The Fields of Death

‘It seems there is no overestimating the caution of our enemy. They have us in a vice and yet Kutusov fears to tighten it.’

‘Lucky for us, sire,’ Berthier responded. ‘Fortune seems to be favouring you again. Oudinot’s cavalry have taken all the bridges along the causeway without encountering any Russians. The road to Vilna is open.’

‘Yes, fortune is with us, Berthier. Fortune, and sheer pluck, eh?’

Berthier was about to agree when there was a splintering crack. Both men turned to watch as one of the trestles in the second bridge started to collapse. Planks split and tumbled into the water. The rear wheels of an ammunition cart fell into the gap. For an instant everyone stopped to stare; the staff of the headquarters, the soldiers and civilians on the far bank. Then there was another crackle of shattering timber and a second trestle shivered and lurched to one side. The planking fell away and the wagon slipped back, even as the driver lashed his horse team to pull forward. The horses were weak and the heavy burden dragged them back towards the widening gap. Then the wagon tipped and fell into the river, dragging the horse team after it, kicking and whinnying in terror. There was a succession of splashes and the wreckage of the wagon, the debris from the bridge and the struggling horses were swept downriver.

‘Did the driver survive?’ asked Berthier, breaking the silence. ‘Did anyone see?’

Napoleon stared at the bridge. Three trestles had gone, leaving a large gap in the centre. Already, Eblй and most of his engineers were running towards the bridge while other men grabbed long poles and rushed on to the smaller bridge to try to fend the wagon away from its slender trestles.

‘Sire, look there.’ Berthier pointed towards the huge crowd of stragglers and camp followers that had gathered beyond the second bridge. A great cry had risen up when they saw the collapse of the bridge. All at once they pressed forward, sweeping aside the cordon of soldiers set to contain them, and began to scramble along the bank towards the remaining bridge.

‘What do those fools think they are doing?’ Napoleon asked furiously. ‘There’ll be chaos. They’ll destroy everything.’

The mob rushed the end of the bridge, sweeping aside the engineers. In amongst the press of people there were a few carts and wagons and their drivers lashed the horses on, trampling scores of people in their attempts to get on to the bridge. Already the first of the mob were on the planking, hurrying over towards the western bank. They were the fortunate ones. In a matter of moments a dense press was pushing forward on to the narrow strip. Everyone was acting for themselves and the merciless shoving was already thrusting individuals over the edge to splash into the river below. Napoleon could see the planking begin to bow under the pressure and knew that there was little time to save the bridge. He turned quickly and shouted an order to the captain of the company guarding the headquarters.

‘Get your men down there now! Clear the bridge. I don’t care how you do it, but clear that crowd away from the bridge!’

The officer ran towards the bank of the river, bellowing at his men to follow him. They ignored the broken stream of individuals that had made the crossing and now bustled past them, and stopped a short distance from the head of the tightly packed mob on the bridge. The captain hurriedly ordered his men into line, and they raised their muskets into the faces of the crowd bearing down on them.

‘Get back!’ the captain shouted. ‘Get back, or we will fire on you!’

Those at the front of the mob tried to halt, but the pressure behind them was relentless and they were thrust forward.

‘Front rank!’ the officer cried out. ‘Fire!’

The muskets spat out flames and smoke into the dusky afternoon and several bodies collapsed on to the planking.

‘Second rank! Advance and fire!’

Another volley crashed out, cutting down more, who tumbled over the bodies of the first to fall. A cry of panic rose up from the front of the mob and they tried to turn and scramble back to the eastern bank, against the continuing pressure from those still desperate to escape over the river. Napoleon felt sickened as he saw a man in the greatcoat and shako of a voltigeur thrust aside a woman with a child bundled into her arms. She staggered to the edge of the bridge and screamed as she fell. Many more were being pushed into the Berezina as the Guards continued to fire at the unyielding mob.

Gradually, some awareness of the danger on the bridge began to filter back through the crowd and at last those still on the eastern bank began to draw back, slowly giving ground as they retreated towards the streets where they had been waiting shortly before. The captain ordered his men to cease fire and they advanced, bayonets lowered, keeping a short distance from the retreating crowd. At length they reached the end of the bridge and spread out, forcing the crowd away. It was no easy task, as many had perished in the crush and their bodies lay heaped on the ground around the bridgehead.

‘Sweet Jesus,’ Berthier exclaimed as he stared ashen-faced at the scene. Below the bridge several bodies were caught up in the trestles. A few individuals were still alive, clinging to the posts, calling for help. Nothing could be done for them and within minutes the icy water caused the last of them to relinquish his grip. ‘What a massacre. What did they think they were doing?’

‘Panic,’ said Napoleon. ‘We can expect more of that in the hours ahead. Make sure that the ends of the bridges are well guarded, and the routes leading to them as well. See to it at once.’

As the light faded the engineers repaired the gap and began the grim task of dragging the bodies away from the end of the other bridge to clear the route leading on to it. Once the last of the soldiers had crossed the bridge and only Victor’s corps remained on the eastern bank, General Eblй did his best to get some of the civilians and stragglers across. But night had fallen and there were flurries of snow in the bitterly cold air, and many refused to stir from the warmth of their fires.

In the early hours,Victor informed Napoleon that the Russians were beginning to push forward against his entire line. The sound of cannon fire increased in volume and soon even the distant sound of musket fire could be heard from the Emperor’s headquarters. Dawn brought a fresh fall of snow with thick flakes swirling about the crossing and mercifully muffling the sounds of fighting from where the rearguard was struggling to hold back the enemy.

‘How is the vanguard doing?’ Napoleon asked Berthier.

‘They have reached the end of the causeway and deployed to guard it from flank attacks, sire. Ney’s men are holding the southern approaches to the crossing and the rest of the army is advancing along the causeway.’ He paused. ‘We’ve been lucky the Russians haven’t pressed us more closely.’

‘Indeed. Time to call in Victor. Inform Eblй he is to fire the bridge the moment the rearguard is across.’

‘Yes, sir, and what of the civilians?’

‘They will have to cross as best they can before the bridges are destroyed.’

Throughout the day, the engineers and the first formations from Victor’s corps tramped over the bridges, together with a steady stream of non-combatants. The fighting drew ever closer to the river and as the light began to fade General Eblй took a speaking trumpet and called across the water to the silent mass still huddled about the fires on the far side.

‘The bridge will be cut within the next few hours! I beg you to cross while you can!’

Napoleon shook his head as few seemed to heed Eblй’s warning. ‘They had their chance,’ he told himself softly.

As the sun set into a blood-red haze on the horizon,Victor reported to Napoleon. He had not shaved or slept in days and looked haggard.

‘The enemy will reach the bridge within the hour, sire. I have no horses left for my remaining guns. The crews have been ordered to fire off their remaining rounds, spike the guns and fall back. There are three battalions holding the edge of the village. They will follow as soon as the order is given.’

‘You have done well, Marshal.’

‘My men have done all they could, sire. But the Russian guns will be in range of the bridge at any moment.’

‘I see.’ Napoleon stared across the river into the gathering gloom. ‘Then don’t delay. Give the order now.’

‘Yes, sire.’

As Victor returned across the river the engineers were hurriedly coating the timbers of the bridges with pitch, and the acrid smell made Napoleon’s nose wrinkle as he waited for Victor and the last of his men to fall back. Then they appeared, trotting down the street and over the smallest bridge, a company at a time. The last battalion retreated facing the enemy, and then hurried over. Last of all came Victor himself, sword in hand until he reached the western bank and sheathed it.

A silence fell over the scene as the last of the engineers abandoned their brushes and pots of pitch, and then Eblй raised his speaking trumpet again.

‘For the love of God! Escape while you still can!’

The civilians seemed to be too exhausted and lethargic to respond, and Eblй sadly lowered the speaking trumpet and gestured to his men to proceed with their orders. Torches were applied to the pitch and the flames licked out along the length of the bridges as the fire quickly caught and spread.

There was a drone through the air and a howitzer shell burst amongst the crowd in a bright flash. At once they struggled to their feet and ran for the bridges. More shells burst amongst them with lurid explosions of red and orange, the shell fragments cutting down scores of the tightly packed bodies at a time. The fugitives made for the bridges, trying to protect their faces from the flames as they ran towards the far bank. A few made it across, some on fire which the engineers hurriedly smothered. Others, blinded by the heat, stumbled over the edge and fell into the river. Some were desperate enough to plunge into the water, but few were strong enough to wade or swim across and the cold killed them before they reached the western bank. Flames reached high into the evening sky, reflected in the surface of the river, and the crackling and bursting of wood was accompanied by shrill screams of panic from the mob trapped on the far side.

Bit by bit, the planking and trestles collapsed into the water and, as the fire began to die down, the crowd fell silent and stared in numbed horror at the ruined bridges. The Russians had ceased fire as soon as they saw that most of the French had escaped and a terrible quiet fell over the scene.

The imperial headquarters had already set off down the causeway. Napoleon took one last look at Studienka and then climbed on to his mount. With a click of his tongue he urged the horse into a trot and made his way alongside the survivors of Victor’s corps, heading towards Vilna.

Chapter 37

Molodetchna, 29 November 1812

The haggard remnants of the French army was stretched out along the road to Vilna. The snow fell steadily, drifting against the last of the abandoned vehicles, and the corpses of men and horses, until they were mercifully covered over, hiding the dead and the detritus of the army from those who still lived.

A handful of units remained together, mostly for self-protection rather than through discipline or any sense of duty. They marched with bayonets fixed, with little ammunition remaining in their haversacks, warily watching the surrounding countryside for any sign of the Cossacks who were following the column. Occasionally the horsemen would attack, with a sudden series of war cries as they dashed from concealment to rush any defenceless French soldiers, or civilians. They did not bother to discriminate between the two as they cut them down and then searched the corpses for anything of value. The Cossacks had learned to leave the formed units alone and often stood by, within musket range, letting them shuffle past.

Once again the snow had compacted and frozen so that the passage of the Grand Army was marked by a long, winding gleam of ice that was treacherous underfoot. The temperature continued to fall and had not risen above freezing since they had left the nightmare of the Berezina river behind them. The nights were bitter and dawn, when it came, was bleak. Any men, horses or equipment left in the open were covered in a heavy rime of frost. Increasingly, those who could not find shelter for the night did not survive to see the dawn. Only that morning, Napoleon had passed a peculiar scene by the side of the road. A soldier, a woman and two children were sitting around the remains of a small fire, built in the lee of a crumbling wall. They sat, cross-legged, wrapped in blankets, the children leaning into their mother with their heads resting against her, as if asleep. But they were unaturally still, and Napoleon stopped to look at them.

‘Frozen to death,’ he muttered as he stared into their white faces, wondering at the peaceful expressions on all four. ‘Frozen to death,’ he repeated in horror, before spurring his horse forward again.

That night, the headquarters staff and the Imperial Guard halted at Molodetchna. The soldiers found billets in the village and tried to scavenge some scraps of meat and vegetables to make soup, while the Emperor and his staff took over the village’s one tavern. The Russian armies were mostly behind them and so now the battle was for survival. Regular communications had been re-established with Warsaw and an escorted courier sent by the Minister of Police had arrived in the village earlier in the day. In addition to the official messages, Savary had instructed his official to brief the Emperor on the dangerous situation in Paris.

Napoleon had retreated to the tavern’s kitchen with Berthier to hear what the man had to say in private. A small cauldron was steaming over the cooking fire and the tavern’s owner was peeling vegetables to add to the stock.

‘Out,’ Napoleon said to him, pointing at the door.

The tavern keeper shook his head and pointed to the cauldron. Napoleon clicked his fingers and then pointed to the hilt of his sword before he repeated his order. ‘Out!’

Once the door had closed, he turned to the courier. ‘What’s alarming Savary so much that he has sent you all the way out here?’

‘You already know about Malet’s attempted coup, I take it, sire?’

‘I know. Savary’s last report was that he had rounded up the plotters and dealt with them.’

‘That’s right. The problem is that the rumours of your death have still been circulating around the Paris salons, and amongst the army officers in the capital. The situation is made worse by the reports that are starting to filter back from Russia, mostly letters from soldiers in the rear echelons who have heard rumours of a disaster befalling the army. Of course, the newspapers are continuing to put out the official line that all is well and that your imperial majesty has bested the Tsar. Many people still seem willing to trust the newspapers but it’s clear that they need proof that you are alive, sire. Better still, they need to see you in person. They also need to know what has happened in Russia. It’s the only way we can quell the rumours and cut the ground from under those who might be plotting against the regime.’

‘I see.’ Napoleon nodded and rubbed his eyes for a moment as he thought through the implications of the news.

Berthier coughed. ‘Once the full scale of our losses is known, there is going to be trouble unlike anything we have seen before. There’s hardly a family in France that won’t be grieving over the loss of a brother, a husband or a son, sire. Your enemies in the capital will use this, and your absence, to call for your abdication.’

Napoleon opened his eyes and stared at Berthier.‘What do you think I should do?’

His chief of staff met his gaze firmly. ‘I think you should return to Paris, sire. While there is still time to prevent the traitors and royalists from stirring up any more trouble. You have lost the campaign. There is no more reason for you to remain in Russia.’

‘Lost the campaign,’ Napoleon repeated. There was a time, only a month before, when he would have denied it. Now he felt completely worn out, and almost numbed by the scale of the disaster that had engulfed the Grand Army. The mistake was not in the plans that he had made. How could it be? Every last detail had been accounted for. No, the fault lay in the nature of the Tsar. He had not behaved as any rational ruler would have done. It was Alexander’s inhumanity that Napoleon had failed to take into account. Only in that was Napoleon at fault. He drew a deep breath and nodded.

