothing but a petty schemer hanging on to power by his fingertips. When that happens he is no longer great, but a figure of ridicule, and finally pity. That much I understand, Talleyrand. As does Alexander. And only one of us can be permitted to dominate the rest of Europe.’

Talleyrand settled back in his chair and his expression resolved into its usual inscrutability. ‘Then there will be war between you and the Tsar. You have resolved to carry it through. I can see that now. So what is the point of this list of grievances? If Alexander agreed to answer them, it would change nothing. You would still be determined to wage war on him.’

‘Of course. But this way, it forces him to accept the blame for the war.’

‘He is the Tsar. What does he care about the moral burden of such a responsibility?’

‘Nothing. The list of grievances is not for his eyes alone. I intend to have it published in every newspaper across Europe. I want no one to doubt that the coming war is being instigated by the Tsar. I want all Europe to see Alexander as a relentless threat to their existence. And when they do, then all the kings and princes of Europe will unite behind me, and we shall combine our strength into a vast army that will lay waste to Russia and put an end to the threat that she poses.’

‘I see.’ Talleyrand nodded.‘I see it all.’ His chair ground faintly on the polished floorboards and he rose to his feet.‘I must take my leave of you, sire. There is nothing more I can say. There is no point in our conversing on matters of policy again, for I can see now that you will lead France to ruin and you will not heed any opinion that runs counter to your will.’ He bowed his head. ‘I bid you goodbye.’

‘You will not leave,’ Napoleon said coldly. ‘I have not dismissed you.’

‘You have dismissed reason, sire. So what is the purpose of any further dialogue between us?’

‘You will not leave until I say!’

Talleyrand gazed back and Napoleon could not discern a trace of fear in either his eyes or his voice as he replied, ‘As you command, sire.’

He remained standing and Napoleon lowered his hands below the edge of the table so that Talleyrand would not see them clenching and unclenching, as if they were already clamped around the man’s throat.

‘Damn you,’ Napoleon growled. ‘Get out. Go. Out of my sight!’

‘Yes, sire.’ Talleyrand bowed his head, backed away and then turned to make his way out of the room, walking in the studied manner that he had developed to help conceal his deformed foot. The footman outside the Emperor’s study had a practised ear, and opened the door at the sound of approaching footsteps. Talleyrand passed through and turned out of sight without once looking back.

‘Send for my chief clerk!’ Napoleon shouted.

As he waited, Napoleon turned to the fire and gazed into the flames. He knew that he had lost Talleyrand’s ear for ever. There was nothing between them now but open enmity. The man would have to be placed under close watch in future, and if there was any proof of treachery, dealt with.

The sound of footsteps drew Napoleon’s attention to the approaching clerk and he turned away from the fire and indicated the document on the table.

‘Take that. Have it copied and sent to every newspaper in France. Have more copies sent to every court in Europe. Every newspaper. Every division headquarters in the army. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, sir.’ The clerk swallowed nervously. ‘I shall have to call in every available man on my staff, sire.’

‘Then do it. At once. Now take it and go.’

Once he was alone, Napoleon stood up and crossed to the window. He clasped his hands behind his back as he reflected on his plans for the coming war with Russia. Outside the snow was falling again, thick swirling flakes that soon blotted out his view of Paris, and then of the soldiers on guard down in the courtyard.

Chapter 24

Throughout the winter long columns of wagons had been carrying supplies to forward depots in eastern Europe. With the first buds of spring battalion after battalion marched across Europe to join the army building up in the lands of the Duchy of Warsaw and Pomerania, a Swedish territory which Napoleon had occupied in preparation for any war with Russia. In addition to the long columns of infantry there were brigades of cavalry and artillery teams dragging their lumbering burdens along the primitive roads and the tracks that were thick with mud from the thaw and rains of the season.

Napoleon had not waited for the Tsar’s response to his list of grievances before giving the order to mobilise his forces. Despite the protests of his marshals in Spain, some of the best divisions were withdrawn from the Peninsula. The soldiers were glad to leave Spain. Any other posting had to be preferred to that land of heat, hunger and thirst, where every rock could conceal a peasant with a musket ready to blow the brains out of any hapless straggler or forager who wandered even a short distance from his comrades. Although their destination was a secret, by the time the men had marched through Prussia it was clear where their next campaign would take them and they viewed the coming test of arms with eager excitement.

Even though large numbers of French troops were concentrating around Warsaw they soon discovered that they would not be the only nation represented in the host gathering to humiliate the Russians. The Emperor had compelled his Austrian allies to provide forty thousand men. Another twenty thousand came from Prussia, viewed with great suspicion by the French troops. Then there were contingents from the German principalities as well as Swiss, Dutch, Belgian and Polish troops, and men sent from Napoleon’s domains in Italy.

It was April before the response from Moscow reached the Tuileries. Ambassador Kurakin presented himself at the palace and requested to deliver the message to the French Emperor in person. Napoleon was closeted with his senior military planners in the room where the final confrontation with Talleyrand had taken place. Kurakin was made to stand in the doorway while a footman carried the letter to Napoleon. The Emperor broke the seal, which bore the impression of an eagle, and quickly read through the contents of the Tsar’s letter before rapping his knuckles on the table to silence his officers.

‘Gentlemen, your attention.’ He raised the letter and began to summarise the contents. ‘The Tsar says he has considered and rejected my complaints. He tells me that while he wishes for peace between France and Russia, that peace is conditional upon certain demands. One, that France is to withdraw all of its forces from Prussia. Two, that France will compensate the relations of the Tsar whose lands were lost when the Confederation of the Rhine was created. Three, that our forces will leave Polish lands in order to create a non-aligned territory between French territory and that of the Tsar. If I comply with his wishes then the Tsar says that he might . . . might . . . consider reviewing the high tariffs imposed on French imports. If I do not comply then he regrets to inform me that he may be obliged to enforce his demands.’ He lowered the letter and looked towards Kurakin. ‘I take it this letter is meant to be an ultimatum?’

‘I was merely instructed to deliver it to you, sire.’

‘Nevertheless, you are aware of its contents, and no doubt you have been informed of your master’s intentions in a separate message.’

Kurakin did not reply, but stood and returned Napoleon’s gaze with a blank expression.

‘Your silence betrays you, Kurakin. The Tsar well knows that his demands are unacceptable. Indeed, they are an affront to the aspirations of every Pole, as well as an insult to me. Does he think that the Emperor of France will meekly obey his whims? He knows that I cannot possibly agree to this nonsense and retain one shred of my honour and integrity. I will not abandon my Polish allies, and I will not withdraw my troops from Prussia. Does he think that I would trust Frederick William to continue to pay his indemnity to France without French troops there to remind him of his obligations? Well? Speak up, Kurakin.’

The Russian cleared his throat. ‘Sire, I am merely an ambassador. I only speak for the Tsar when expressly instructed to do so. In this instance I was merely ordered to deliver the letter.’

‘Nevertheless, you fully appreciate the import of its contents?’

‘I believe the letter speaks for itself.’

‘Weasel words, Kurakin. Be sure that this letter will be printed and circulated to every court in Europe so that they may see for themselves how the Tsar covets Europe.’ Napoleon paused. ‘Does your master wish to know my response?’

Kurakin looked surprised for a moment before he recovered his wits and replied, ‘Surely your imperial majesty needs time to consider the letter and formulate his response?’

‘No. I already know my response,’ Napoleon said menacingly. ‘You can tell the Tsar that he will regret his insults, when I next see him in Russia. Now leave us.’

Kurakin bowed and left the room. Once the door was closed behind him Napoleon turned to his planning staff and cleared his throat.

‘We know precisely where we stand now, gentlemen. The Tsar has decided on war. Now we have to determine the best way to deliver one to him.’The officers chuckled.‘Back to work, gentlemen. There is much to do. Berthier!’

‘Yes, sire?’

‘You have the list of formation commanders? Then send word to them. I want to see them all, here, before they join their commands for the campaign. Given the scale of the task we are undertaking it would be well to ensure that they understand the part they must play.’

That evening Napoleon returned to his private quarters with his mind full of the myriad details of planning so vast a military enterprise. Together with Berthier, he had calculated the requirements of an army of over half a million men: the number he deemed necessary to ensure a decisive result. In addition to the men, there would be over eighty thousand cavalry mounts, nearly fifteen hundred cannon and eight thousand wagons to carry spare ammunition, powder, and sacks of biscuit and rice, all drawn by another two hundred thousand mules and oxen. Some fresh meat would be provided by the herds of cattle that were to be driven along in the wake of the army. Once they were eaten the army would start working its way through the oxen as the supplies in the wagons were exhausted. The need to scrape together every available soldier for the campaign meant that there would have to be another wave of conscripts taken on to defend France’s borders and garrison the reserve areas of the invading army.