‘It is over. I have done all that I can for the army. All that remains for them now is to reach the Niemen and cross to safety. I am not needed here.’

Berthier looked relieved, and so did the courier. The latter quickly took advantage of the Emperor’s decision.‘The minister hoped that you would return to Paris, sire. He assumed that there would be some final matters that would require your attention before you left the army behind. In which case, he asked me to request that you issue a despatch stating that the campaign is over and that you are returning to Paris imminently. To allow us to hold our position while we wait for your arrival,’ he explained.

Napoleon looked at him closely. ‘Is it as bad as that?’

The courier looked down and did not reply.

‘Tell me the truth,’ Napoleon said firmly. ‘There is nothing for anyone to gain by sweetening the message.’

‘Very well, sire. It is the minister’s opinion that unless you return to Paris within the month, he cannot guarantee that there will be a throne for you to return to. He needs a despatch from you to prove that you are alive, and also to put an end to the rumours concerning the fate of the army. It will shock the nation, sire, but even bad news is better than no news.’

‘I see.’ Napoleon nodded. ‘Thank you.’

Once the courier had left the room, Napoleon sent Berthier for some paper and a pen. With a weary sigh, he dipped the pen into the ink pot and began to draft the despatch Savary had requested.

29th, Bulletin of the Grand Army. His imperial majesty, Napoleon, Emperor of France, King of Italy, is pleased to inform his people that the campaign in Russia is complete. The valiant men of the Grand Army, the largest gathering of allies ever to set out on such an adventure, has marched across the trackless expanses of Russia to humble the Russian Tsar and prove to him that the will of the Emperor, and all France, will not be denied. Defeated in battle, and having lost his most important city, the Tsar, against all the dictates of justice and humanity, refused to end the war. Accordingly the Emperor, having been refused the victory that all right-thinking men will agree should have been granted him, was obliged to order his army to withdraw to the territory of the Duchy of Warsaw.

Napoleon paused, mentally composing the next section with care.

Due to the deceitful nature of the enemy the army was tricked into remaining in Moscow until the start of the autumn. Within days of setting out, the weather became unusually cold and the lack of sustenance derived from the lands through which the army marched, in concert with the swift onset of winter, has resulted in a considerable loss of men. The Emperor shares the grief of his people at the sacrifice of so many valiant soldiers. He trusts that their families will take some comfort from the knowledge that they died heroes, giving their lives for the glory of their countrymen.

Napoleon continued by giving a casualty figure that was half the true amount. Even this would cause great consternation in France, but the full total must wait until he had returned and could break the news in person. He wrote about the dreadful climate and offered rousing descriptions of the battle at Borodino and the heroic crossing of the Berezina. He described the glorious achievement of Marshal Ney and the band of heroes in his rearguard as it fought its way through the Russian army to re-join the Emperor. Napoleon concluded with a final sentence to allay their fears. His majesty’s health has never been better.

Setting down his pen, he called for Berthier to copy his draft into a legible hand and then signed and sealed the document before giving it to Savary’s courier.

‘Leave at once. Tell the minister I will follow you as soon as I can.’

A fresh blizzard blanketed the Russian landscape over the following days and the army grimly continued its retreat, heads down and leaning into the wind as it buffeted the shambling columns, as well as the civilians who had survived the Berezina crossing and had escaped the attentions of the Cossacks so far. Napoleon had ordered Berthier to make secret preparations for his departure for Paris, and when the foul weather lifted five days later, as the army crept into Smorgoni, he decided the time had come.

The marshals of the army were summoned from their billets into his presence that evening. They had been told that they were required for a briefing on the army’s progress towards the Niemen, and slumped wearily down into the chairs set around a long table in the town’s guild hall. Napoleon had given instructions for his last stocks of wine and brandy to be fetched and the marshals gratefully helped themselves as they waited for the last of their number to arrive. Ney was commanding the rearguard again and had the furthest to travel, and he did not reach the town until late in the evening. He unbuttoned his snow-flecked coat and slung it across a side table as he joined his companions, smiling at the sight of the brandy.

‘Ah! Now there’s a sight for sore eyes.’ He poured a generous glass and downed it in one, then coughed to clear his burned throat.‘Needed that! Nothing like brandy to put fire back into a man’s belly.’

Napoleon waited until Ney was seated and then rapped his glass on the table. ‘Quiet, if you please.’

The marshals settled back into their chairs and looked at him expectantly. Napoleon was too weary to waste time with any preamble praising their efforts and promising rewards when they all returned to France. He drew a deep breath and began in a flat tone.

‘It is my conviction that the army has made good its escape. Though it is hungry, there are more than enough rations at Vilna to feed the men and provide sufficient supplies to reach the Niemen. Therefore, I am no longer required here. I am, however, urgently needed in Paris where our enemies are trying to stir up sedition and revolt against all that we have fought for. With that in mind, I have decided to leave the army. A covered sledge, together with a small escort of Guard cavalry, stands ready to convey me to Warsaw. From there I should be able to continue the journey to Paris by carriage.’ He looked round at them, waiting for a reaction.

‘Bless my bloody soul.’ Ney shook his head. ‘I don’t believe it. You’re abandoning us.’

‘I have no choice.’

‘Really?’ Ney smiled thinly. ‘It seems to me that you do.’

‘Then it is a choice that is forced on me by circumstance. Does that please you better?’

‘Oh, it makes no odds to me, sire. It is you who will have to live with the decision.’

‘I do what I must for France,’ Napoleon replied testily.

‘Who will take command of the army?’ asked Davout.

‘The King of Naples.’ Napoleon nodded at Murat.

‘Me?’ Murat looked surprised, and then could not help smiling that he had been singled out from the other marshals, even if the command was little more than an empty title.

Davout puffed his cheeks. ‘Might I ask your majesty why Murat is chosen for this honour? I would imagine he has enough responsibility already, co-ordinating the army’s cavalry.’

‘What’s left of it!’ Ney barked, then poured himself another glass of brandy. ‘Shouldn’t tax his mind too much, eh?’

Murat scowled at him as Napoleon explained.

‘As King of Naples, Murat is the ranking officer. My decision has been made, Davout. You and the others will accept it.’

‘As your majesty commands.’ Davout bowed his head.

‘That’s right.’ Napoleon looked round the room. ‘Gentlemen, it is vital that you do not breathe a word of this to anyone outside this room. The army’s morale is already as low as it can be. It would be dangerous to let them know that I have left. As far as the men are concerned I have fallen ill, nothing too serious, and am confined to my campaign wagon. The truth can be told only once the army has reached Vilna. By then it should make little difference. The Russians are having to endure the same hard conditions and I doubt they will be in any shape to attempt to bring us to battle. The only danger will come from the Cossacks. But if the men are fed and armed and stick together they will come to no harm. Those are your orders.’

He paused. ‘Now the hour is late and I must prepare to leave. There is no time for any questions. It only remains to say that it has been an honour to be your commander, gentlemen. There is no finer body of officers in the world. I am sure of it. When the history of this campaign is written, you can be sure that your heroic deeds will be remembered long after the last of us is dead.’ He stood up and raised his glass to them. ‘My friends, I salute you. When I next see you, I hope it is somewhere warmer.’

The marshals rose from their chairs, and one after the other they came forward to grasp the Emperor’s hand. Ney was last.

‘I wish you a safe journey, sire.’

‘And I wish you would take greater care of your life, Ney. On the battlefield you are my right hand. I have already lost too many friends. Don’t give me further cause to grieve.’

‘I will do my best to survive. I always have, sire.’

Napoleon could not help smiling. ‘If only all the politicians in Paris shared your capacity for dishonesty, my dear Michel.’

Ney frowned until he got the point and then smiled back.‘Sort them out, sire. Then come back to the army. It’s where you really belong.’ He released the Emperor’s hand, strode over to the side table to collect his coat and left without looking back.

The sledge was waiting at the edge of the village, in a private yard guarded by the ten-man escort. Napoleon left headquarters before dawn, dressed in a plain coat and wearing a thick woollen cap in place of his familiar bicorne. A scarf was tied round his face to conceal his features and he carried a large satchel as he followed General Caulaincourt through the dark streets, crunching across the snow. Napoleon had decided it was best if he travelled in disguise, posing as Caulaincourt’s secretary. That way they would be able to pass through French units without arousing any undue attention. More important, if they passed by any allied troops of dubious loyalty they would not be tempted to take Napoleon prisoner and offer him to the Russians in exchange for some reward.

Capture by the enemy was a possibility, if the Cossacks were bold enough to take on the escort. In that event, Napoleon had resolved to kill himself. A phial of poison hung from a chain round his neck, and it would be the work of a moment to snap the top and pour the contents down his throat. The imperial surgeon had assured him his death would be certain, and swift.

Caulaincourt approached the sledge, a small cabin with glass windows perched on a heavy set of iron-rimmed runners. There was a small bench for the driver and six horses were harnessed to the pinion just below the front of the vehicle. At the sight of Caulaincourt the driver hurried to the door and opened it with a neat bow. Napoleon managed to stop himself from getting in first and waited deferentially as the general climbed in before him. The driver shut the door behind them and Napoleon found himself squeezed in beside Caulaincourt on an upholstered leather seat. There was a narrow-lipped shelf opposite and Napoleon placed his satchel on it. Caulaincourt pulled a thick bearskin from under the shelf and placed it over their legs, drawing the edge up to their chests.

‘We won’t be able to move much and we need to stay warm. One of the officers at headquarters told me it had dropped to twenty degrees below zero last night.’

Napoleon nodded, huddling down under the covering, trying hard to draw himself to the kernel of warmth that still remained in his torso.

Outside there was a sharp cry and a crack of a whip and the sledge lurched forward. Once it was in motion the ride was surprisingly smooth, and apart from a faint hiss from the runners the only noise was the soft beat of the horses’ hooves on the fresh snow. The dawn was cold and the snow had a blue tinge. Already the leading elements of the army had set out. The lieutenant commanding the escort called out for those ahead to clear the way. Looking out of the window Napoleon could see the men lining the road, ice crusted on the scarves wrapped over their faces, as little plumes of exhaled breath swirled around their heads. Within the hour they had passed through the vanguard and the way ahead was clear. The sledge slowed as the horses struggled up a small rise and Napoleon leaned towards the window and opened it to look back down the road. A blast of freezing air knifed through his headgear and he narrowed his eyes.

Some distance behind the sledge was the head of the column, and beyond that a thin trail of figures which wound its way back to the east. The soldiers shuffled along in a motley collection of small bands, interspersed with handfuls of men and even the odd isolated figure. Napoleon shut the window and settled back down on to his bench, glad at last to be quitting Russia, the graveyard of the Grand Army.

Chapter 38

Arthur

Ciudad Rodrigo, April 1813

It was a fine spring day and the trees in the garden courtyard of the town’s monastery were covered in new leaves. Though the air was cool, it was dry and refreshing and Arthur breathed it in deeply before turning away from the window to begin briefing his generals. He felt vitalised as never before since he had arrived in the Peninsula. He knew it was true of his men as well. Once in winter quarters they had begun to recover from the retreat that concluded the previous year’s campaign. Their morale was further enhanced by the issue of brand new tents throughout the army, as well as a surfeit of food, wine and tobacco. More reinforcements had arrived to swell the ranks and every ranker and officer was fortified by the news of Bonaparte’s crushing defeat in Russia.

‘Gentlemen.’ Arthur smiled as he looked round the table at his senior commanders. ‘There has never been a more propitious time to take the war to the French. The balance of power in Europe has shifted decisively in our favour. Our ally, Russia, has now been joined by Sweden and Prussia in the crusade against the Corsican Tyrant. I suspect that Bonaparte’s relations with his Austrian father-in-law may soon take a turn for the worse.’

The officers laughed and Arthur indulged their good spirits for a moment before he raised a hand to quieten them. ‘With Bonaparte scraping together every man that can hold a musket so that he can take the field in northern Europe, our role in the Peninsula has assumed a new significance. My agents report that over twenty thousand of the enemy’s best soldiers have been withdrawn from Spain to fill out the ranks of the Emperor’s northern army. In addition, Marshal Soult has been recalled to Paris. By these measures, Bonaparte has made our task easier. At the same time, the French have been forced to abandon southern Spain, and their remit, such as it is, only runs through the eastern and northern provinces. Even then, tens of thousands of French soldiers are tied down suppressing local insurrections and chasing bands of resistance fighters. Over the winter we have been reinforced to over eighty thousand men, and our Spanish allies have promised twenty thousand more to swell our ranks.’

‘Would that I live to see the day when the blackguards march with us,’ Picton cut in with a surly expression. A number of officers grumbled in agreement.

‘Then I am delighted that your wish should be granted with such celerity,’ Arthur replied.‘Two Spanish divisions will be joining our army within the next few days.’

‘I’ll believe it when I see it,’ said Picton. ‘Bloody people have been more of a hindrance than a help ever since we fetched up on these shores.’

Arthur turned to Somerset and nodded towards the large easel standing to the side of the table. It was covered with a loose sheet, and Somerset carefully removed it to reveal a map pinned to a board. The map indicated the territory of northern Portugal and Spain, stretching from the Atlantic to the Pyrenees. Two red labels marked the positions of the allied armies that had been forming up in readiness for the coming campaign. One was based at Ciudad Rodrigo, poised to advance along the road to Salamanca, as had happened the previous year. The other was just south of the Douro, in the north-eastern corner of Portugal.

Arthur strode over to the side of the map and could not help smiling at his officers. ‘I know that some of you are perplexed by the division of the army at the start of the coming campaign. You may be glad to know there is method in my apparent madness. The Russian campaign has changed everything. Before news of the scale of Boney’s defeat reached me it had been my intention to advance towards Madrid once again. But now I believe it is within our power to put an end to French control of the Peninsula before the end of this year.’

The officers around the table exchanged surprised looks. General Beresford was the first to respond.

‘Sir, while I am sure we all share the ambition, surely it is too early for such a result? The enemy has two hundred thousand soldiers in Spain. More than twice our number.’

‘No more than half of which are available to concentrate against us,’ Arthur countered. ‘The key to the coming campaign will be to advance swiftly, before they can mass enough men in one place to outnumber us. Moreover, we will not strike where Joseph and his senior commander, Marshal Jourdan, expect us to.’ Arthur turned back to the map. ‘First we must throw them off the scent. To which end, General Hill, with a third of the army, will advance from Ciudad Rodrigo towards Salamanca. I will accompany the army to ensure that the French think that we are attempting to retake Madrid. Meanwhile, General Graham will be leading the main force through the mountains in the north-east of Portugal and fetching up on the north bank of the Douro as he enters Spain.’

Beresford frowned slightly as he concentrated on the map. ‘But, sir, that means taking the main force through the Tras Os Montes. I know the area, and the roads through the mountains are treacherous. I would even go so far as to say they are impassable.’

‘I am sure that the French share your opinion,’Arthur smiled.‘Which is why General Graham will use the mountain roads to appear where the enemy least expect us. As it happens, our engineers have been at work over the winter removing the worst of the obstacles on the route. It will be hard going but there will be no opposition and we will have turned the enemy’s flank. As soon as Graham has cleared the mountains he will march along the Douro to Toro where General Hill’s column will join him, after leaving a small garrison at Salamanca. By the start of June we will have eighty thousand men ready to take Burgos and clear the north of Spain. In the meantime, Joseph will not know which way to turn. If all goes well we can shatter his formations before they have a chance to concentrate. Any questions?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Picton grumbled. ‘This is all very well, but what if Joseph takes advantage of our position north of the Douro to strike west and cut our communications with Portugal? We have to protect our supply lines to Lisbon.’

‘Not for much longer.’ Arthur indicated the northern coast of Spain. ‘I have given orders for our siege guns to be loaded on to a convoy that is already anchored off Coruсa. Our new supply base will be Santander once we have taken the port.’

His generals grasped the significance at once, Arthur was pleased to see. He continued, ‘With Santander in our hands we will dominate the north of Spain, cutting Joseph off from France. In that case, what choice does he have but to fight us? The alternative is to retreat from Spain altogether, which will not endear him to his brother.’

Beresford nodded approvingly. ‘A fine plan, sir. Why, we could hold the line of the Ebro before the year is out.’

‘The Ebro be damned! I fully intend us to reach the Pyrenees by then.’

‘And after that?’ Picton intervened. ‘What? You intend to invade France?’

Arthur was aware that every general was hanging on his reply, but he simply pursed his lips. ‘One thing at a time, eh, Picton? Even though I know you are in a hurry to reach Paris.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Well then, gentlemen, that is the broad plan. You will keep it strictly to yourselves. I will not tolerate any croaking to your friends and family back in England. We’ve had enough of that in the past, and it is my belief that by the time this year is over, the army will be the toast of our country, and any naysayers will look like complete fools. Now then, Somerset has your sealed orders. Take them back to your headquarters and prepare to march.’

The generals rose from their chairs and slowly filed out of the room, exchanging excited remarks as they collected their orders from the table by the door. Arthur watched them closely. Only Picton seemed to be unaffected by the high spirits, but then Picton was disposed towards seeing the worst in plans and men alike. But for his fighting qualities Arthur might have been tempted to dispense with his services long ago. Somerset closed the door behind them and returned to examine the map in silence for a moment.

‘Penny for your thoughts, Somerset.’

Somerset turned towards him. ‘It occurs to me that you might be thinking of ending the year’s campaign on the far side of the Pyrenees, rather than the Spanish side, sir.’

‘Really?’ Arthur raised an eyebrow. ‘And why is that?’

‘If Joseph is forced to fight you in northern Spain and we defeat him, then the game is up for the French south of the Pyrenees. That’s clear enough. But if we cross into France, in such force that we can remain on French soil through the winter, then it would be a devastating blow to French morale.’

‘Yes. I expect it would.’

Somerset thought for a moment. ‘Why did you not tell the others, my lord? It might have added to their inspiration.’

‘I should have thought you would know my methods well enough to guess by now. You saw how they reacted to the prospect of reaching the Pyrenees. Some of them are certain that I am over-extending the army. Like the French, they assume I am wedded to waging war in a defensive manner. The time for that is past. This year we are strong enough to send the French reeling. The men have never been in better condition and in better spirits, in contrast to the enemy. Beresford would have us stop on the bank of the Ebro. By offering the Pyrenees instead, I have set them a challenge, but one that they can believe in. If I said France, then I would have planted the seeds of trepidation in their hearts. Besides, my generals are not my only audience in this little drama of ours.’

‘Sir?’

‘Our political masters in London would think me mad to advance so far. So I have told them even less than the generals know. It is always better to give people a lesser ambition to aim for, so that their sense of achievement is all the greater when they exceed it. If we reach France, then I am sure you can imagine how grateful our country will be to us, Somerset.’

‘Indeed, sir. You are certain to be rewarded handsomely.’

Arthur looked hard at him. ‘Is that what you think motivates me?’

‘I did not say that, my lord.’

‘You did not say it.’ Arthur laughed drily.‘Oh, I have had my rewards. I was made a lord after Talavera, then an earl, and a marquess for Salamanca and now the Order of the Garter. Our Spanish and Portuguese allies have conferred dukedoms on me, and so our soldiers call me, though with some measure of jest. I dare say that in time I may even become a duke of England. But these are all baubles, Somerset. Baubles. What drives me is not a title, nor some ribbon, nor a bejewelled star, but the prospect of a Europe free from French tyranny. That is a cause worth fighting for, and dying for if need be. Do I make myself quite clear?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Arthur stared at him for a moment and then clapped his hands together. ‘That’s that, then. Are there any other matters requiring my attention?’

Somerset could not help smiling. ‘Just one thing, my lord. It arrived from London today. I shall fetch it.’ He hurried out of the room to his desk in the anteroom. A moment later he reappeared with a velvet case the size of a large book. He set it down on the table, together with a small note addressed to Arthur in the unmistakable spidery writing of his wife Kitty. He broke the seal and opened the letter and read the brief message.

My dearest Arthur,

I know how you dislike my intruding upon you when your mind is set on military affairs and the duty you owe to your country. It is some months since I last received a letter from you, and it seems I learn more about you from the newspapers and the gossip of the wives of your officers than I do from your hand directly. My Arthur, I know that I am not the wife you deserve. I know it more and more with the passage of each year. Yet I love you, and our children love you, and long for you to return to us. I know that you cannot before the war is over, and while we wait please know that we take the most intense pride in what you have achieved for our nation. In token of which, I forward the enclosed, sent to us from Windsor, and trust that it will remind you of the affection in which you are held by so many. Your loving wife, Kitty.

Arthur refolded the letter and returned it to the table. He knew that he should feel guilty, but that sentiment refused to stir in his breast. Just a deadening certainty that Kitty spoke the truth, and that he would never be able to care for her in the way that she wanted.

For an instant, he wondered what would become of them when the war did end. Assuming he survived, then what would he do? For twenty years he had known little but war. He had refined his martial abilities to a fine edge and was proud of himself, his officers and his men. What did the prospect of peace offer to such a man as himself? A return to the ennui of life out of uniform, and Kitty . . .

‘Aren’t you going to open it, my lord?’ Somerset broke into his thoughts.

‘What?’

‘The case, sir.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Arthur drew it closer, fiddled with the dainty catch and then raised the lid. Inside, cushioned on and pinned to white silk, were the insignia of the Order of the Garter, the most noble order of knighthood that England had to offer. Arthur could not help but be moved by the honour that had been bestowed on him. He swallowed, then touched the gleaming stones of the star.

‘It is a fine thing, is it not?’ he mused.

‘Not just another bauble then, my lord?’

Arthur’s eyes narrowed. ‘If you do not wipe that foolish expression off your face you may find that I am obliged to bestow a very different kind of Order upon you.’ He reached down and slapped the side of his boot.

His aide fought manfully to suppress his humour.

‘That’s better.’ Arthur stood up. ‘Then, if you’re quite ready, I think it is time for us to join General Hill.’

Chapter 39

Towards the end of May Ciudad Rodrigo was turned over to a Spanish garrison and the southern wing of the allied army set out for Salamanca. Given the rough terrain that General Graham would be crossing to reach the north bank of the Douro, most of the army’s guns, and the cavalry, marched with Arthur. In order to conceal his true numbers from the enemy Arthur sent over four thousand horsemen ahead of the main column, screening it from enemy scouts and at the same time impressing the French with the size of the effort being made to take Salamanca.

The French abandoned Salamanca to Wellington at the end of the month and the inhabitants of the city gave a guarded welcome to the allied army. Three days later that army abruptly left the city, marching swiftly north towards the Douro where they crossed near Toro and combined with General Graham’s column. Having gathered his reserves in Madrid to meet the threat from the direction of Salamanca, Joseph had too few men north of the Douro to do anything but retreat in the face of the powerful allied army. Arthur drove his men on along the bank of the Douro as far as Valladolid and then turned north again, parallel to the great Royal Road that linked Madrid with France.

The first evening the army camped in the hills. Arthur was hunched over a map in his tent when Somerset entered in the company of a naval officer. Outside, the army was setting up camp in the cool evening air. Row upon row of the new white tents were being erected on the more level stretches of the surrounding slopes. An exhausting day’s march had left the men quieter than usual and many had not bothered to light a fire, eating their rations cold before sorting out some bracken to lie on and promptly falling asleep.

Arthur was in a fine mood and he grinned as he looked up at his aide. ‘Twenty-one miles today, Somerset! Fine progress, eh? We’re advancing faster than the French can retreat.’

‘Fine progress indeed, my lord. But progress towards what, exactly?’

‘All in due course. Who is that with you?’

Somerset stood aside and ushered the officer into the tent. ‘Lieutenant Carstairs, of His Majesty’s Ship Apollo. He landed on the north coast and was escorted here by a band of partisans.’

Carstairs stepped towards Arthur’s table and swept off his hat. ‘I’ve been sent by my captain to find you, my lord. He commands the frigate squadron escorting the supply convoy from Southampton. We had orders to land your supplies in Oporto but found that you had left instructions to land them at Santander instead, and if the port was still in enemy hands we were to make contact with you for fresh orders. So, here I am.’

‘Good work, Carstairs. I like an officer who takes the initiative. How was your journey?’

‘Surprisingly easy, my lord. I have not seen a single French patrol between the coast and your camp.’

‘I’m not surprised. Joseph Bonaparte is pulling every spare man back to the Ebro. The French are in a complete flap.’ Arthur laughed, the customary whooping bark that Somerset had grown used to, but the naval officer looked at him in some alarm.

‘Now then,’ Arthur continued. ‘As to the matter of my supplies, I want your captain to have the convoy heave to off Santander until such time as we have taken the port. I take it that will not cause the Navy any difficulty.’

‘No, my lord. The escort squadron is provisioned for another two months. I am uncertain as to the arrangements of the merchant vessels, but we can feed their crews from our stores if need be.’

‘Good. I would be obliged if you would ask your captain to advise the admiralty that all supplies and reinforcements are to be sent to Santander from now on.’

Carstairs looked surprised. ‘Do you mean every convoy, my lord?’

‘I do. We are cutting our communications with Portugal once and for all. Henceforth we shall be supplied from the north coast of Spain.’

‘Forgive me, my lord, but from what I understand the admiralty has not been informed of such rerouting of the convoys.’

‘They are not the only ones,’ Arthur replied wryly. ‘Be that as it may, my new instructions stand, and need to be passed back up the Navy’s chain of command. See that your captain is informed as soon as possible, Carstairs.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Now then, I expect you would appreciate something to eat, and a bed for the night. Somerset, have one of the clerks take the lieutenant to the staff officers’ mess.’

‘Yes, my lord.’ Somerset bowed his head and held the flap open for Carstairs. He returned a moment later and stood awkwardly by the entrance to the tent until Arthur looked up.

‘Is there anything else?’

‘Yes, my lord, since you ask. I am concerned by the supply situation. The men have rations for two days and we are already three days ahead of our supply convoys. They in turn are more than a hundred miles from our forward depot at Salamanca. We are already operating at the limit of our lines of supply.’

Arthur leaned back in his chair. ‘You heard what I said to that naval officer. You are privy to my strategic intentions, Somerset. Therefore you know that we are shifting our lines of communication to Santander, and, in due course, San Sebastian. There is nothing for you to be concerned about.’

‘Except that we have possession of neither of those ports, my lord.’

‘Not yet. We shall just have to take them.’

‘But we have no guarantee that we can take them,’ Somerset replied. ‘What if we fail to capture them, as we failed at Burgos, my lord?’