Napoleon had dismissed his valet and was slipping into his sleeping gown when there was a gentle knock at the door that linked his quarters with those of the Empress.

‘Come in,’ he called.

The handle turned and the door swung in to reveal Marie-Louise in her nightgown. Her long light brown hair hung down across her shoulders and she smiled at him.

‘I had hoped to see you earlier. You said we could spend the evening together.’

‘I know.’ Napoleon crossed the room and took her hands.‘I am sorry. There is so much to do. Time is the one thing I will never conquer.’

He leaned forward to kiss her cheek, and then kissed her again, on her lips. She was not as beautiful as some of the women he had bedded, but she was young, and had developed a certain fondness for the pleasures of the flesh once she had got over the anxiety of her first experience.

She responded to his kiss with urgency, folding her arms round his back and drawing him closer. They remained there by the door for a moment before Napoleon drew his head back and nodded towards his bed. ‘Over there. We’ll be more comfortable.’

She flashed a smile and let him lead her by the hand to the wide bed. Warming pans had recently been taken out and there was a comforting heat beneath the heavy covers. Napoleon lay on his back, head propped up on a bolster, his arm around her shoulder as she rested her head on his chest.

‘You have been planning for another war, I suppose,’ she said softly.

‘Yes.’

‘When will you be leaving Paris?’

‘In May. The campaign will start in June.’

There was a short silence before she spoke again.‘How long will you be gone, my dearest?’

‘Some months. If all goes to plan the Tsar will be defeated and we will have peace before winter arrives. Then the army returns to winter quarters in Poland, and I return to you.’

‘Make sure that you do,’ she replied, twisting her little finger into the curls of the small patch of hair on Napoleon’s chest. ‘I was thinking. Could I accompany you on campaign?’

‘No.’

‘Why? I know that many of your officers are accompanied by their wives.’

‘They are not in command of the army. I am. And I cannot afford to be distracted in any way until victory is mine.’ Napoleon reached his hand down over her shoulder, beneath the gown and on to the warm smoothness of her breast. ‘And you, my dear, are a terrible distraction.’

As she laughed lightly at the comment, Napoleon was already thinking that he might arrange for Marie Walewska to accompany the army, for the first part of the campaign at least. It was some time since he had enjoyed her charms and he felt his lust stirring. The Empress sensed his arousal and raised her head to kiss him on the cheek. ‘Not so exhausted by the work, then?’

Napoleon looked at her and smiled. ‘It seems not.’

‘Then let’s create another heir for the Emperor,’ she said mischievously.

Napoleon rolled over, on top of her, and began to nuzzle her neck. ‘You know, for a finely bred young woman, you have certain earthy tendencies.’ He pulled her gown open and continued to trace his lips down her shoulder and on to her breast, taking her nipple into his mouth and giving it a tweak.

‘Yes!’ she gasped. ‘Do that again.’

Napoleon obliged, and the corners of his mouth lifted in a smile at the thought of returning to the arms of his Polish mistress. Fantasies of her would add a certain spice to his present experience, he decided, as he eased himself forward and entered Marie-Louise.

Two weeks later the planning room was filled with marshals and generals, dressed in their blue frock coats adorned with gold epaulettes and lace, and the ribbons, stars and medals they had been awarded. Some of the officers had already been in Paris, but many had been called from their commands to attend the meeting. Napoleon wore his favoured uniform of a colonel of the chasseurs of the Guard, without any decorations. Several tables had been pushed together to accommodate the large numbers in the room, and a map depicting the vast sprawl of territory between Warsaw and Moscow lay across them.

Napoleon regarded the officers carefully. These were the finest men in his army, seasoned by many years of hard campaigning. They had proved their courage, and their ability to inspire the men who served under them. He had little doubt of their personal loyalty to him: after all, in most cases they owed rank, title and fortune directly to their Emperor. Only two issues concerned him: the rivalry between some of his commanders and then the more worrying fact that they would be required to act independently due to the scale of the coming campaign. In the past he had led smaller armies directly, and over lesser expanses of land.

When the last of the officers had arrived, Napoleon nodded at the guardsmen on the door and they pulled the door closed behind them, standing guard to ensure that there would be no interruption or eavesdropping.

Napoleon rose to his feet and his officers fell silent. He waited a moment longer to end a greater sense of gravity to the occasion, and then began.

‘For some months now you will have been aware of the build-up of our forces in the east of Europe. It is well known that there are tensions between the empires of France and Russia and that both the Tsar and I have been engaged in spats of sabre-rattling. Well, the time has come to unsheathe the sword and thrust it into the heart of our enemy. Despite every effort that I have made to avoid war, the Tsar has been determined to force one upon me. I am sure you have all read the list of his demands, and I am certain that you share my sense of outrage that Alexander thinks he can humiliate me, you, and all of France. It is with reluctance that I am obliged to answer his demands with force, but nothing more can be gained from diplomacy, and the time has come to settle the question of which power commands Europe.’ Napoleon paused to let his senior officers take stock of his opening words, then continued, ‘You have all served me before, so you will know that I believe in seizing the initiative. Therefore we are obliged to invade Russia. As ever, our aim is to find, fix and destroy the enemy’s field armies and thereby compel Alexander to sue for peace. Then we will make him eat his demands,’ Napoleon added with relish. ‘By the time the invasion begins we shall be able to field over six hundred thousand men, half of whom will be French.’

The officers looked at each other in astonishment. They had known about the build-up of forces, but this was the first time that they had been given the number of soldiers involved. Three times the size of any army that Napoleon had ever commanded before.

Marshal Davout raised a hand.

Napoleon nodded at him. ‘Speak, Davout.’

‘Have we accurate intelligence on the size of the Tsar’s armies, sire?’

‘Our agents report that Russia has somewhere in the order of four hundred thousand men under arms. However, many are deployed in garrisons spread across his lands. Only two hundred thousand will be standing between us and Moscow. At present they are divided into two armies. The main army, a hundred and fifty thousand men, under the command of General Barclay de Tolly, is presently dispersed between Riga and the Niemen river. The second army, under General Bagration, is to the south of the Pripet marshes.’ Napoleon lifted the long cane that lay on the table and indicated the vast sprawl of wetlands, small lakes and swampy forests that stretched across the middle of the western expanse of Russia. ‘Our primary target is the northern army. We will need to force them to fight before Bagration can march his men to join them. Once the northern army is crushed, we will deal with Bagration. When that is done, the Tsar will have no choice but to admit defeat.’

Prince Jйrфme spoke up. ‘Surely if we have six hundred thousand to their two hundred thousand, then we could face their combined army and still win easily. Why not encourage them to link up? It would surely shorten the campaign and make our task easier, sire.’

Napoleon looked at his younger brother and forced himself to respond patiently.‘Look at the map again. It is seven hundred miles from Warsaw to Moscow. The reason why I need so vast an army is because we will need to leave tens of thousands of men in our wake just to protect our lines of communication back to Warsaw. We can also count on losing more men along the route, due to injury and sickness. By the time we force the Russians to fight the chances are that we will only have a small advantage in numbers. That is why we must do all that we can to defeat them in detail. Is that clear, Jйrфme?’

‘Perfectly, sire.’ Jйrфme smiled. ‘Though I am certain that we can defeat those Russian peasants, even if they outnumber us.’

‘Oho!’ Marshal Ney snorted, sitting opposite Jйrфme. ‘And do tell us why that is.’

‘Certainly. I have heard that the Russian soldiers are little more than dumb brutes, conscripted from their farms. Their officers are drunkards and imbeciles. How can such a rabble stand before the might of France?’

‘You were not at Eylau, were you, boy?’

‘As you well know.’

‘Then you have never faced the Russian soldiers. I have, like many others in this room who were also at Eylau. Yes, some of them were roaring drunk, but drunk or not, they feared nothing and fought like bears and died like men I would have been proud to command.’ Ney leaned back and regarded Jйrфme with a hard smile. ‘So before you come over all cocksure, it would be as well to know of what you speak.’