‘We - I - failed at Burgos for want of adequate siege artillery. As you know, our siege train is aboard a convoy anchored off Coruсa. When the time comes, we will have the firepower necessary to reduce both ports, and then we shall have a direct supply route to England. Does that satisfy you, Somerset?’

‘Yes, my lord,’ Somerset replied reluctantly. He saluted formally and left the tent.

Arthur sighed and ran a hand through his cropped hair before turning his attention back to the map.

The army was less than a day’s march from Burgos and another two to the Ebro. The latest reports from the cavalry patrols revealed that the French were looking to defend the line of the Ebro. The enemy’s chief difficulty was that they could not be sure where the allied army was. All that was before them was Arthur’s cavalry screen and a division of Spanish troops. If the deception played out as Arthur hoped, then his army would be across the Ebro and threatening to cut Joseph and his army off from France before the French could react. The only course of action open to them would be to turn and fight. The decisive moment of the campaign would be attained, and all within a month of its beginning.

Despite his dismissal of Somerset’s concerns, Arthur accepted that there were risks. He had marched the men hard, and they were weary and might yet go hungry for a short time, but what Somerset seemed to have missed was the desire to close with and destroy the French that simmered in their breasts. They had resented the loss of the second chance to fight the enemy at Salamanca, and now were set on crushing them.

During the night, the army was woken by the sound of a great explosion rumbling across the landscape. Shortly afterwards there was a red glow in the sky to the east that shimmered against the scattered clouds drifting across the starry heavens. Arthur watched from outside his tent, barefoot and dressed in breeches and a loose shirt. The glow continued for two hours before it began to fade, lost against the first hues of the dawn. Arthur returned to his tent to get fully dressed and was just emerging when Somerset reported to him.

‘It was Burgos, my lord. One of the cavalry vedettes was close enough to see the explosion.’

‘Explosion?’

‘Yes, sir. The French set charges and blew the castle to pieces. They managed to burn down a sizeable portion of the town while they were at it.’

‘Well, bless my soul,’ Arthur muttered in surprise. The French were clearly panicking more than he had thought. That in turn introduced a new anxiety. What if the enemy’s experience of the previous years had so cowed their spirit that they dared not stand and fight? If that was the case then Arthur’s plan had to be adapted so that when the chance of battle came there would be no avenue of escape for the French. Joseph and his army would have to be caught in such a way that they would be forced to surrender, or be annihilated.

The leading division of the allied army quit the barren hills two days later and entered the Ebro valley. The change in the landscape was striking and for the soldiers, so used to tramping across the dusty, dry plains and hills of central Spain, the lush valley watered by the river was a vision of abundance. The roads along which the army marched were lined with fruit trees and vineyards and the soldiers, when their officers were not looking, filled their haversacks with cherries, oranges and apples to supplement their dwindling rations. They continued a short distance to the east before turning south towards the crossroads at San Millan.

Late in the afternoon an excited young lieutenant from the Ninety-fifth Rifles galloped up to Arthur with a message from General Alten. ‘My lord! We’ve sighted the enemy!’

‘Lieutenant, that will not do,’ Arthur admonished him. ‘Start again and deliver the message properly.’

The ensign nodded, and forced himself to speak in a calmer manner. ‘I apologise, my lord. General Alten begs to inform you that his skirmishers have seen a French division marching along a road a mile to the south of the road the general is advancing along. The two roads intersect a short distance ahead. He asks your permission to attack the enemy column, my lord.’

Arthur’s eyes glinted with excitement. ‘Ah! This I must see for myself. Take me to Alten at once.’

The two horsemen spurred their mounts along the side of the artillery train that was rumbling along the rutted track. Beyond the guns they passed the infantry of the Third Division, where heads turned at the sound of approaching hoofbeats.

‘It’s Nosey!’ a voice cried out.

‘What’s ’is bloody hurry?’ another shouted. ‘Ain’t we marchin’ as fast as we bleedin’ can already?’

The nearest men roared with laughter and Arthur stifled a grin as he leaned forward and urged his mount on. Once they had passed the Third Division, they came up to the rearmost battalion of the Light Division marching down a straight section of road. To their right was a steep line of hills that gradually fell away. Nearly two miles ahead Arthur could see a small village basking in the afternoon sunshine. A faint haze of dust showed on the far side of the village as an enemy column marched east. At first Arthur thought that the French division had escaped, but then the ensign thrust his arm out and pointed up the hill. On the crest stood a small group of officers staring down the far slope.

‘That’s General Alten, my lord.’The ensign led the way as they passed between two infantry companies and began to climb the slope. By the time they reached Alten the horses were blown, and Arthur swung himself down from the saddle, heart pounding.

‘Where is this enemy division of yours, Alten?’

‘Over there, sir.’ Alten gestured down the slope. Below, another road converged on the village. A long line of French soldiers and wagons was marching along at a quick pace. Hurrying down towards them were the green-jacketed men of the Ninety-fifth.

‘What is your plan?’ asked Arthur.

‘The Ninety-fifth will open fire on them as soon as they are within range. The Fifty-second are double-timing down our side of the hill to get ahead of the last brigade and form a firing line. My Portuguese lads are marching to the right before dropping down the slope to the road to cut off their retreat. It’s too late to catch the first two brigades,’ he nodded towards the haze of a distant column beyond the village, ‘but this one is in the bag.’

‘Very good.’ Arthur nodded approvingly.

Just then, the first of the riflemen opened fire on the French column, and the crackle of rifles spread along the slope. Several of the enemy were quickly struck down, and the others began to break ranks to look for cover. Their officers struggled to rally them and re-form their ranks ready to return fire at the Ninety-fifth. Just as they had been trained to, the riflemen targeted the officers and one by one they were cut down as they gave their orders. The survivors ordered their troops to fire a volley where they they could see the puffs of smoke, but the riflemen had plenty of time to take cover and the storm of musket balls tore up the stunted bushes and glanced off rocks and not one of the greenjackets was hit. As soon as the French lowered their muskets and began to reload they were steadily whittled down, falling in twos and threes, until, unable to bear the massacre any longer, the survivors broke and ran, streaming along the road towards the village. The riflemen continued to fire on the fugitives as quickly as they could reload and take aim, and soon the road was littered with dead and wounded men and a number of horses, shot in their traces, forcing the drivers to abandon their wagons.

‘Glorious work!’ Alten rubbed his hands together in glee. ‘And now for the coup de grвce. Look there, sir!’

Ahead of the fugitives the men of the Fifty-second were crossing the road. They halted, and turned smartly towards the French. Up went the muskets and then a wall of darting flames and plumes of smoke briefly hid the redcoats. The volley cut down scores of the enemy, and the rest turned back, running into their companions and causing further chaos. Another volley crashed out, and the riflemen kept up their firing from the slope. Hundreds of bodies carpeted the road now, and blocked from two sides the French tried to flee back the way they had come, only to find a line of Portuguese troops filing down from the hill to close the trap.

Some of the French threw down their muskets and raised their arms in surrender, but others, with more heart, or fearing capture, turned and ran in the only open direction, clambering up the slope of the next ridge. The riflemen ceased fire and hurried down the slope and across the road, ignoring those who were surrendering, and then knelt at the bottom of the next ridge and started shooting down the Frenchmen toiling up the slope above them.

Within the space of ten minutes the brigade had been destroyed, suffering hundreds of dead and wounded, and leaving over four hundred prisoners. It had been a massacre, Arthur decided, but all the same he took pride in the effective performance of Alten’s men.

‘A finely executed ambush, General Alten. Ensure that you pass my congratulations on to your men.’

‘Yes, sir. I will.’

‘Make sure that your fellows escort the prisoners to the rear as swiftly as possible and resume the advance.’

Alten nodded and was turning to give orders to his staff officers when a major of the Ninety-fifth came panting up the slope clutching a leather satchel. Unusually for an officer, the major carried a rifle like his men, and he nodded a salute as he handed the satchel to Alten.

‘Here, sir. We found this on the body of a French colonel.’

‘What is it, Richard?’ Alten asked.

‘Orders, sir. From the divisional commander. I thought you’d want ’em as soon as possible.’

The major nodded and turned away to trot back down the slope to re-join his men. Alten drew the slim sheaf of papers from the satchel and scanned the contents. At once his eyes widened and he turned to Arthur.

‘Orders from Joseph’s headquarters, sir! Dated yesterday. He’s called every available unit to fall back to a new position.’

‘Where?’ asked Arthur, his heart quickening.

‘A town on the Royal Road not far ahead, my lord. A place called Vitoria.’

Chapter 40

21 June 1813

The clouds had lifted and the sky was clear, and the air barely stirred in the morning sunshine. There was a clear view of the valley through which the Zadorra river meandered eastwards towards Vitoria. The day before, Arthur had ridden round the hills to the north of the valley to survey the French positions and make his plans, and he was relieved to see that the French army was still camped in three lines between the river and the Heights of Puebla to the south. The enemy pickets had raised the alarm at dawn when they had seen the first of Arthur’s men marching through the gorge into the valley, and now the French stood waiting. The dark lines of infantry and cavalry all faced to the west to meet the approaching threat.

Arthur smiled with grim satisfaction as he surveyed the enemy’s dispositions from the hillside above the village of Nanclares. Marshal Jourdan had played into his hands. The French assumed that they would be facing a frontal attack and that the river and the Heights would provide adequate protection on each flank. As before, they had failed to account for the audacity of the allied army. Arthur’s plan was simple enough, he reflected, as he trained his telescope across the valley. He had divided his army into four columns. General Hill’s corps of English, Spanish and Portuguese troops would begin the battle by assaulting the Heights of Puebla, working their way along the ridge to threaten the left flank of the French battle lines. The main body of the army would be directly under Arthur’s control and they would be tasked with making a frontal assault across the river. Two more divisions, under General Dalhousie, had set off before dawn to make their way round the hills to the north of the valley and then attack the enemy’s right flank. The fourth column, commanded by General Graham, had the furthest to march, passing through the same hills but striking further round to cut off the French from any attempt to escape towards the frontier. A smaller Spanish column was tasked with blocking the final remaining route out of the valley. If all went according to plan the French would be trapped and forced to surrender, or be cut to pieces.

No plan was without its danger, Arthur knew, and this one depended on each column making its attack at the same time so that the French were disrupted by having to meet each threat. If the attacks were delivered piecemeal then Marshal Jourdan would be able to defeat each one in turn. If that happened then the allies would be forced to retreat, and Arthur had little doubt that he would be dismissed from his command by the politicians back in London.

He took a last look through his telescope towards Vitoria. The town was surrounded by thousands of wagons and carriages. His spies reported that many of the wagons were packed with valuables from the royal palace in Madrid: paintings, tapestries, gold, silver and jewellery. More important, a bullion convoy had recently joined the baggage train gathering at Vitoria. The allied army needed the gold to pay for supplies and it was Arthur’s intention to capture the baggage train intact, before it could escape, or be ransacked by his victorious army.

‘It’s eight o’clock, my lord,’ Somerset announced, breaking into Arthur’s thoughts.

‘Yes.’ Arthur nodded. ‘Then be so good as to have the signal gun fired.’

Somerset saluted and then raised his hat and waved it slowly from side to side. Further down the slope a single gun stood ready. As soon as the officer saw Somerset’s gesture he cupped a hand to his mouth and ordered his gun to fire. Flame and smoke spat from its muzzle and a loud boom echoed around the valley.

That was it then, Arthur mused silently. He was committed now. All four columns would have heard the gun and begun to carry out their orders. Already he could see the leading elements of Hill’s column climbing the western slope of the Heights of Puebla, towards the detachment of enemy soldiers on the crest. Within the half-hour the French had realised the danger to their flank and two battalions set off to climb the Heights and block Hill’s progress along the ridge.

The faint crackle of musketry carried to Arthur’s ears as he watched the brief skirmish between the Spaniards leading the attack and the French detachment. Then the tiny figures of the enemy soldiers broke away and began to retreat to the east.

‘First blood to us, my lord,’ Somerset remarked. ‘Though I think General Morillo’s men will find the next French position somewhat harder to carry.’

Arthur nodded as he looked at the enemy soldiers formed up across the ridge. Already, two more battalions from the second line had started to climb the slope to form another line to block the advance of Hill’s column. ‘That may be so, but Marshal Jourdan is doing as I hoped he would. Let him become preoccupied with his left flank and he will be undone in due course. Send word to Hill to extend his attack along the lower slopes. The more we can do to draw the enemy’s attention towards Hill’s column, the better.’

As the morning wore on the fighting along the Heights intensified as the men on both sides fought it out across the slopes, which were strewn with boulders and stunted bushes. The French steadily fed more men into the fight, weakening the centres of the first two battle lines. At eleven o’clock, Arthur saw the third line of the French army redeploying to face the north as it began to cross the river.

‘See there?’ Arthur raised his arm and pointed the movement out to Somerset. ‘The French must have spotted Graham’s fellows.’

Somerset tilted his head slightly and strained his ears for a moment. ‘I cannot hear any sounds of firing to the east, my lord.’

‘Nor I. That is to be expected. Graham’s orders were not to begin his attack until after Dalhousie emerged from the hills.’ Arthur frowned. ‘Where the devil is Dalhousie? He and Picton should have reached the river by now.’

‘Do you wish me to try to find them, my lord?’

‘Not yet. They are sure to appear soon. Meanwhile, it is time that we attacked the front of the French line.’ Arthur gestured to the wooded slopes to his left where the Light Division was waiting for the order to advance.‘Order Alten to move forward to the river. They are to take the bridge at Villodas and begin crossing to the far bank. Cole’s division is to cross here at Nanclares.’

By the time that the orders had been given and the two divisions were advancing, the sound of cannon fire was echoing across the valley from the east. Through his telescope Arthur could see banks of powder smoke forming either side of the river as Graham’s column began to contest the crossings north of Vitoria. He swept his telescope to examine the hills to his left and muttered a curse when he could still see no sign of Dalhousie’s men. If they did not appear soon and divert the enemy’s attention then Marshal Jourdan would be able to meet the attack of the Light Division and Cole’s division with every available man and cannon.

‘Somerset, send an officer to find Dalhousie. Tell the general to cross the river and engage the enemy at once. I’m riding forward to that knoll there, by Villodas.’

Somerset stared towards the village and saw that there were still Frenchmen defending the small cluster of houses that made up the village. Pairs of riflemen were rushing from cover to cover as they closed in on the Frenchmen amid a steady, uneven crackle of gunfire. Somerset cleared his throat. ‘My lord, isn’t that a little too close to the fighting?’

‘Can’t be helped,’ Arthur replied as he grasped the reins and urged his horse forward. ‘I must have a better view of the battlefield.’

He nudged his spurs in and the horse cantered forward across the lush green grass of a meadow, where a handful of goats that had evaded the French foragers scattered at his approach. He passed between two regiments of the Light Division and the men raised a hearty cheer as he rode by. Shortly before he reached the knoll he came across General Alten and his small staff.

‘Good day, my lord.’ Alten touched the brim of his hat.

Arthur returned the greeting and indicated the top of the knoll. ‘Ride with me, Alten.’

They urged their horses up the slope and reined in at the top where they had a clear view of the village below and the old stone bridge over the Zadorra. No more than two hundred yards ahead the rifles were still duelling with the French skirmishers. At the sight of the two British officers a number of muskets were pointed in their direction and a handful of shots whipped through the air close by. Arthur felt the familiar tightening of his guts but forced himself to retain his calm facade.

‘The Light Division will cross the river and form a line to the south, linking up with Cole’s men once they have crossed at Nanclares. Then both divisions will advance on the French line.’

Alten cocked an eyebrow. ‘Two divisions against the main French battle line? As you wish, my lord.’ He scanned the dense enemy formations waiting less than a mile beyond the river. ‘A frontal attack will cost us dearly.’

‘It will, but there is no alternative. The French will have men and guns covering every available crossing point. We must cross here and prepare to attack.’

Alten puffed his cheeks and nodded. He was about to reply when the sound of hoofbeats from behind caused both men to turn. Somerset was galloping up the slope to catch up with his commander. A short distance behind him rode General Alava and another man, a Spanish peasant, on a small pony. Somerset reined in and saluted Arthur.

‘Who the devil is that?’ Arthur gestured towards the peasant as the other two riders joined them.

‘My lord, if I may?’ Alava broke in before Somerset could reply.‘This man is Jose Ortiz de Zarate. He owns a farm by the river over there, near the village of Tres Puentes.’ Alava pointed to the north where the river curled round the slopes of a small hill on the far bank.

‘Well, that’s very nice for Seсor Zarate, I am sure,’ Arthur replied tersely. ‘But what of it?’

‘He says that the bridge there is undefended. There is not a Frenchman within a mile of it.’

Arthur stared at the peasant, and then looked towards the village, which was all but obscured by the hill. There was no sign of the bridge. Arthur felt a sudden thrill of excitement as he turned back towards General Alava. ‘Ask our friend if that hill masks the bridge from where the French are positioned.’

There was a hurried exchange before Alava turned back to Arthur. ‘He says it does. Or at least he could not see the French when he stood on the far end of the bridge less than an hour ago.’

Arthur fixed Zarate with a steely glare. ‘He is sure that there are no French soldiers nearby? And that the bridge has not had charges set beneath it?’

‘He says he is certain of it, my lord.’

Arthur’s pulse quickened as he viewed the ground and the positions of both armies in his mind’s eye. Then he nodded his thanks to the Spanish farmer. ‘Tell Seсor Zarate that if he is right, then he has done his people a fine service.’

The Spaniard stiffened proudly in his saddle as the words were translated, then Arthur continued. ‘Ask him if he would be prepared to guide our men to the bridge. If he knows the lie of the land then we may need him once we gain the far bank. Tell him I will reward him greatly if we win the day.’

The farmer bowed his head graciously and then made a short speech.

‘He says that he needs no reward. It will be enough to have played his part in defeating the French. However,’Alava could not help smiling, ‘Seсor Zarate would not dream of causing any offence by turning down your offer of a reward.’

‘Hah!’ Arthur barked out a laugh. ‘Very well. Alten!’

‘Sir?’

‘I’ll take Kempt’s brigade over the river by Seсor Zarate’s bridge. If he’s right then we will appear on the enemy’s flank before the French can react. With Cole and the rest of the Light Division pressing them from the front there is every chance that we can break through the right flank. Somerset, I must know the moment we have any word of Dalhousie’s column. Meanwhile, order the cavalry forward to Tres Puentes. Let’s be about our business, gentlemen.’

While Alten’s men chased the French out of Villodas and began to cross to the far bank, Arthur and the three regiments of Kempt’s brigade hurried north, following the river as it bent round the hill. General Alava and Zarate rode with him as he galloped ahead of the infantry, sweating as they double-timed towards the bridge. As they came round the bend and saw the bridge ahead Arthur felt a surge of relief to see that there was still no sign of anyone at either end. A short distance beyond lay the village of Tres Puentes, where a handful of figures had emerged from the shelter of their homes to stare across the river at the battle being fought along the Heights to the south.

‘Come!’ Arthur waved the other two on and they galloped to the bridge, and then a short distance beyond to a small rise by the river where Arthur had a clear view of the enemy line. He reined in and Copenhagen’s flanks bellowed as the horse recovered its breath. The extreme right of the French line was less than half a mile away. Already they had been spotted by a French artillery officer, who gestured towards the three horsemen. A moment later the end gun was turned towards them. Arthur ignored the gun as he strained his eyes towards the Heights of Puebla. A pall of smoke indicated the extent to which Hill had pushed back the enemy, past the end of the enemy’s left flank. Soon they would have to divert yet more men to hold their position, or fall back. To the east, the rumble of cannon indicated that General Graham was heavily engaged with the French forces holding the line of the river to the north of Vitoria.

There was a boom from the far bank as the French gun opened fire. Then a thud as a column of earth lifted up from the river bank, twenty paces to Arthur’s right. Zarate flinched and then, seeing that Arthur and Alava seemed utterly unperturbed, he hastily straighted up and composed his expression to match theirs.

‘That’s the spirit.’ Arthur smiled at him. ‘Never show the enemy you are afraid, eh? General, ask our friend if he knows whether the other bridges along the river are in French hands.’

‘He says that the next bridge to the east is guarded by some infantry and six cannon. Beyond that bridge he does not know.’

That would be the bridge that Dalhousie’s column would be using to launch its attack on the flank and rear of the enemy line, Arthur reflected. He glanced to his left but there was still no sign of any movement immediately to the east. He was aware of a distant flash out of the corner of his eye as the French gun fired again.

‘Ask Zarate if there are any—’

Arthur was interrupted by a wet crack and a splattering sound. He turned and saw the body of the Spanish farmer in the saddle, the hands tensed like claws. His head was gone, smashed apart by the second shot from the enemy gun. General Alava had caught the worst of the spray of blood and brains, which had spattered one side of his body and face. The corpse slowly toppled to the side and thudded on to the river bank.

‘Good God,’ Arthur muttered. ‘General, are you all right?’

Alava had raised a gloved hand to wipe the gore from his face, and was staring at the vivid crimson streak on the back of his kid leather gloves. He looked round at Arthur and nodded.

‘Then we’d best not continue to make a target of ourselves. Let’s be off.’

‘What about him?’

‘What? He can be buried later. I’ll see that his family has his reward. Come.’

They rode back to the bridge, where one of the battalions of the rifle regiment had already crossed and was hurrying up the hill as the rest of the brigade doubled over to the far bank. Arthur joined Kempt on the far bank and the latter looked anxiously at General Alava.

‘Are you injured, General?’

Alava shook his head. ‘We lost our Spanish guide. He was struck by a roundshot.’

‘Poor fellow.’ Kempt pursed his lips. ‘Bad luck, eh?’

Arthur pointed to the hill. ‘Have your men form up on the crest. It is likely that the enemy will see the danger to their flank and attempt to force your brigade back over the river. You must hold your ground until our cavalry crosses.’

‘You can depend upon my lads,’ Kempt replied grimly.

‘My lord,’ General Alava interrupted, gesturing towards the bridge where the infantry were pressing to one side as a mounted officer edged through. ‘One of your staff officers.’

No more than a minute later they were joined by the officer, a young dragoon cornet whom Arthur recognised as one who had recently joined the headquarters staff.

‘Williams, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Well?’

Williams swallowed and did his best to compose himself. ‘My lord, I was sent by Somerset to find General Dalhousie.’

‘You found him then?’

‘No, my lord. I came upon General Picton instead. He was approaching the river a mile to the east of here. He asked me if you had orders for him. I told him that my orders were for General Dalhousie, to tell him to cross the river and make his attack, and that Picton’s division was to support him.’ The cornet paused nervously. ‘Well, my lord, General Picton flew into something of a rage. He said that General Dalhousie had lost his way in the hills and would be delayed by as much as another hour before he could reach the river. He also said that he would be damned if the Third Division was going to support anyone. Then he gave me a message to deliver to you, my lord.’

‘Did he, by God?’ Arthur felt the familiar irritation that Picton so frequently roused in him. ‘Then tell me. His precise words.’

The young officer swallowed and did his best to recall. ‘Tell Lord Wellington that the Third Division, under my command, shall in less than ten minutes attack the bridge and carry it, and the other divisions may support me if they choose . . . That was it, sir. Then he sent me on my way and turned to order his men to advance.’ Cornet Williams paused. ‘I didn’t know what to do, my lord. I had orders to find Dalhousie, but General Picton had given me fresh orders, and I thought it best to find you directly rather than continue to search for General Dalhousie.’

Arthur nodded. ‘You did the right thing, Williams. Now report to Somerset and then go back to seek out Dalhousie.’

‘Yes, my lord,’ the cornet responded with evident relief, then turned his horse away and trotted back towards the bridge.

‘Picton . . .’ Arthur muttered the name through clenched teeth, furious at the man’s petulant belligerence. That was the very reason why he had given command of the third column to Dalhousie, but with the latter not yet on the scene it would be best to let Picton lead the attack on the enemy flank before it could be reinforced enough to prevent any more British troops from crossing the Zadorra from the north of the battlefield. A burst of small-arms fire sounded from the east and Arthur pushed aside his ill humour and spurred his horse up the hill to the crest to get a better view. Kempt and Alava followed him, joined shortly after by Somerset who had given the orders for the main attack and now returned to his commander.

From the elevated position Arthur could see most of the valley. Further along the river he picked out the leading formations of Picton’s division as they closed round the end of the bridge and engaged the small force posted to guard it. The fresh attack from a new direction had not gone unnoticed by Marshal Jourdan and already the right of the French line was falling back so as not to present its flank to Picton’s men, while a body of cavalry and a battery of horse guns galloped to support the men defending the bridge.

‘Picton is going to be given a good pounding when he tries to cross the bridge,’ said Arthur, ‘unless he is supported. General Kempt, you must take your men forward and cover Picton’s flank as he forces his way across the bridge. Have your riflemen do what they can to harass the enemy cavalry and those guns.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Kempt nodded. ‘But what of this hill? Are we to abandon it?’

‘It has served its purpose,’ Arthur replied. ‘It hid your brigade from view while you crossed the river. Now, get your men forward.’

Kempt bellowed his orders across the crest of the hill and the three regiments began to descend the far side and marched east, screened by two companies of riflemen. Arthur hurriedly assessed the positions of his forces to the south of the hill. Away in the distance the column on the Heights of Puebla was still grinding its way along the ridge, pushing past the left flank of the French line in the valley below. Closer to, from the crossing at Nanclares to the Villodas bridge, the men of Cole’s division and the bulk of Alten’s command had crossed the river and were forming a battle line across the gently rolling landscape between the Heights and the river. The allied army had won the advantage. Now it was time to press forward and deliver the decisive blow.

Kempt’s riflemen hurried forward and taking shelter in folds in the ground they opened fire on the battery of horse guns that were, in turn, firing grapeshot at any of Picton’s men who attempted to get across the bridge. From his vantage position Arthur could see that scores of men had already fallen along the approaches to the bridge. Now the tables were turned as the green-jacketed riflemen steadily shot down the French gunners. Behind the riflemen, the rest of Kempt’s brigade stood in manoeuvre columns waiting for the command to advance, or form square if the enemy cavalry showed any sign of moving in their direction. With over twenty men and several horses down, the officer in charge of the French horse battery gave the order to fall back and his crews hurriedly limbered their guns and began to rumble back towards the main French line.