Jйrфme flushed angrily and leaned forward to reply, but Napoleon cut him short. ‘That’s enough!’ He glared at both men for a moment, then took a deep breath and continued the briefing. ‘My intention is to destroy each army in turn. We will make every effort to keep Barclay de Tolly and Bagration apart. That means that we will need to manoeuvre as swiftly as possible. However, due to the sparse population of the steppes, it is doubtful that we can resort to our usual practice of living off the land. That is why I have ordered the build-up of rations at our forward supply depots, and gathered the wagons necessary to carry the rations with us from there. Once we are over the Niemen, we can feed our army for twenty-four days on the march. With such resources we shall devour all distances. Within that time I aim to have defeated both armies.’ Napoleon rested the stick against his shoulder. ‘Any questions? Davout, you look as if you have something else to say.’

The marshal nodded. ‘Sire, what if the enemy decide to trade space for time? Look at the map. They could fall back for months before they risked exposing Moscow, or even St Petersburg. Our rations would have expired long before then, and if there isn’t much to be had by foraging, then the army might well starve before it ever reached the battlefield. And there’s something else that concerns me. We both know the appalling conditions of the roads in Poland. It would seem reasonable to assume that the roads in Russia will be as bad, if not worse. If that is so then we can expect to lose a high percentage of our supply vehicles due to broken wheels and axles. I know they can be repaired, but the key point is they will be delayed. I fear that our supply convoys will start to fall behind our soldiers in a matter of days. Once that happens, then our ranks will start to thin out, slowly at first, and then more and more swiftly the further we advance.’

When Davout finished, the other officers remained silent. No one sought to contradict him and Napoleon felt his anger rise at the lack of confidence Davout had inspired amongst his peers.

‘Thank you, Davout. Your concerns are duly noted. However, I can assure you that no army has been better prepared for such a campaign.’

‘No army has ever attempted such a campaign, sire.’

‘Then the fame and glory we shall win will be all the greater, Davout. Think on that.’ Napoleon looked round at his officers to gather their attention for his concluding remarks.

‘As I said, our aim is to destroy the Tsar’s armies. If they refuse to fight then we will occupy Moscow and St Petersburg. Either way, the Russians’ will to continue the fight will collapse and we will have our victory. Marshal Davout is right. Nothing like this has ever been attempted before. Once it is over, the whole world will know that there is no limit to what the armies of France can achieve. We will finally be able to enforce the Continental Blockade to the utmost. I predict that within a year, England will at last be starved into submission. When that happens, gentlemen, then this war of wars will be at an end, and France, our France, will hold dominion over the whole world. In years to come, you, and all of our soldiers, will be able to tell your grandchildren about the day you entered Moscow at the side of your Emperor. Think on that as you ride to join your commands.’

He sat down, and an instant later Ney was on his feet, thrusting his fist into the air as he called out,‘Long live Napoleon! Long live France!’

Jйrфme rose and repeated the cheer, along with the others. Even Davout eventually rose to his feet and joined the cheering, but Napoleon saw the concern and doubt still lingering in his expression. Davout was wrong, he told himself. With so many men at his command, so many fine officers, the best cavalry in Europe and enough artillery to equip a fleet, how could there be any other outcome than a triumphant victory that would eclipse those of every other general throughout history? Napoleon eased himself back in his chair and smiled.

Chapter 25

Arthur

Badajoz, 6 April 1812

‘This time we’ll have the place,’ Arthur concluded as he finished surveying the three breaches that had been opened in the wall between two of the most powerful bastions of Badajoz. The new siege guns had proved their worth and in the space of two weeks the heavy shot of the twenty-four-pounder cannon had battered down the defences of the outlying fort of Picuriсa before being turned on the formidable walls of the town itself. ‘Those breaches will be practicable before nightfall.’

Somerset took a last long look through his telescope before he lowered it and nodded. ‘Yes, sir. Shall I issue the orders for the attack to take place tonight?’

‘Indeed. Tonight.’ Arthur’s cheerfulness faded. This was the point of greatest risk and loss of life. All sieges built towards it - the assault - and even if the assault were successful the cost could be heavy. Still, the army was in high spirits, and had been so since the start of the year when Arthur had led them back into Spain to take the fortress of Ciudad Rodrigo. Despite the gruelling cold of January, the army had besieged the town efficiently, digging the approach trenches, constructing batteries, smashing down the walls and assaulting the fortress in the space of ten days. All at a cost of six hundred casualties, a fifth of whom had been killed, including General Craufurd. Arthur had felt his loss keenly. Although Craufurd had been a prickly character, and prone to occasional acts of rashness, he had been an inspired commander of the Light Division. There were too few officers like him in the army, Arthur reflected. Men who could make the difference in an assault on a fortress as powerful as Badajoz.

The capture of Ciudad Rodrigo had been rewarded by elevation to an earldom back in England, while the Spanish junta had conferred the title of Duque de Ciudad Rodrigo upon him. More important, the army’s success had prompted the government to promise more reinforcements, especially the cavalry that Arthur had been pressing for since he had taken command. The first of seven fresh mounted regiments had already joined the army and the others would soon arrive. With a strong force of cavalry Arthur would be able to operate against the French with far more flexibility. No longer would he be tied to fighting defensive battles on terrain that negated the enemy’s superiority in cavalry. Now his army could go on the offensive and risk battle in the open.

But that was work for the future, Arthur reflected. First he must take Badajoz. He raised his telescope to inspect the fortress once more. The side facing the open ground to the west and south was protected by a formidable wall, and other defences put in place by the garrison commander. General Philippon was a veteran, some years older than Arthur, grey hair tied back above a lined face with piercing brown eyes. Arthur had met him briefly at the opening of the siege, when he had approached the fortress town under a flag of truce to demand its surrender. Philippon had emerged from the main gate, by the river, to decline the demand and Arthur, according to protocol, had reminded the defender that he would be able to come to terms until such time as a practicable breach had been opened in the walls of Badajoz. After that the fortress would be assaulted and, according to the customs of war, the defenders would be at the mercy of the British soldiers.

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

‘Sir?’ General Leith leaned forward.

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

‘Yes, sir.’

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

His senior officers clapped their hands on the table to applaud the sentiment and then Arthur raised a hand to quell the racket. ‘Any questions?’

There were none, and he dismissed them to return to their commands and prepare for the attack. For the rest of the afternoon, until dusk, the divisions assigned to the attack rested in their bivouacs. The siege batteries shifted their fire to fresh sections of the wall in the faint hope that the defenders would think that the British required more breaches before launching an assault. Arthur doubted that Philippon would fall for such a ruse, but it was worth trying.

From the terrace garden of the tavern Arthur scanned the lines of the Light Division with his telescope and saw that some of them were reading, a few - more literate - were writing letters or diaries, and most were sitting in loose circles around their camp fires cooking up the daily ration of meat and biscuit into a thick broth. A handful of men had produced fiddles or flutes and were entertaining their comrades with jaunty tunes. Arthur was pleased. The men seemed to be in good humour. Then his gaze caught a small group of men, a hundred or so, kneeling before a chaplain, heads bent in prayer. Those were the volunteers of the Forlorn Hope, the assault party. They would lead the attack in an almost suicidal attempt to rush the breach selected for the Division and hold it open until the follow-up troops arrived to break into the town.

As he watched, Arthur could not help wondering at the nature of men who would volunteer for such a task. To be sure, there were rewards for those who survived. Promotion for the officer, sergeant and corporals, and the privates who distinguished themselves. But with the odds so stacked against them, those men would have to be so desperate for promotion that they valued it above life itself. Then there was the darker possibility, Arthur realised. Some of those men might be motivated by a lust for blood, a sickness he had seen in a few soldiers during his career. They craved battle and found such elation in the experience that it became an addiction, until death or a crippling wound cured them. If there were any men like that in the assaulting units then God help the people and garrison of Badajoz when the walls fell, Arthur thought, shuddering.

When night had fallen across the Spanish countryside Arthur, General Alava and Somerset, together with some of the staff officers, made their way up on to the ramparts of the Picuriсa fort where they would have a good view of the attack on the three breaches. To the left of the fort the men of the Light Division were stealing forward along the shallow banks of the Rivillas. They had been ordered to advance in strict silence and Arthur could barely discern any sign of life in the shadows below the fort. To the right, the men of the Fourth Division had entered their approach trenches and begun to creep forward until they were halted a short distance behind the men of the assault parties.

At nine o’clock the siege batteries fired their final round, as ordered. Arthur had not wanted to risk the flare from their discharges illuminating any of the preparations for the assault. As the firing ceased there was a tense quiet that felt strange after the din of the bombardment, the silence broken only by the occasional challenges of sentries and the croak of frogs along the banks of the stream.