Once the guns had ceased firing, Picton’s leading regiment hurried across the river and formed a line on the far bank. Arthur saw a shimmering ripple of steel as they fixed bayonets and then advanced towards the cavalry still barring their way. The line halted and a volley crashed out, knocking down several French hussars and many more of their horses. A second volley added to the enemy’s losses and then the red line rippled forward, passing through the bank of powder smoke and charging home. Arthur felt a moment of anxiety at the rashness of the charge, but Picton had judged it well, and before the French could react the infantry were in amongst them, stabbing with their bayonets. In less than a minute the fight was over, and the French light cavalry were fleeing east, to the safety of the new line forming across the undulating ground just beyond the twin hillocks where the village of Arinez nestled.

As Picton pushed his men forward, driving back the remaining French soldiers either side of the hillocks, the first of General Dalhousie’s men began to cross the river and follow up Picton’s attack. Arthur beckoned Somerset to his side and pointed out the new line the French were hurriedly forming to repulse the forces pouring across the Zadorra.

‘See there, where the French are massing a battery in front of the centre of their line?’

Somerset briefly glanced towards the enemy. ‘Yes, my lord.’

‘I want every available gun brought forward to form our own battery. While the other columns push in their flanks and threaten the enemy’s rear, we can pound their centre to pieces. I doubt the French line will hold for long under such concerted pressure.’

As the allied centre formed and the guns rumbled forward, the attacks on either flank continued with Hill steadily pushing eastwards along the ridge. Picton and Dalhousie pressed on, but now their men came in range of the French cannon and the leading battalions suffered grievously as heavy iron shot ploughed through their ranks, cutting bloody lanes through the ranks of advancing redcoats. Arthur had ridden forward to the hills near Arinez, sending for his field headquarters to join him there, and felt sickened by the sight of so many of his fine men being cut down. However, severe though the losses might be, it bought time for the rest of the army to move up into position for what Arthur hoped would be the decisive attack on the French line.

Shortly after four, the allied army was ready and Arthur gave the order for Colonel Dickson’s massed battery to open fire. Arthur had never before fielded so many guns in a battle and the seventy artillery pieces made a deafening roar as they belched fire and smoke and bombarded the French line, less than half a mile away, with heavy iron shot. Now it was the turn of the French formations to endure terrible destruction. Arthur watched with grim satisfaction as each shot tore through the enemy’s battalions. Soon the guns of both sides began to target each other and the valley filled with the continuous crash and rumble of artillery as the men working the guns were whittled down, struck by shot, or by slivers of wood and metal when one of guns was hit, sending deadly splinters flying in all directions.

For a quarter of an hour the massed guns of both armies pounded each other, and so deafening was the noise of the barrage that Arthur did not hear Somerset address him and so was surprised to have his aide pluck his sleeve. He turned away from the spectacle as Somerset cupped a hand to his mouth and called out, ‘We’ve had a report from Graham, my lord! He has been held along the north bank of the river, and Longa’s division has been unable to cut the road to the French frontier.’

‘Damn,’ Arthur muttered. He had intended to block the enemy’s line of retreat. At once he realised that it was vital that he attacked and broke the French army as swiftly as possible before it could withdraw from the battlefield in good order. Already, he could see the first vehicles of the baggage train heading east along the road to Pamplona. He leaned towards Somerset and spoke loudly into his aide’s ear.‘The attack begins now. Tell Alten and Cole not to stop for anything. They are to keep pushing the enemy back and give them no chance to re-form and hold another line.’

‘Yes, sir.’

As he waited for the line to advance Arthur saw that Hill’s column was once again threatening to outflank the enemy. The surviving French guns fell silent and were hurriedly limbered up as Marshal Jourdan saw the threat and ordered his battered formations to withdraw. But before they could move, the centre of the allied army began their advance, pacing steadily across the open ground, their regimental colours swirling to and fro above their heads. Even as they approached Arthur saw the left flank of the French line give ground, and then form column before they began to march away to the east, leaving the rest of the French line to fight it out.

As the redcoats closed on the remaining French division holding its position, the British guns fell silent, and apart from the sounds of fighting from the Heights and away to the east, where Graham was struggling to fight his way over the river, a brief, dreadful quiet hung over the heart of the battlefield. The French were waiting in line, to bring every possible musket to bear as the British approached. Behind the infantry of Cole and Alten the cavalry trotted forward and deployed into lines, ready to charge and pursue the enemy the moment they broke and began to flee. There was a sense of inevitability about what was to come and the soldiers of both sides knew it. Arthur could not help admiring the courage of the Frenchmen waiting for their foes to strike the fatal blow. It was a terrible thing that it took war to bring out such a noble quality, he reflected.

His thoughts were interrupted as the French unleashed their first volley at the approaching redcoats. All along the front of the approaching line men staggered or fell to the ground under the hail of musket balls. Their sergeants bellowed the order to close up and the leading formations advanced another ten paces and halted, leaving a scattered band of red figures, dead and injured, in their wake. The British managed to fire their first volley an instant before the French replied with their second and a thick pall of smoke billowed between the two sides as hundreds of men were struck down. The soldiers of both sides reloaded and fired as quickly as possible, ignoring the cries of their stricken comrades and the sprawled bodies of the dead on either side.

After the fifth volley, the order was given to charge and the British surged forward, momentarily disappearing into the smoke before bursting out the other side, straight at the startled French. Arthur watched the two lines clash, the leading ranks merging into a bloody, merciless mкlйe as the men fought hand to hand. More redcoats surged through the slowly dissipating cloud of powder smoke and the French began to give ground. The British pressed on, and then, as if caught by some herd instinct, the enemy broke and ran, streaming back across the open ground towards Vitoria.

Arthur turned to look expectantly towards the waiting cavalry. Unlike his previous battles in the Peninsula, when lack of cavalry had removed any chance of a successful pursuit, this time his mounted arm was a force to be reckoned with. Five cavalry brigades, nearly six thousand men, stood ready to be unleashed. As the French began to flee the regiments began to walk forward. The rear formations of the infantry line opened up to let the horsemen pass through and then the cavalry spread out again, picking their way over the bodies of those who had fallen in the exchange of fire shortly before. As the leading formations of the infantry saw the cavalry approach they hurriedly clustered together to avoid being trampled. The riders continued to advance at the walk until they had cleared most of their comrades in the infantry. Then the bugles sounded, the rising notes sounding thin and tinny from where Arthur watched the magnificent drama as they increased the pace from walk into trot, and then the canter, and finally the gallop as their riders spurred their mounts on and advanced their sabres with a throaty roar that drowned out the sound of the bugles.

Across the width of the battlefield the cavalry surged forward in a massive wave, their swords, and the helmets of the dragoons, glittering in the sunlight. Then the magic of the moment was lost as they surged amongst the French soldiers. Swords slashed left and right as the horsemen, caught up in the bloodlust of the charge, carved their way through their enemy. Here and there, small knots of men banded together around their eagle standards and tried to make for high ground as they held the British cavalry off at bayonet point. A handful of battalions in the French reserve line had the sense to form square and slowly made their way eastwards as the horsemen flowed round them.

Arthur gestured to his staff to follow him and galloped down on to the plain to follow the cavalry, ordering the infantry to join the pursuit as he passed them. Glancing towards the Heights he could see that Hill’s column had taken the length of the ridge and was now descending towards Vitoria to join in the destruction of the French army. Towards the river the sound of cannon fire was fading away and as Arthur rode over a small hillock he could see the first columns of Graham’s men marching on Vitoria. Beyond them, a host of French soldiers was retreating towards the rolling country to the east. All around Arthur and his party the ground was littered with dead and wounded Frenchmen. A number of guns had been abandoned as their crews had cut the horses free of the limbers and ridden off in a frantic attempt to escape the pursuing cavalry.

Ahead, as they approached Vitoria, Arthur could see the cavalry flowing round each side of the town. A short distance further on and he saw that the landscape to the east of the town was covered with wagons and carriages, their drivers whipping their horses on in a frenzied attempt to escape as the fleeing infantry caught up with them and hurried on. A few paused by abandoned or overturned vehicles to snatch up any easily available loot before running on, with terrified looks back over their shoulders. Behind them, the British cavalry came on, many of them forced to slow down as the riders threaded their way through the wagons to get at the enemy. Other units, commanded by cooler heads, had managed to direct their men around the sides of the wagons to avoid being caught up in the tangle of vehicles, soldiers and camp followers. Arthur reined in on a small knoll just to the north of Vitoria.

There was little doubt that his victory was complete. Aside from a few battered divisions fighting a rearguard action as they withdrew to the east, the bulk of the French army, its baggage, most of its guns and, most important of all, the war chest of King Joseph, would be taken. The last alone would provide the wherewithal for the army to operate for some months independently of the ports on the northern coast of Spain.

General Alava coughed. ‘My lord, may I congratulate you on a most brilliant victory.’

Arthur looked at him coldly.‘You may, once the victory is in the bag, and not before.’

‘But my lord, look there,’Alava protested, sweeping his arm across the panorama of abandoned vehicles between which the British cavalry pursued the enemy. ‘There is your victory!’

As the officers paused to watch the final destruction of the French army Arthur noticed that more and more of his cavalry were breaking off their pursuit and heading for the baggage train. The first of the infantry had just begun to catch up with their mounted comrades and were dashing through and round the town to join the orgy of looting that was breaking out.

‘Damn them!’ Arthur cursed as he snapped his telescope shut and thrust it into his saddle bucket. ‘The bloody fools are letting the enemy escape.’

Sure enough, the remnants of the enemy army were streaming away towards the low hills to the east, wholly unhindered as the allied soldiers began to break ranks and descend on the baggage train, desperate not to miss out on the plunder.

‘Sir?’ Somerset spoke quietly. ‘What are your orders?’

‘Orders?’ Arthur shook his head. ‘What is the point of giving orders to that rabble? The scum of the earth.’ He drew a deep breath and sighed. ‘Very well. I want every formation that has yet to reach Vitoria halted and sent back at least three miles. We must have some order established if there is going to be any kind of pursuit tomorrow.’

‘Yes, sir. And where will you establish headquarters? Vitoria?’

‘No. I have no desire to witness the spectacle of my army turned into a mob of thieves. I will be at Arinez. Find me there.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘One final thing. And do this at once. I want a company of reliable men. Men that can be trusted not to join in the looting. They are to locate the French army’s pay chest. Once they have located it, they are to guard it with their lives.’

‘I understand, my lord. I’ll see to it.’

As Somerset rode away, Arthur took one last long look at the wagons and carriages, thousands of them, being systematically looted by his men. Then he turned his horse away from the spectacle and headed back east towards the village of Arinez, at the foot of the two hills rising up from the valley floor. He gritted his teeth and muttered again,‘Scum of the earth.’

Late that night Somerset reached the headquarters that had been set up in a tavern a short distance above the village. Arthur was sitting out in the open at a long wooden table by the light of a lantern. A folded map lay before him, together with a small notebook and pencil. He was staring out across the valley towards Vitoria and the blaze of torches and bonfires that defined the extent of the baggage train. He looked round as Somerset approached the table.

‘You’ve taken a long time.’

‘I apologise, my lord, but it took a while to locate the wagons with the enemy’s pay chests.’

‘You found them then?’ Arthur’s expression brightened. ‘Well done!’

‘I found some of them, sir. They have been placed under guard.’

‘Some of them? How much exactly?’

‘Difficult to say. At a guess I would imagine there is perhaps a quarter of a million francs in gold remaining.’

‘A quarter of a million?’ Arthur rubbed his cheek wearily. ‘My spies reported that there was five million in those wagons. Now it’s in the pockets of that rabble. And not just the gold. They’ll be loaded down with every valuable they can find. Then there will be the drink and there are sure to be fights. I dare say the army will be unfit to continue the campaign for days.’

‘That might have been true even if they had not given in to temptation, my lord,’ Somerset suggested mildly. ‘They have marched hard for the last six weeks, across some of the most difficult terrain to be found in Spain. The men are exhausted; they have to be rested at some point. Why not now?’

‘Why not now? Because they have let the enemy escape. That should not have happened, Somerset. We should have pursued them to destruction. That was the entire purpose of my plan.’

‘In which case, I would say that the plan was successful in almost every detail, my lord. Today’s victory is sure to end French rule in Spain. The first reports say we have captured all but a handful of their guns. Why, we almost captured Joseph Bonaparte.’

‘What?’

‘One of our troops of hussars came upon his carriage a few miles to the east of Vitoria, caught up in a column of vehicles trying to escape. Apparently Joseph jumped out of one side of his carriage just as one of our officers was climbing in the other. He managed to reach some of his bodyguards and find another mount, and they cut their way free of the column and rode off into the night.’

‘By God, that would have been some blow to Boney, if we had taken his brother prisoner. As it is, the episode hardly enhances Joseph’s dignity.’ Arthur smiled.

‘He’s not the only one whose dignity has been pricked.’ Somerset fished inside the haversack he used to carry his notebooks and pencils and brought out a short rod, covered with purple velvet and encrusted with small gold eagles. He handed it to Arthur.‘Marshal Jourdan’s baton, my lord. It was found in another carriage not far from Joseph’s.’

Arthur held the baton up to the lantern and examined it. ‘A pretty thing. I should imagine a bauble like this will amuse the Prince Regent. I shall send it back to England together with the victory despatch.’

‘All Britain will be overjoyed by the news, my lord. And not just Britain. When word of your victory reaches the rest of Europe, it will fire the hearts of our allies to bring Bonaparte down.’

Arthur nodded slowly.‘That may be, Somerset. What is certain is that French interests in Spain cannot recover from this blow. All that is left to them now is a thin strip of land this side of the Pyrenees, and Suchet’s army, bottled up in Valencia.’