Arthur turned to General Alava and muttered. ‘This time you shall see us take the town.’

‘I have every confidence, my lord.’

As they waited for the attack to begin the officers around Arthur grew increasingly tense, and while some fidgeted nervously others talked in low tones until Arthur turned round to glare at them in the dim glow of the lanterns hung inside the fort. They fell silent and he turned his gaze back towards Badajoz. Torches burned along the walls and here and there he could make out the dim figures of sentries patrolling the battlements. Every so often a sentry, suspicious of some sound or movement in front of the wall, would lob a torch in a fiery arc into the dead ground and perhaps startle a dog or some other small animal.

The minutes dragged by. Arthur kept himself as still as possible, in order to set a calm example to his subordinates and ensure that his reputation for being unflappable endured. At length he discreetly took out his fob watch and angled the face towards one of the lanterns down in the fort. Almost quarter of an hour remained. Down below, within the fort, a handful of artillery men stood in one corner, ready to launch a rocket that would be the signal for the main attack to begin.

At that moment a voice called out from the direction of the trenches.

‘Pick that bloody ladder up, you lazy Irish bastard!’

Arthur felt his heart jump. Around him the other officers froze, waiting for the alarm to be given up on the wall. The seconds passed, but there was no reaction from the enemy and no more shouts from below as the frogs continued their rhythmic croaking. The tension eased and Somerset let out a long low sigh.

‘That was close. Someone should have that man on fatigues for the rest of the year.’

‘I dare say there will be time for recriminations later,’ Arthur responded evenly.

He concentrated his gaze on the approaches to the breaches, knowing that the Forlorn Hopes of each division would be creeping stealthily forward at that moment. After a delay of a minute the assault parties would begin to follow them, while those behind gripped their muskets and awaited the signal for the general attack. Arthur saw a movement in the shadows perhaps fifty yards from the breach, then another, then more, as the Forlorn Hope crawled through the rocks and scrub in front of the wall.

A French voice called out, a challenge, then an instant later there was a muzzle flash on the wall. The crack carried to Arthur a second later.

‘Up lads and at ’em!’ shouted the ensign in command of the Forlorn Hope, and figures rose and sprinted towards the breach. The cry was taken up to the left and right as the other volunteers dashed for the other breaches. Arthur turned to Somerset. ‘Kindly give the signal.’

Somerset cupped a hand to his mouth. ‘Rocket crew! Fire!’

There was a brief glow as the sergeant blew on his slow fuse and then applied the end to the tail of the rocket. Sparks pricked out and then with a whoosh the rocket soared into the night sky leaving a brief trail of fire in its wake. High above Badajoz it burst in a brilliant explosion of white, and the detonation echoed back from the town walls. There were more shouts along the wall now and more muskets crackled as they saw the attackers rushing towards them. There was no need for stealth any longer and the English soldiers shouted their battle cries as they broke cover and charged for the ditch in front of the wall. Arthur felt his muscles tense as he watched the Light Division’s Forlorn Hope begin to scramble across, and then up to the debris below their breach. The walls on either side flickered with musket fire and the ensign in command dropped before he was even halfway up the pile of rubble. His sergeant went down within feet of him and then several more were cut down as they struggled over the difficult ground. The remainder charged forward regardless of the slaughter, and they too fell as they scrambled towards the breach. Not a single man from the Forlorn Hope got even as far as the tangle of abattis spread just below the breach.

‘Good God,’ Arthur muttered under his breath.

The leading men of the assault party reached the ditch, but now the first of the cannon on the bastions joined in with the musket fire, the blast of flame briefly illuminating the walls in a lurid orange glow as the grapeshot lashed the ground in front of the ditch, dashing several men on to the grass. More figures emerged from the darkness, some carrying plank-covered ladders which they threw over the ditch and rushed on towards the breach. Soon over a hundred men were struggling up the rubble and some were on the verge of gaining the breach, under a storm of musket fire that was cutting them down all the time. Then, as the first redcoat clambered into the breach, there was a brilliant flash of light close to the foot of the wall which sent rocks and men and body parts flying through the air as the walls and approaches were briefly lit up for hundreds of yards, freezing thousands of men in a tableau of destruction. The concussion and roar of the explosion struck the officers in the fort a moment later. Despite the shock, the assault continued without any pause.

‘A mine!’ Somerset exclaimed in horror. ‘They hid a mine in the rubble.’

‘Thank you, Somerset,’ Arthur snapped tersely. ‘I am following events, you know.’

The assault party was now swarming across the ditch and the fire from the walls was reaching a new intensity, cutting down the attackers in swathes, all in full view of Arthur and his staff as the lurid flare of artillery and muskets continuously illuminated the scene. But the horror of the assault was not yet complete. As the first of the attackers climbed into the breach they were confronted by a screen of chevaux de frise, wooden beams pierced with sharpened sword blades and supported by trestles at each end. In front of them were planks with six-inch nails protruding from the surface, and behind them a barricade lined with French marksmen. Dozens of redcoats stumbled on to the nails in agony before being shot down or impaled on the sword blades and left to hang there, screaming as they bled to death.

The assault party died in the breach, and now the following wave of the Light Division came forward, the men throwing themselves into the attack, determined to succeed where their comrades had failed. They charged over the ditch, their ranks thinned by grapeshot, and then on to the breach where they faltered, unable to find any way over the savage obstacles waiting for them.

For an hour one attempt after another was made to take the breach, and then Arthur watched in despair as the men started to go to ground, pressing themselves into the soil, or sheltering behind rocks and down in the ditch. Now the French began to lob grenades down from the wall and each burst caused more casualties amongst the men taking cover. Arthur knew that the crisis of the assault had been reached. If the men could not go forward then they would die where they were. The only chance of success was to keep attacking.

‘Somerset, send a message down to Alten. He must keep his men going forward.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Also, send word to Cole and the other divisional commanders. I have to know how their attacks are proceeding. See to it.’

The second assault began at eleven thirty as a fresh battalion moved forward towards the breach. They fared no better than their predecessors and the slaughter continued as before. It was now impossible to see the gap or the debris slope leading up to it through the heaps of redcoats, and yet still the officers rallied their men and made one attempt after another.

General Alava could not help marvelling at the terrible spectacle. ‘My lord, I have never seen such gallantry in any body of soldiers.’ He paused a moment. ‘Surely they have sacrificed enough this night? They have proved their gallantry. Yet they cannot take the breach. Spare your men. Recall them and end this butchery, I implore you.’

Arthur resisted the urge to turn and meet the Spaniard’s gaze. He felt consumed by anguish over the decimation of those fine men down in front of the breach. Alava was right. They had no peer in terms of their courage and determination. That was why they would, why they must, surely succeed. He swallowed to make sure his voice did not betray him when he responded. ‘I will not recall them.’

The attackers’ nerve did not fail them for another two hours. Only then did they pull back from the wall, just far enough to be out of the range of the French muskets, and hidden from the cannon by the darkness. Even so, the French regularly fired blind in an effort to discomfort their attackers.

In that time Somerset had returned to inform Arthur that the Fourth Division had also failed to take the two breaches to its front and had suffered grievous losses. Shortly after two in the morning a runner arrived from General Alten. The corporal had a bandage around his head, and one arm hung uselessly in a sling as he made his report to Arthur.

‘The general’s compliments, sir. He begs to inform you that his first two battalions have failed to take the breach. They have suffered heavy casualties, most of them dead, as those who fell wounded were struck again by the defenders’ fire where they lay. The general wishes to know if you require him to continue the attack, sir.’

Arthur stared at the man, momentarily unable to issue any orders. Then he summoned the will to harden his heart. He spoke as gently as he could. ‘Tell your general that he knows my will as well as I know his courage. Tell him to rally his men and reorganise his leading formations in readiness to resume the attack as soon as possible. Is that understood?’

‘Yes, my lord,’ the corporal replied bitterly. ‘Perfectly.’

‘Once you have given him my reply, I would be grateful if you would go to the rear and have your wounds seen to. Ask for my surgeon.’

The corporal stared at him and then shook his head. ‘If it’s all the same to you, my lord, I’d prefer to remain with my mates than with your surgeon.’

The corporal turned and trotted away, leaving Arthur to stare after him, his stomach sick with guilt. Then he turned back towards Badajoz, not daring to meet the eye of any of his officers.

A pounding of hooves sounded from down in the fort and a voice cried out, ‘Where’s Wellington?’

‘Up there, sir.’ One of the artillery crew pointed to the rampart. A moment later an officer came running up to Arthur and the others.

‘My lord, I come from Picton’s division. He sent me to find you as soon as he was sure of our success.’

‘Success?’

‘My lord, the castle is yours.’

‘What? Tell me more!’

‘The escalade succeeded, sir. Only after heavy losses, but the division has control of the castle.’

Arthur felt hope rekindle in his heart, and a familiar alertness to the possibilities of the situation. The sacrifice of the men in the breaches might have had some purpose after all if, as seemed likely, the enemy had been obliged to draw men from the other sectors of the town to defend the breaches. If Picton’s division had succeeded then there was a chance that Leith might as well.

‘Has Picton enough men left to attack the breach from behind?’

‘Surely, but he cannot break out of the castle, sir. The French have blocked all the gateways.’

‘Damn.’ Arthur frowned. ‘Very well, ride to Leith. Tell him what you have told me. Tell him that the French have sent every available man to defend the breaches. If he is bold he can take the wall in front of him.’

Picton’s officer saluted and ran back down the stairs to his horse. Within twenty minutes there was a ferocious fusillade of shots to the north and then the shrill notes of bugles as the Fifth Division stormed into the streets of Badajoz. The fire from the French soldiers around the breaches quickly died away and then there was only sporadic shooting, fading slowly as the enemy pulled back to the northern sector of the town. Below the fort, the Light Division was warily advancing towards the breach again. This time the walls were silent, the ramparts and bastions abandoned by the enemy. Arthur watched as the leading company clambered over the bodies in the breach and then disappeared into the town, followed by the rest of the battalion.

‘Come, Somerset, Alava!’ He turned and hurried out of the fort, striding swiftly over the open ground towards the breach. They came across the first bodies a short distance from the ditch, sprawled and twisted on the ground. The rear formations of the division were standing formed up in front of the ditch waiting their turn to enter the town. General Alten was on the far side ensuring that his men did not advance in a mad rush. Until the lethal obstacles were removed it would be too perilous. Alten saw Arthur and the others approaching and turned to salute his commander.

‘A very bloody business, my lord.’

‘Indeed. But we have the town.’

‘Yes. There is that.’

For a moment there was elation in Arthur’s heart. Then his gaze travelled up the pile of bodies, rising to the breach where yet more lay heaped. A company of Alten’s men had stacked their muskets and were busy clearing away the spiked planks and the chevaux de frise while other men searched amongst the bodies for the living. Here and there a voice called out for help, or groaned in agony, and the dead were pulled away so that the wounded could be freed from the tangle of limbs. Meanwhile, the companies entering the breach were obliged to climb over the bodies of their comrades.

‘What is that smell?’ asked Somerset.

Arthur sniffed. It was like roasting meat and his stomach lurched as he realised it came from the men who had died when the mine had exploded. He pressed a gloved hand to his nose as he stared at the hellish scene.

‘What was it you said, General Alava?You had never before seen such gallantry?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘I hope that I shall never again be the instrument of putting them to such a test as that to which they were put tonight.’

As he gazed at the dead there was a woman’s scream from somewhere in the town, then a harsh chorus of laughter. Elsewhere a shot rang out. The British army had paid a high price to take Badajoz and now they would be sure to slake their thirst for revenge on the people of the town, regardless of whether they had aided the French or not.

Chapter 26

Badajoz was thoroughly sacked over the following days. The soldiers broke into every house and stole all that they could, killing those who stood in their way. Many sought out wine and spirits and their drunkenness served to strip away what was left of their self-control. The terrified cries of women filled the streets. Rape became simply one of the vices through which the soldiers vented their rage against the town that had cost them so many comrades. Once the thirst for revenge had been sated, they turned to looting, and when the townspeople’s gold and valuables were exhausted the soldiers began to turn on each other, clubbing men down to steal their loot.

Arthur knew what was going on within the walls of the town but was powerless to act. The officers had simply lost control of their men and some of those who had tried to enforce discipline had been shot at, or violently thrust aside and forced to flee the city. The only soldiers still under Arthur’s control were those who had been ordered to remain outside the walls, and they looked on with a degree of envy as the other men indulged in an orgy of theft and destruction.

The final act of the siege occurred the day after the assault, when Fort San Cristobal surrendered. With the breaches taken, General Philippon had gathered the survivors of his garrison and led them across the bridge over the Guadiana, and fought his way along the bank to reach the fort.

Having given orders for the burial of the dead, and viewed the harrowing list of casualties, Arthur crossed the river and approached the fort together with an ensign bearing a flag of truce. Riding up the steep ramp to the gate he halted and demanded to speak to General Philippon.

After a brief delay the locking beams rumbled behind the thick timbers of the gate and one of the doors swung inwards. Three men emerged, two soldiers supporting the general as he limped painfully between them. Philippon’s breeches were cut away below the right thigh and there were splints on his leg, tied round with bandages through which blood had oozed in a series of dark round patches. He was bareheaded, and his face was streaked with dried blood from a tear across the top of his scalp. Nevertheless he managed to smile as he greeted Arthur.

‘My congratulations on the swift and successful resolution of the siege, my lord.’

Arthur swallowed bitterly. ‘It is hard to derive any satisfaction from the outcome when so many men have been lost. Over three thousand of my soldiers fell before your defences.’

For a moment the Frenchman’s composure slipped as he recalled the ferocity of the previous night’s battle. ‘I never before saw such slaughter . . .’ He cleared his throat and raised his head. ‘My men and I did our duty, just as your men did. That is the cost of war.’

‘An avoidable cost. You could never have held the town. There is no honour in fighting to postpone inevitable defeat.’

‘Is there not?’

‘No. Not for you here at Badajoz, nor for the rest of the French army in Spain. Nor for your master, Bonaparte. He cannot win the war. All Europe is against him, despite the sham treaties and alliances he has forced on France’s neighbours. There is only one outcome, I am sure of it. Bonaparte can’t win. He can only put off losing.’

Philippon smiled sadly. ‘My lord, that is half the reason why men go to war, to postpone inevitable defeat, as you put it.’

‘Then such men are bloody fools,’ Arthur replied tersely. ‘Now then, I have no desire to prolong this discussion. I am here to offer you terms for the immediate surrender of San Cristobal. I do not desire to lose any more men in assaulting this fort, so if you refuse to surrender I will have my siege guns ranged against the fort and they will pound it to pieces. I will not take any prisoners.’

Philippon scrutinised Arthur’s unflinching expression. ‘You wish to discuss terms? Then I will surrender the fort, and my men’s arms, in exchange for free passage to Madrid.’

Arthur shook his head. ‘You misunderstand. I am not here to discuss terms, but to state them. In short, you will surrender the fort unconditionally. Your men will be disarmed and marched to Lisbon where you will be shipped to England as prisoners until the end of the war, or such time as his majesty’s government decides to exchange you. If you will not agree to these terms then you and your garrison will be destroyed along with the fort.’

‘I need time to consider.’

‘No. You accept or reject my terms now.’

Philippon frowned and looked down to conceal his anguished indecision. He shook his head slightly, then paused and looked up, resigned to his fate. ‘Very well. I accept.’

‘Good. Then your men will leave the fort within the hour and form up there to surrender their arms.’ Arthur pointed to the flat expanse of ground below the fort, close to the camp of Beresford’s Portuguese battalions. ‘You will make no attempt to destroy any supplies or equipment within the fort, is that understood?’

‘Yes, my lord.’ Philippon nodded as he stared at the Portuguese soldiers in their camp. ‘But I would rather surrender to English soldiers than the Portugese. In view of the . . . barbarity with which they have treated French prisoners before.’

‘I recall little difference between the barbarity of the Portuguese and that of the French under whom they were forced to suffer. In any case, I cannot afford to despatch one of my battalions to escort your men to Lisbon. I think you will find that the Portuguese, thanks to our training and example, will treat you with greater mercy than you have shown to many of their compatriots,’ Arthur concluded coldly. He lifted his hat. ‘I bid you good day, General. We shall not meet again. Make sure that the last of your men leaves the fort within the hour.’

Arthur turned his horse away and spurred it into a trot, a sour taste in his mouth.

It took four days for the soldiers to recover their senses and start drifting out of the city, nursing hangovers and clutching their spoils in loose bundles. The army’s provost general was all for disciplining them for being absent without leave, but Arthur ordered that no action be taken. Instead, fresh toops were sent into the town to fish out the last of the looters and eject them. Then the work of repairing the damage began. The sick and injured of Arthur’s army were carried into the castle’s barracks to be looked after by the surgeons of the units assigned to garrison the town.