‘What are your plans now, my lord?’

Arthur tapped the map with the captured baton. ‘Our work in the Peninsula is all but complete. The time has come to take the war to France. I aim to lead our army on to French soil before the onset of this very winter.’

Chapter 41

Napoleon

Dresden, 26 July 1813

Napoleon received the Austrian Foreign Minister in one of the Residenzschloss palace’s smaller salons the night Metternich arrived from Vienna. Despite the season he felt cold and a fire was burning in the grate, creating a comfortable fug in the room which was enhanced by the rosy hue cast by the steady flames glowing on the candelabras. Ever since he had returned from Russia Napoleon had found that he was more sensitive than before to the cold and had developed a relish for being in the warm. The scars of that campaign had been borne across every sphere of life in France. Of the six hundred thousand men he had led into Russia the previous summer, scarcely ninety thousand had returned, and many of those had been crippled by frostbite. Others were broken men, unable to face the rigours of another campaign. Only the very strongest and the bravest had endured, and for a while they were all that stood between the forces of the Tsar and France’s German territories.

In the months after his return to Paris Napoleon had been forced to scrape together every available man to rebuild his forces to face the threat from the east. The eighty thousand men of the National Guard were inducted into the army by imperial decree, as were tens of thousands of youths who were not due to be conscripted for another two years. Discharged veterans were recalled to serve under the eagles once again, and the marines and gunners of the navy were reassigned to fill out the ranks of the army’s corps of artillery. Whatever their quality, there had been enough men to provide Napoleon with an army of a quarter of a million men when spring returned.

However, it was rather harder to find new mounts. Only a few thousand horses had survived the Russian campaign, and once Frederick William had switched sides and joined the Tsar the horse-breeding estates of northern Prussia were denied to France. Napoleon had felt their loss immediately when the year’s campaign had opened. Murat’s forces had been unable to adequately screen the movements of the French army. Nor had they been able to scout effectively, often leaving Napoleon in the dark as to the whereabouts of the enemy. Worse still, they were too few to prevent units of Cossacks from raiding the French supply lines.

As a result, despite winning two battles, the French had not been able to achieve a decisive result. After two months of exhausting marches across the plains and hills of the German states and the lands of western Prussia, Napoleon had been relieved by the Tsar’s offer of an armisitice at the start of June. It had been agreed that the ceasefire would last until the end of July, while negotiations were conducted over the terms for a peace treaty. The Emperor of Austria, Francis, had offered to act as mediator and so Prince Metternich had spent the last weeks travelling between Napoleon’s headquarters in Dresden and the Tsar and Frederick William in Berlin.

A sharp knock on the door broke into Napoleon’s thoughts as he stood gazing into the heart of the fire, his hands clasped behind his back. He looked up as the door opened and Bertheir entered the room.

‘Prince Metternich is here, sire.’

‘Good. Show him in.’

Berthier bowed his head and left the room, leaving the door open. He returned a moment later and ushered the Austrian diplomat into Napoleon’s presence. Metternich was accompanied by two members of his staff and they remained a respectful distance behind their master as he approached Napoleon and took the hand that the Emperor extended towards him.

‘It is good to see you again.’ Napoleon smiled warmly. ‘I trust the accommodation for you and your staff is satisfactory?’

‘Most comfortable, I thank you, sire. Though it would have been agreeable to have taken some refreshment and a rest before continuing our business.’

‘I am sorry for that, but the peace of Europe comes before the comforts of the peacemakers, as I am sure you would agree.’

Metternich smiled thinly. ‘Indeed, sire.’

‘Good. You may wish to know that the Empress has written to me. She sends her warmest affection to her father, and trusts that he still regards France as a good friend and ally.’

‘I will pass on her words to Emperor Francis,’ Metternich replied flatly. ‘He will be pleased to hear from his daughter.’

‘I’m sure.’ Napoleon smiled. ‘And do reassure his imperial majesty that his son-in-law echoes the sentiments of his wife.’

‘Of course.’

‘Come then, and sit.’ Napoleon waved his guests towards the oval table that had been set in the middle of the room. The Austrians waited for the Emperor to be seated first and then took their places, before Napoleon signalled to Berthier to sit beside him. When all had settled, Napoleon folded his hands together and addressed Metternich.

‘So, my dear Prince, what terms have Alexander and Frederick William decided to offer me?’

Napoleon saw that Metternich was unsettled at the directness of the question, no doubt discomforted by the absence of the extended pleasantries that had been a convention of diplomatic negotiations in the days when Talleyrand had served as Napoleon’s Foreign Minister. Metternich turned to one of his aides. ‘The document case, please.’

The aide reached down for a small leather satchel, unfastened the buckle and opened it on the table before sliding it across to Metternich. The Foreign Minister picked up the top sheet of paper and looked up at Napoleon.

‘Since you are determined to address matters directly, I’ll just present you with the summary of their terms.’

Napoleon nodded.

Metternich held the document up close to his eyes and began.‘One: agreement to dismantling of the Duchy of Warsaw and the division of its existing territories between the central powers of Europe. Two: agreement to the disestablishment of the Confederation of the Rhine. Three: Prussia is to have its frontiers of 1805 restored. Four: the Continental Blockade is to be lifted and France is to respect the shipping of neutral nations. Five: all French troops are to be withdrawn behind the Rhine.’ He lowered the document and looked up.‘There are other terms, but they are peripheral and can be negotiated once the main points are agreed to.’

Napoleon sat still and silent for a moment as he stared at Prince Metternich. Then he laughed contemptuously. ‘Is that all they ask of me? There is no demand that I give up my territories in Italy, or that I abandon my brother in Spain?’

‘The Tsar and the King are prepared to let you retain your possessions in Italy,’ Metternich replied, and then allowed himself a slight smile.‘As for Spain, I suspect that the Peninsula will not be within your gift for much longer, sire.’

‘Really? And what makes you so certain of that, I wonder?’

‘The latest accounts of the war indicate that your armies there are exhausted and demoralised, and the population is almost wholly against the reign of your brother. And now General Wellington is marching across Spain with impunity.’

‘What is Wellington to me?’ Napoleon snapped. ‘Just another over-cautious English general who will be thrown back into the sea the moment I deign to lead my armies against him in person. For the present, I am content to hold on to what can be defended in that country, but in due course the Spanish will be tamed and Wellington and his rabble of British, Spanish and Portuguese soldiers will be crushed. All Europe can be certain of that, at least.’

Metternich shrugged. ‘I can only admire your formidable confidence, sire. However, Spain is not an issue for the present. We are here to discuss the armistice. I need to know if you accept the terms offered by Russia and Prussia, and if you have any counter-proposals to make.’

Napoleon stared down at his hands.‘You must realise that there is no question of my accepting the terms as they stand. France would be humiliated before the eyes of the world. I would be humiliated. How long do you think it would take the people of France to rise up and depose me, as they did Louis? What if there was another revolution? All would be swept away and the powers of Europe would be dealing with another popular tyranny bent on tearing down the institutions of the old regimes. I am all that stands between the thrones of Europe and anarchy. Alexander and Frederick William would do well to remember that before they seek to depose me.’

‘They have not said that that is what they want to achieve,’ Metternich responded carefully.

‘Of course not. They just want peace,’ Napoleon sneered.

Metternich did not rise to the bait and sat silently. Napoleon looked up and stared coldly at the Austrian. He noted the long nose and narrow face, and the same haughty air of superiority and condescension that Metternich shared with Talleyrand, and which so easily enraged him. None of these people, none of the rulers and aristocrats who held sway over the masses through an accident of birth, none of them would rest easy while a man who had fashioned his own destiny ruled France. He stirred slowly in his seat and leaned closer to Metternich.

‘What does Austria hope to gain from this?’

‘Sire?’

‘Let us assume for a moment that I am not some naive simpleton who is happy to believe that Austria is playing the honest broker. So, what does Austria hope to gain?’

Metternich smiled. ‘This is becoming the kind of conversation that is best conducted in confidence, sire.’

Napoleon nodded.‘Very well. Berthier, you others, leave us. At once.’

Berthier instantly rose to his feet, gathered his notes and headed for the door. After an enquiring glance at Metternich, and a brief nod from him, the aides followed suit, closing the door behind them.

‘That’s better, sire. Now then, you want to know Austria’s position? I will tell you. But first you must know that this is what I believe, and while I cannot speak directly for Emperor Francis and his inner council I know that they have some sympathy with my views. Beyond that, they are, how shall I put it?’ He smiled thinly.‘They are susceptible to a well-reasoned argument.’

‘As you are susceptible to financial inducement,’ Napoleon cut in. ‘Or shall we speak plainly, Prince Metternich? You will take a bribe.’

‘You mean to bribe me?’ Metternich touched his breast and affected a hurt look. ‘Sire, I would have you know that I am not Talleyrand. He raised corruptibility to an art form. I am not nearly so well versed in the craft.’ He continued hurriedly as he saw Napoleon’s brows begin to knit together. ‘You ask what Austria wants from the present situation. It is simple. We want stability. Both within Europe, and between Europe and Russia. We need a real balance of power in Europe. France must give up some of her influence to Austria and Prussia. If we can draw Prussia into common cause with us, then Frederick William will have no need of an alliance with Russia. Every year the Tsar pushes his frontiers closer to Europe.’

‘Closer to Austrian lands, you mean.’

Metternich nodded.‘True. That is why it would be better for Austria to be in alliance with France than with Russia. Yet that would only be acceptable to my Emperor if France reliquished its grip over much of the territory it presently controls.’

‘I will not do that.’

Metternich sighed and closed his eyes for a moment before he continued.‘Sire, let me be brutally frank with you. You cannot win a war against the combined strengths of Russia, Prussia, Sweden and Britain. While this armistice has been in place your enemies have added new strength to their armies. You are outnumbered, and the odds against you will grow as each day passes. Our spies report that your men are weary, that Saxony cannot sustain your army for much longer and that your stocks of ammunition will be exhausted after another month’s campaigning. Save your army, save your throne and make peace now. If you don’t then I have to warn you that there is a good chance that Austria may well throw her lot in with those powers allied against you.’

‘Why?’ Napoleon narrowed his eyes. ‘Why would Francis do such a thing? You said it yourself, he has more to fear from the Tsar than from me. Austria should be fighting alongside France.’

‘That is true, sire. But see it from our point of view. There are many in Vienna who are still smarting over the harsh terms of the peace you imposed after Wagram. They, and others, also point to the disaster that you involved us with in Russia. Now the nations of Europe are gathering their strength against France. If you are defeated and we are defeated alongside you then Austria can be sure that Russia will force peace terms on us even more unpleasant than those you imposed. So . . .’ Metternich smiled. ‘An alliance with France is not without its risks. If we remain neutral and you are beaten, which seems the most likely outcome, then we will be powerless to intervene when the peace terms are imposed. That will be to the Tsar’s advantage. Therefore, as some of my compatriots argue, it would be better for Austria to be on the winning side in this war, even if that means being an unwilling ally of Russia. That is the real danger you face, sire. Your position is made more vulnerable still by any reverses you suffer elsewhere in your empire. If you would avoid disaster, then I urge you to make peace.’

‘I see.’ Napoleon folded the tips of his fingers together and fixed Metternich with a piercing stare. ‘You make a good case. But you did neglect to mention one thing. The fact that England has offered to pay Austria half a million pounds in gold if you declare war on me, and another two million to support your war effort thereafter.’ He smiled. ‘You see, I have my spies too.’

‘And they are well informed indeed, sire,’ Metternich admitted. ‘Yes, that is true. But I believe Emperor Francis would still prefer to have peace than to take a bribe and have war. However, if you refuse these terms then Austria will be compelled to act.’

‘Am I to take that as an ultimatum?’

‘Yes, sire.’

Napoleon’s eyebrows flickered. ‘I see. You have a copy of the detailed demands?’

‘Of course, sire.’

‘Then leave them here. I must have time to consider them.’

‘Yes, sire. The Tsar has authorised me to offer you an extension to the armistice, by two more weeks.’

‘That is generous. Please express my gratitude to him.’ Napoleon stood up abruptly. ‘Very well, I will discuss the terms with my advisors and we will draw up our own terms to put before Alexander and Frederick William. Since the hour is late, I suggest we conclude this discussion.’

‘Yes, sire.’ Metternich hurriedly pulled out a copy of the peace terms and left it on the table as he swept the rest of the documents and notes back into his leather case and refastened it. Napoleon escorted him to the door of the salon and they exchanged a formal bow before Metternich left, summoning his aides to join him as he made his way along the corridor towards the stairs leading down to the main hall of the palace.

Napoleon stared after him for a moment and then snorted with derision. He returned to the table and carried one of the chairs over to the fire and sat down, leaning forward and resting his chin on his knuckles. After a moment he reached inside his waistcoat for the small locket he always carried with him. Clicking it open he gazed at the miniatures of the Empress and his infant son, gently caressing them both with his thumb. He had hoped that his marriage into the Austrian royal family might provide the necessary link that would prevent the two nations from engaging in yet another war against each other. Now it seemed that blood-letting was thicker than blood, he mused. He snapped the locket shut and slipped it back in his pocket. A short while later, Berthier entered the room.

‘Prince Metternich has left the palace, sire.’

‘Good.’ Napoleon nodded towards the small door concealed in the wall of the salon that linked the room to a service corridor. ‘Did you hear everything?’

‘Yes, sire.’

‘What do you think?’