A steady trickle of those who died from their wounds was added to the corpses laid out in a series of long graves a short distance from the walls. When each grave was filled, men wearing gin-soaked cloths about their faces to overcome the stench of the corpses shovelled earth over the bodies and then piled heavy stones on top to discourage wild dogs, carrion and human scavengers.

With Badajoz in English hands Arthur began to plan his next course of action as he waited for the latest reinforcements to reach the army. Despite the losses, his strength, when the fresh regiments and replacement drafts arrived, rose to over sixty thousand men. Enough to take his campaign into the heart of Spain, but - frustratingly - not enough to contemplate facing a combination of French armies. Therein lay the irony of his situation. The more successful the allied army became the more likely it was to provoke the French into concentrating their forces to march on Arthur and destroy him and his army once and for all.

There was another, constant, cause for concern. Having reinforced the Peninsular army the government back in England would expect him to take the war to the French. It was evident that only a small number of wiser heads in the government appreciated the game of cat and mouse that Arthur was obliged to play with his more numerous opponents.

The most obvious enemy force for his army to engage was the army of Marshal Marmont. The latest intelligence suggested that Marmont commanded fewer than thirty-five thousand men, and that decided Arthur.

Early in May, he left General Hill and eighteen thousand men at Badajoz, in case Soult decided to venture out of Andalucia, and marched back to Ciudad Rodrigo to organise his offensive against Marmont. As he waited for the final reinforcements to reach him from Oporto, he gave orders for his wagons to be repaired and loaded with marching rations from the fortress’s depot. The soldiers were rested, and given the chance to repair their kit in readiness for the campaign.

Late in the month, as Arthur was putting the final touches to the campaign plan, Somerset entered his office with the latest packet of despatches from London.

‘Left London on the twelfth. They’ve made good time,’ Arthur noted with satisfaction. He broke the seal, opened out the waterproofed covering and extracted the documents within. At the top of the pile was a small note from Lord Liverpool marked Most urgent - read at once.

Arthur raised his eyebrows, then with a slight shrug he pushed the rest of the letters towards Somerset. ‘Prioritise those for me, if you please.’

His aide nodded, pulled up a chair and began to open and sort through the documents, ensuring, as was customary, that personal and administrative missives were placed below more vital communications. Arthur sat back in his chair and broke the wafer seal on Liverpool’s letter, unfolded it and began to read. At length he folded the letter up.

‘The Prime Minister is dead,’ he announced evenly.

Somerset looked up from the latest document he had been glancing through. ‘I’m sorry, my lord, I missed that.’

‘I said the Prime Minister is dead.’

‘Good God. Dead? How? Accident or illness?’

‘Neither. He was assassinated. Shot in the lobby of the House of Commons. Some madman named Bellingham who blamed Perceval and the government for ruining his business, apparently.’

‘I say, that’s a bit much.’

Arthur raised his eyebrows. ‘ “A bit much” is hardly the apposite reaction, Somerset. The man has deprived us of a Prime Minister.’

‘Sorry, sir. I’m just shocked by the news. It’s not the sort of thing that happens in England. France or Russia yes. But England?’

‘Well, yes, quite.’Arthur raised his arms, folded his hands together and rested his chin on them.‘The question is, what impact does this have on the government’s policies here in the Peninsula? However parsimonious Perceval might have been in supporting our campaigns, he at least had the virtue of understanding their necessity. The danger is that his replacement may not share his views, just as we are on the brink of changing the balance of power here. Worse still, the government is weak and its opponents may seize on this as a chance to topple the Tories and push the Prince Regent to appoint a Whig administration. If that happens . . .’ Arthur did not need to finish the sentence. Somerset, and indeed most of the army, knew that any Whig government would seek to withdraw the army from the Peninsula as a matter of priority.

‘The government, any government, would be mad to abandon the campaign when it is showing such promise, my lord,’ Somerset responded, then he smiled. ‘It may take a little while for a new Prime Minister to emerge, or even a new government. Whether it be the Tories or the Whigs, you must use the time to inflict as many reverses as you can on the French, my lord. Make it politically inexpedient to recall the army.’

Arthur nodded. ‘By God, you are right. Somerset, for a fine staff officer, you make a decidedly formidable politician.’

His aide sat back in his chair with a shocked expression.‘Sir! I hardly think my suggestion merits such a slur on my character!’

‘Indeed.’ Arthur laughed. ‘I have to apologise, Somerset, else I am sure that you would call me out, and the army cannot afford to lose either of us.’

Somerset nodded, satisfied.

‘So then,’ Arthur stood up and looked out of the window, over the camp of his army.‘While we await word of poor Perceval’s replacement, we march against the French.’

Early in June, as the allied army set off from Ciudad Rodrigo, Arthur received news that Marmont had been reinforced and now slightly outnumbered the allies. On past French showing Arthur was prepared to accept the odds and the army continued marching into Spain, making for Salamanca, the enemy’s nearest base of operations.

There Arthur found that the French garrison had abandoned the city, leaving behind a few hundred men to fortify the convents that dominated the bridge over the river Tormes. While the main bulk of the army made camp on the hills to the north of the city, the engineers set to work besieging the convents by digging approach trenches and constructing batteries for the small number of siege guns that Arthur had brought with the army.

As Arthur had hoped, Marmont advanced towards Salamanca to attempt to relieve the defenders, but the allied troops on the hills barred his way. There followed a few wearing days when Arthur had the army stood to in the dust and the heat, waiting for a French attack that never came. For his part, Marshal Marmont contented himself with regularly sending a few batteries of horse guns together with some skirmishers to fire on any allied troops who were exposed on the forward slope. Arthur responded by ordering the greenjackets forward, and after a short duel the skirmish broke off and the two armies sat and watched each other as before.

The convents quickly surrendered once the siege guns began to pound the walls to pieces, and as soon as the last of them had been taken Marmont began to withdraw north, towards the protection of the river Douro. The allied army followed, camping on the southern bank. Arthur inspected the enemy through his telescope in frustration. A thin screen of pickets patrolled the far bank and the main enemy camp, its position marked by trails of smoke from camp fires, was beyond a low ridge that ran along the river for some way. His spies had told him that Marmont had already been joined by another division and was waiting for yet further reinforcements.

Then, on 15 July, a band of Spanish resistance fighters rode into the allied camp in an excited state, demanding to speak to the English general. They wore bandannas, short-cut jackets over their shirts and breeches, which were buttoned below the knee, and heavy boots. A formidable selection of carbines and pistols were visible in their saddle buckets, and swords, clubs and knives hung from their belts. The two sentries on duty outside Arthur’s headquarters, a disused barn, eyed the new arrivals warily as Somerset brought General Alava out to speak to them. After a few words, Alava beckoned their leader to dismount and follow him and Somerset into the barn.

He rapped on the weathered doorpost and Arthur looked up from the map he had been studying. ‘What is it?’

‘One of the local fighters, my lord. He says he has captured some enemy despatches and wishes to sell them to us.’

Arthur puffed his cheeks. ‘Very well. I can spare him a few minutes. Bring him in.’

A moment later the leader entered, carrying a saddlebag over one arm. Arthur rose to exchange a bow with him as Alava made the introductions. ‘Seсor Jose Ramirez, or El Cuchillo, as he claims to be known along this stretch of the Douro.’

‘What has El Cuchillo,’ Arthur smiled at the man, ‘got for me, exactly?’

Once Alava had translated, the resistance leader stepped forward and laid the saddlebag over Arthur’s map. Arthur noted a dark smear on the casing and assumed that it was the blood of the hapless courier who had been intercepted by El Cuchillo and his men. With a flamboyant gesture the Spaniard unfastened the strap and flipped the bag open. Inside were a number of sealed documents. One immediately caught Arthur’s eye - larger and bearing a more ornate seal than the others. He gestured towards the bag and the Spaniard nodded. Arthur drew the document out and saw that it carried the seal of King Joseph and was addressed to Marshal Marmont. He broke the seal and opened it, quickly scanning the contents before he looked up.

‘King Joseph is marching to join Marmont with thirteen thousand men.’

Somerset shifted uncomfortably. ‘That will give Marmont nearly twenty thousand men more than us, my lord.’

Arthur nodded. ‘More than enough to make a difference, I fear. The question is, has Marmont had a copy of this message? It is possible he may not know that Joseph is marching to join him.’

‘It’s possible, I suppose,’ Somerset said doubtfully. ‘Though the French tend to send out two or three couriers by different routes, given the danger presented by the partisans.’

Arthur folded the despatch and tapped it on the table.‘General Alava, please ask our friend if he has seen anything of the enemy recently. Any sign of a column on the move.’

The general translated the question and El Cuchillo nodded, and then there was a lively exchange of comments before Alava turned back to Arthur with an excited glint in his eye. ‘He says that he saw a large force crossing the Douro at Tordesillas. They could not get close enough to estimate the number because of the enemy’s cavalry pickets.’

‘I see,’ Arthur responded. He was wary of any amateur’s estimation of an enemy force and needed to have a more accurate assessment of what the Spaniard had seen. ‘He says it was a large force. Does he mean a brigade, or a division, or something bigger?’

The general questioned the man and turned back. ‘He says it was a host. He has never seen so many men.’

‘It’ll be King Joseph and his reinforcements, my lord,’ Somerset suggested.

‘I don’t think so,’ Arthur responded with a frown. ‘That would mean they were right on the heels of the messenger bearing the news of their coming. Alava, ask him from which direction this host was crossing the Douro.’

‘They were coming from the north bank,’ Alava translated.

Arthur’s eyes widened for an instant. ‘By God, it’s Marmont. He’s over the river and trying to outflank us!’

Somerset nodded. ‘He must know about Joseph. Why else take the the risk?’

Arthur pushed the saddlebag aside and examined the map, before crossing to an empty window frame and staring across the river at the thin haze of smoke above the ridge opposite. ‘That scoundrel Marmont has tricked me. And now he aims to slip round our flank and cut us off from Salamanca. Well, whether he knows about the message or not, it makes little difference now.’ He turned to Somerset. ‘Pass the word to all divisional commanders: we’re breaking camp and marching back to Salamanca immediately. Oh, and reward this fine fellow generously for his services. A hundred guineas in gold.’

Alava cleared his throat and rocked his hand discreetly.

‘Second thoughts,’ Arthur muttered. ‘Make that fifty.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Somerset nodded and gestured for El Cuchillo to follow him. Arthur looked down at the map again with a leaden feeling of disappointment. It was as he had feared. The enemy had taken enough notice of his successes to gather together a force sufficient to turn him back. It would be a heavy blow to the army’s morale, Arthur realised. To begin a retreat so soon after setting out from Ciudad Rodrigo. It would also play into the hands of his political enemies in London, who would be sure to use this latest setback as proof that the army in the Peninsula was achieving little but marching up and down the length of Spain at the taxpayer’s expense.

Arthur breathed in sharply. ‘Damn that fellow Marmont. He may ruin our fortunes yet.’

Chapter 27

Salamanca, 22 July 1812

‘Typical of those underhand American rascals.’ Somerset spoke with acid contempt as he read the despatch that had reached the army at first light. Just over a month earlier President Madison had declared war on Britain. Since Britain had only a handful of soldiers in Canada at the time the opportunist nature of the war was clear to all. ‘I tell you, my lord, this is a day that will live in infamy. They attack us when our back is turned and we are fighting to save the world from a tyrant.’

‘Yes, yes, a pox on them all,’Arthur muttered, doing his best to ignore his aide’s ire as he contemplated the implications of the news. ‘You can be sure that the army in Canada will now have first call on reinforcements. An ill day for us here in Spain, that is for certain. But for now we have other matters upon which to concentrate our minds.’ Arthur nodded across the valley to the opposite ridge where Marmont’s soldiers were exchanging fire with a handful of riflemen defending a small chapel beside the road to Salamanca.

For most of the last five days the two armies had been marching alongside each other, sometimes separated by no more than two hundred yards, as if they were in a race. And it had been a race of sorts, Arthur reflected. Marmont had been driving his men on in an attempt to pull ahead of the allies and then turn to cut them off from Salamanca, on ground of Marmont’s choosing. For his part,Arthur had been urging his men to reach Salamanca first, and keep open their line of communication to Ciudad Rodrigo.

In the end, the allies had won the race, crossing the river Tormes some miles east of Salamanca the day before. After a night’s rest, Arthur had given the order for the baggage train to take the road to Ciudad Rodrigo while the army covered the retreat. Escorted by a Portuguese cavalry unit, the baggage train was obscured by a haze of dust as it headed away. Arthur had given orders for his men to form up on the reverse slope of a roughly horseshoe-shaped hill overlooking a valley, on the far side of which was a corresponding hill formation that curved round the first. In between was a tall free-standing hill known as the Greater Arapil, as it was marginally taller than the hill upon which Arthur sat with his staff observing the movements of Marmont’s army. Earlier that morning a French division had seized the hill and now, as they saw the English commander and his staff, some of them waved.

Arthur did not feel in any mood for levity. The most recent report from his scouts revealed that King Joseph was little more than a day’s march to the east of Marmont, and another column of reinforcements was a similar distance to the north. Today would be the last chance to fight on roughly equivalent terms. After that, the allied army would have no choice but to retreat to the fortress of Ciudad Rodrigo. So far Marshal Marmont had shown no sign of wanting to fight and Arthur’s men looked like spending the whole day without shade on the reverse slope of the ridge.

A movement caught Somerset’s eye and he turned towards a nearby farmhouse, surrounded by a low wall. One of the junior staff officers was waving his hat. Somerset raised his in reply and then prepared to address his commander, somewhat unnerved by Arthur’s irascible mood.

‘My lord, Lieutenant Henderson has managed to secure a light meal for us.’

‘What?’ Arthur glanced round. ‘What’s that?’

Somerset pointed to the farm. ‘I sent Henderson to organise some food, my lord. Neither you nor the staff officers have eaten today, and it’s nearly two in the afternoon. We can eat and still keep an eye on the enemy from there.’

Arthur thought a moment and then nodded. ‘Very well, but mind the food is eaten quickly. I’ll not be caught napping by Marmont simply because my officers have decided to have a picnic.’

The small party trotted across the ridge towards the farmhouse. Inside the wall two long trestle tables and benches had been set out. A large platter of cooked chicken, some baskets of bread, and jugs of wine with clay cups had been laid out by the farmer and he smiled as he waved his guests towards the table. Somerset and the others slid down from their saddles and eagerly took a seat and began to eat. Arthur did not dismount, but took out his telescope from the saddle bucket to take another look at the enemy. The French were still deploying on the other ridge but seemed to have made no attempt to prepare for an attack on the division straddling the road to Salamanca, the only large formation that the enemy could see.

‘Would you care for something to eat, my lord?’

Arthur lowered his telescope and saw that Somerset had brought him a chicken quarter and the end of a loaf of bread. He did not feel hungry, but knew that he needed to eat, and besides, he did not want to spoil the appetite of his subordinates by his example.

‘Just the chicken, if you please.’

Somerset passed it up and Arthur forced himself to take a bite out of the cold joint. It had been hurriedly fried and the meat was slippery in his gloved hand. Somerset returned to the table and helped himself to a cup of wine as he joined the other officers happily satisfying their hunger and slaking their thirst after sitting in the saddle, under the sun, for the last few hours. Arthur watched them for a moment, mechanically biting at the chicken, chewing and swallowing. Then he walked his horse towards the wall so that he would have a better view of the enemy-held ridge to the south, opposite the centre of his line.

At first he was not certain what he was seeing. It made little sense. He raised his telescope with his spare hand and trained it on the ridge. Sun-browned grass swam across his field of vision, then he carefully tracked up the slope until he could make out an enemy division marching hurriedly along to the west. Beyond them marched a regiment of cavalry, the sun glinting off their helmets.

‘What the devil is Marmont up to?’ Arthur muttered to himself. He swept his telescope along the line of march and saw that it continued all the way back to the main French position. All told it looked as if three divisions were making their way across the front of the allied position. Such was the enemy’s hurry that their formations were dangerously extended. Then Arthur grasped what was going through his opponent’s mind. Marmont could only see a handful of men on the Lesser Arapil and the division blocking the Salamanca road. He had mistaken the great cloud of dust being kicked up by the baggage train for the allied army in full retreat, and now he was hoping to outflank, cut off and destroy what he took to be Arthur’s rearguard.

Arthur felt an icy flush of excitement in his veins as he realised that the battle on advantageous terms that he had been seeking was upon him, but only if he acted swiftly. Hurling the chicken aside he turned to his staff officers.

‘Mount up, gentlemen! At once!’

The imperative tone of his command had the desired effect and they jumped up from the benches, abandoning their food and wine. As they climbed into their saddles Arthur was already calling out his orders, as calmly as he could to ensure that there were no mistakes.

‘The French are on the move.’ He gestured towards the far ridge. ‘Marmont aims to work round our position. The army is to prepare to attack as soon as possible. Gentlemen, ride out to every division and have them make ready. Somerset!’

‘Sir?’

‘Stay here and be ready to report to me the moment I return.’

‘Where are you going, my lord?’ Somerset asked anxiously.

‘Why, to close the trap, of course!’ Arthur grinned exuberantly, and then spurred his mount into a gallop as he raced along the ridge, heading towards the extreme right of the allied line. The Third Division, now commanded by Kitty’s younger brother Edward Pakenham, had been tasked with holding the flank and was perfectly positioned for what Arthur had in mind. As the track leading towards the Salamanca road began to angle to the right and down the reverse slope, Arthur glanced to his left to make sure that the French were still advancing to the south, and was gratified by the glint as the sun caught their polished accoutrements in a shimmering sparkle.

He rode on, angling down the slope until he emerged from a vale and out on to the dusty plain behind the hills. Ahead of him was a column of redcoats, and a regiment of Portuguese dragoons, tramping south along the Salamanca road and kicking up a cloud of dust as they took up their position to cover the flank. He saw the colours of the division’s battalions marching in a cluster behind a small group of horsemen. At their head was the tall, elegant figure of their general. Arthur urged his horse on, and approached the column fast, hooves pounding over the hard, dry ground beneath him. Faces turned towards him as he approached and he heard a voice cry out, ‘It’s our Arty!’ A cheer sounded from some of the men, but they were too tired and too thirsty for any more. He slowed the horse as he reached the divisional staff officers and then reined in behind his brother-in-law.

‘Edward!’ he called out, and Kitty’s brother turned round with a quizzical look that turned to a smile as he saw Arthur. ‘Edward, I want you to continue advancing with your division. Beyond this ridge there is another. Take it and then drive back the French you will see to your front. Go in hard, and keep pushing them back for all you are worth, is that clear?’

‘Perfectly, my lord.’

‘Good. Then before the day is out we shall have Marshal Marmont caught in a vice of his own making. Good luck!’

Arthur turned and spurred his horse back up the slope to the ridge. The Third Division had two more miles to advance before it took the hills Arthur had described. Most of the time they would be shielded from French view by the Lesser Arapil, so that their attack would come as a surprise to the enemy. If Packenham struck swiftly he would smash into the French vanguard and start rolling their line up.

As soon as he reached the ridge Arthur rode to the two divisions waiting on the reverse slope, and ordered them to advance into the enemy’s flank strung out before them. With Pakenham driving Marmont from the right, the French advance would be halted in its tracks, and then there would be chaos, and easy pickings for the Fifth and Fourth Divisions as they joined the assault. If all went well, the enemy’s line would be shattered. All that remained was for the left flank of the allied line to advance and finish the job.

By the time he returned to the farmhouse the roar of cannon echoed across the left flank of the battlefield as the British and French artillery fought a duel across the valley that separated them. It was of little immediate concern to Arthur. As long as the French guns concentrated their fire in that direction they could not intervene at the decisive point.

Already the Fourth and Fifth Divisions were advancing, marching over the crest and down the forward slope towards the flank of the extended French line. Each division was formed up in a long line two men deep. It seemed like an impossibly slender formation, but it made the most of the firepower that could be brought to bear on the French when the two sides engaged.

A faint shrill call of trumpets caused Arthur and his staff to turn to their right where they saw the Portuguese dragoons attached to Pakenham’s division charging towards the flank of the leading French division. Beyond the dust kicked up by the cavalry Arthur could see the infantry of the Third Division doubling forward to form a line across the head of the French advance.

The enemy were not slow to react and thousands of Marmont’s soldiers rushed forward, drums beating, as they fired freely down the slope at the silent redcoats. As the dragoons began to withdraw the infantry advanced up the slope and, on reaching the crest, loosed off the first volley into the milling ranks of the leading French division. There was a brief exchange of fire, the French responding with an ill-disciplined rolling musketry, while Pakenham’s men fired in volleys, discharging over a thousand muskets at a time. Arthur knew the morale effect of such a devastating blow. The leading ranks of both sides were obscured by smoke and dust, and then Arthur saw the first of the French break away, running back along the ridge to the east. Moments later he saw the redcoats emerging from the smoke as they charged and shattered the leading French division.

General Alava clapped his hands together with delight. ‘Fine work! Ah, Marmont has already lost! I know it.’

Arthur kept his concentration on the action as his forces closed on the French line. The second enemy division had begun to move down from the ridge to avoid being thrown into confusion by their comrades fleeing back towards them. As they reached the floor of the valley they halted and began to adjust their formation.

‘What on earth?’ Somerset sat up straight in his saddle and squinted as he watched with growing disbelief. ‘They’re forming squares. Madness . . .’

Arthur felt a brief sense of pity for the men of the French division as the long lines of the redcoats closed on them. The key to winning a battle was using the correct formation to counter the enemy’s moves. Infantry in square might well be invulnerable to cavalry but they provided an easy target for artillery and muskets. Having seen the dragoons savage the flank of the division ahead of him, the French general had decided to be cautious, and now his caution was about to be punished.

The men of the Fourth and Fifth Divisions approached to within effective musket range and halted. Opposite them, the densely packed French squares stood their ground, and Arthur was impressed by their self-discipline: not one shot had been fired. A moment later, as the redcoats lowered their muskets to take aim, the foremost sides of the French squares spat flame and smoke and after a short delay the crash of the massed volley carried up the slope to Arthur. Scores of men went down along the British line, but the casualties were far fewer than they would have been if they had been more closely formed up, as were the French.

When the British fired back, it was hard to miss, and hundreds of the enemy were cut down in the first discharge. The following volleys tore the nearest faces of the French squares to pieces, and as smoke and dust engulfed the battered formations the redcoats charged home. The struggle was brief as the badly shaken French infantry suddenly saw faint figures rushing through the haze towards them, bursting into view with a deafening roar, eyes wide and wild, bayonets gleaming as they cut their way into the ruined French squares, stabbing and beating down all who stood in their path. Having already suffered murderous losses from musket fire and now faced with the savagery of a bayonet charge the French spirit broke and the squares fell apart as the men turned and ran back up the slope towards the ridge.

However, their suffering had only just begun. Into the gap between the Third and Fifth Divisions streamed the heavy cavalry of General Le Marchant. A thousand sabres glittered in the hot sunlight as the horsemen charged at full tilt in amongst the fleeing French. It was the ideal opportunity that every cavalryman hoped for and they set about their broken enemy with ferocious slashes and thrusts, cutting hundreds of them down as they struggled up the slope.

‘Glorious work!’ General Alava exclaimed. ‘Simply glorious.’

‘For now,’ Arthur replied evenly. ‘But unless they are reined in, Le Marchant’s men will be a spent force.’

The cavalry continued their pursuit in a swirling cloud of dust, cutting the second French division to pieces, until they came up against the third enemy formation. This time the French squares came into their own and the British cavalry were stopped in their tracks by the massed volleys of the enemy infantry. Arthur gritted his teeth in frustration at yet another example of his cavalry’s propensity to lose their heads. As the dragoons began to fall back Arthur quickly surveyed the battlefield. Already, two French divisions had been shattered, and now the three British divisions were closing in on the front and flank of the next enemy formation. Arthur frowned as he watched the Fourth Division advancing, its left just starting to pass the slope of the Greater Arapil. Arthur could see a French unit on top of the hill.

‘What is Cole doing?’ Arthur muttered. ‘Why doesn’t he cover his flank?’ He turned hurriedly to Somerset. ‘Send a message to General Cole and warn him to watch his left flank. And tell Pack to send one of his brigades forward to take the hill.’

‘Yes, sir!’

As Somerset wheeled away Arthur watched anxiously as the Fourth Division halted and began to exchange fire with the third of the French formations. So intent was Cole’s concentration on the target to his front that he had clearly missed the danger to his left. Arthur could see that the enemy had realised the chance they had to take sweet revenge on the redcoats in precisely the same manner as they had suffered. But before they could strike, General Pack’s Portuguese doubled forward and began to clamber up the slope towards the crest of the Greater Aparil. It was a desperate attempt to win time for their British comrades, and they were outnumbered by an enemy who held the high ground. The attack stalled as the French skirmishers unleashed a withering fire down the slope. Arthur watched with growing anguish as Pack’s men stopped and went to ground, and then started to fall back.