Berthier carefully considered his response. ‘Sire, the proposed terms are unacceptable. Our enemies must know that. I suggest we do what we can to prolong the negotiations and see what concessions we might win from them. Who knows, we could even have a peace agreement.’

‘Peace? Do you really think the Tsar wants peace? He will not be content until France, the last obstacle to his ambitions in Europe, is brought down. There can be no peace between us.’

‘Then let us use the negotiations to buy us as much time as possible, sire. Metternich knows some of the truth about the condition of our army, but not all.’ Berthier waved a hand helplessly. ‘More than half the army is in no condition to fight. We have too many boys. This morning I inspected some of the latest reinforcements. They had been given two weeks’ training before being marched to Germany. When they left France only half of them had muskets and they had fired just two rounds of blanks during training. They haven’t been issued with full kit and they haven’t the slightest idea how to live off the land.’ He shook his head in exasperation. ‘Sire, we are sending lambs to the slaughter.’

‘Nonsense! Boys become men as soon as they taste battle. And there are plenty of veterans in the Grand Army who will teach them the skills they need to live while on campaign.’ He paused to look closely at his chief of staff. ‘Perhaps the problem is that you are getting too old for this, my friend.’

‘Sire?’

‘You have worked tirelessly for many years, Berthier. Too many years. You are losing heart. It is is only natural.’

Berthier forced himself to stand stiffly, and shook his head. ‘I am fit enough to carry out my duties, sire. I merely wished to point out that Metternich was right. This could be a war that we cannot win.’

‘Cannot win?’ Napoleon was astounded. ‘Cannot win! You are defeatist, Marshal Berthier. I have never seen that quality in you before. And you are wrong. We can win. What our men lack in experience and equipment they more than make up for in their patriotism, and their devotion to their Emperor. That is why we shall win.’

‘Sire, what if Austria joins the coalition? If that happens then our enemies can put over half a million men into the field against us. We will have to face them with little over half that number.’

‘We have been outnumbered before, and won the day.’

‘Not this time, sire.’

Napoleon frowned. What had happened to Berthier, he wondered. He searched the man’s anguished expression, and saw as if for the first time that this, the most loyal and efficient of his officers, was close to exhaustion. Napoleon rose from his chair and approached him, touching him gently on both shoulders.

‘My friend, you are weary. So are we all. Yet we must brace ourselves for one more effort. If we defeat the enemy then the coalition will collapse. This war is no longer about numbers of men, horses and guns. It is about spirit, and the will to endure. In that quality lies the secret of our success. I ask this one final effort of you, and all my soldiers. Then we shall have a great victory and we can rest. I swear it.’

Berthier looked at him, a spark of hope burning faintly in his eyes. ‘You swear it?’

Napoleon nodded.

‘Then I am your man, sire.’

Napoleon smiled warmly. ‘I could not fight my wars without you, old friend. Now go, get some rest.’

Berthier bowed his head and turned to leave the room. After he had gone, Napoleon returned to the fire, stoking up the embers and adding some more wood before he resumed his seat. As the fresh wood cracked and hissed he reflected on all that had been said during the evening. He was certain that he could defeat the armies of Alexander and Frederick William, but if Austria did enter the war on the side of his enemies it would be the greatest military test of his career. He had no doubt that he would be able to meet the challenge, but the question that troubled him greatly was whether the officers and the men of his army would match him in the pursuit of glory.

The next morning dawned bright and clear, with not a single cloud to be seen in the sky as Dresden woke to a fine summer day. After he had taken breakfast Napoleon went for a walk in the Great Garden that stretched out to the south-east of the old city where the palace was situated. Some of the townsfolk were out, following the gravel paths that divided the ornate rose gardens, flowerbeds and clusters of trees. The half-company of guardsmen that screened the Emperor made certain that no one could get within pistol shot, and so Napoleon walked head down, deep in thought, oblivious of the curious faces that watched him pass at a distance.

He reached the far end of the garden and turned back, returning the same way he had come, consumed with thought over the planning for every eventuality when the armistice inevitably came to an end.

‘Sire!’

Napoleon looked up and saw Berthier striding along the path towards him. He forced a smile and raised his hand in greeting.

‘Did you sleep well, as I ordered?’

There was no smile in the marshal’s face as he approached, and he spoke in a low voice. ‘Sire, we have received a despatch from Marshal Jourdan. His majesty the King of Spain was defeated a month ago, at a battle outside Vitoria.’

‘Another defeat?’ Napoleon shook his head bitterly.‘Can none of my marshals teach Wellington a lesson?’ He sucked in a sharp breath. ‘No doubt Joseph’s army will have to fall back to regroup.’

‘Sire, there is no army to regroup. Two divisions escaped from the battle and retreated to France; the rest were routed. Only two guns were saved, and the army lost its entire baggage train.’

Napoleon stared at him, anxiety twisting in his guts. ‘And my brother?’

‘He escaped, sire.’

‘Where is he?’

‘Bayonne.’

‘Bayonne,’ Napoleon repeated numbly. He cleared his throat and faced Berthier sternly. ‘Then he has abandoned his throne. From now, our affairs in Spain fall under military authority. Soult is in Paris. I will send him to take command. Joseph is to be kept away from Paris, out of sight, so that he cannot shame me.’

‘Yes, sire.’

Napoleon pursed his lips for a moment, absorbed in the implications of the news Berthier had brought him. ‘This is a harsh blow for us, Berthier. It will harden the resolve of our enemy. Emperor Francis will want to be on the side of the big battalions now.’ He smiled sadly. ‘It seems that there will be no rest for either of us for a while yet, eh?’

‘I imagine so, sire.’

‘Then we had better summon my marshals and make our war plans. It is only a matter of weeks, perhaps days, before Austria declares war.’

Chapter 42

Dresden, 26 August 1813

As Napoleon made his way to the city he nodded approvingly at the defences that Marshal St-Cyr had been putting in place since the armistice had ended. Napoleon had rushed to take command of MacDonald’s embattled corps when news of a threat to Dresden had forced him to return to the Saxon capital. Several artillery batteries had been dug into the slopes on the right bank of the Elbe covering the south-eastern approaches to the old city on the far bank. The centre of the city was protected by a moat and rampart, and the entrances to the outlying suburbs had been blocked and the houses turned into stongpoints. Five enormous earthworks had been constructed in a wide arc to the south of the city and packed with field guns. Any attempt to assault the city from the south would have to run the gauntlet of a devastating crossfire even before it reached the defences of the suburbs. St-Cyr’s preparations would be put to the test all too soon, Napoleon reflected.

The enemy was already driving in the French outposts and small groups of men were skirmishing with the enemy’s light infantry and cavalry as they fell back towards the defences of the old city. Beyond the approaches to Dresden, dense columns of infantry and cavalry together with artillery trains were closing in on the city across an arc of six miles.

Napoleon frowned as he gazed at the enemy. The bitter sense of betrayal he felt towards Austria’s cynical opportunism still chilled his heart. Once Austria had joined the coalition against France the peace negotiations had ceased abruptly. Now another quarter of a million soldiers were arrayed against the Grand Army. When the campaign was over, and his enemies were defeated, Napoleon resolved to make the terms he imposed so severe that neither Austria nor Prussia would ever be able to wage war on him again. Already, Marshal Oudinot was advancing towards Berlin to take the city, and if that did not provoke the enemy into suing for peace Oudinot was to burn the Prussian capital to the ground. As for Russia, Napoleon knew now that the Tsar could only ever be contained. The vast scale of Alexander’s domain made conquest an impossibility.

As ever, the Austrians had advanced slowly, making their way through the hills of Bohemia towards Dresden. St-Cyr had already sent their vanguard reeling back, but now the full weight of the Austrian army, together with detachments of Russian and Prussian troops, was descending on the French supply base at Dresden. Some distance behind Napoleon marched Marshal Ney and the Imperial Guard, and behind them the corps ofVictor and Marmont - recently returned from Spain - though they would not reach Dresden until the end of the day. St-Cyr and his garrison had to hold their position for the next twelve hours, Napoleon reflected.

The guards on the main gate recognised Napoleon from afar as his entourage cantered up the road, and let out a cheer of ‘Long live the Emperor!’The cry spread across the city, and as he entered the gates and rode down the main avenues towards the bridge across the Elbe he was thronged by the excited, and relieved, men of St-Cyr’s corps. Napoleon smiled back at them, raising his hat in greeting every so often, which brought forth a fresh crescendo of cheers each time. As he entered the old city Napoleon beckoned to the first officer he saw to guide them to the marshal’s headquarters.

St-Cyr had occupied the cathedral, whose towers afforded a fine overview of the city’s defences and the landscape to the south. The nave had been cleared to make way for a map table and the desks of the marshal’s aides and clerks. Everyone immediately rose and stood to attention as the Emperor entered the building, thrusting his riding crop and gloves at Berthier before he removed his hat and handed that over as well.

‘Sire, you do not know how glad I am to see you.’ St-Cyr smiled as he bowed.

‘There is no time for pleasantries,’ Napoleon responded brusquely. ‘What is your present strength?’

St-Cyr swallowed as he hurriedly collected his thoughts. ‘A little more than twenty thousand, sire. Sixteen thousand deployed in the defences of the old town, and the rest in the new town.’

‘Then pull your forces out of the new town at once. Every man is needed here.’

‘Yes, sire.’

Napoleon approached the map table as he unbuttoned his coat. He leaned forward to examine the map.‘Your men will have to buy us time, St-Cyr. The Guard will reach the city about an hour from now. It will take perhaps another two hours for them all to assume their positions in the old city. Victor and Marmont will not reach Dresden before the end of the day, so we must hold out until then. Be clear on this: if Dresden falls, then the campaign is over and we lose everything east of the Elbe.’

‘I understand, sire.’

‘Then let me inspect your defences.’

St-Cyr could not hide his surprise. ‘Now, sire?’

‘Yes. Come.’ Napoleon turned round and strode back towards the door, clicking his fingers at Berthier for his hat, gloves and crop, which Berthier had only just put down on a large chest. St-Cyr hurriedly ordered one of his aides to transfer the whole of the corps to the old town and hurried after the Emperor.

The party of senior officers followed Napoleon as he made a swift tour of the defences. The last of the outposts had been pulled back and a lull had settled over the battlefield to the south as the enemy formed up for a massed attack. Hundreds of cannon were brought forward and unlimbered to form great batteries to pound the defenders before the infantry was sent forward to assault the makeshift walls and strongpoints of the suburbs. The men of St-Cyr’s corps watched the preparations with grave expressions as they lined the defences, peering over the walls and out of their newly cut loopholes. The imperial party finished the tour of the defences at the earthwork nearest to the bank of the Elbe: a large fort surrounded by a deep ditch. The side facing the enemy formed into a broad chevron so that the guns could sweep the ground before the city, creating a crossfire with the cannon from the neighbouring earthwork. St-Cyr had placed thirty guns in each of the forts, and the shot garlands sat by each weapon, with the main stores of powder dug into covered bunkers to protect it from enemy mortar shells.

Napoleon dismounted and then climbed up on top of a caisson so that he would be clearly seen by his men. Around him the gunners and a battalion of infantry eagerly crowded towards their Emperor as he addressed them.

‘The enemy has decided to chance their arm in an attack on Dresden, even though they know that I am here with you, thanks to your announcing my presence so loudly!’

The soldiers laughed and smiled, and Napoleon raised his hands to quieten them. ‘Even though we are outnumbered ten to one, reinforcements are on the way. By the end of the day we will match our enemy in strength and be ready to take the fight to them tomorrow. This is the battle I have been looking for. So far our enemies have denied me the chance to fight, and now I understand their strategy. They mean to avoid a contest with Napoleon until they can mass sufficient men to make them confident enough to risk a fight. So even though they outnumber us by ten to one, do not be surprised if they lose heart and turn tail and run back to Bohemia, rather than face me.’

The men laughed again and someone shouted out, ‘Long live Napoleon! Long live France!’The cry was taken up instantly.

Napoleon raised his arms and shouted with theatrical anger. ‘Quiet, you fools, or you will scare them off! Is that what you want? Or do you wish to show those cowards how Frenchmen fight?’ He paused a moment until every tongue was still. ‘The great test of the campaign is upon us.’

He was about to continue when a cannon sounded from the massed formations of the allied army. An instant later there was a terrible roar as the enemy guns opened fire and the concussion ripped through the air. Spouts of earth lifted from the ground and a shot passed close overhead with a deep whirr.

Napoleon cupped a hand to his mouth and shouted, ‘To arms! To arms!’

The gunners and the infantry rushed to their positions and a moment later the first of the French guns replied, crashing out as smoke billowed back through the embrasure. Napoleon climbed down from the caisson and hurried across to the rampart, and cautiously looked out through a wooden-framed viewing slit. An enemy column was quickly advancing along the side of the Great Garden towards the earthwork. Napoleon called over the captain commanding the nearest battery and pointed out the Austrians.

‘See them? Let them have some case shot.’

‘Yes, sire,’ the captain grinned, and turned back to give the order to his gun crews. They adjusted the angle of their guns with handspikes and loaded the thin tin cases filled with iron balls. When the sergeants indicated that their weapons were ready the officer raised his hand, and then swept it down as he bellowed the order to fire. The guns kicked back with the recoil and the embrasures were briefly lit up by the jets of fire leaping from the muzzles. Then the view was obliterated. Napoleon hurried across to an empty embrasure where he could see, through a swirling veil of smoke, the damage done by the battery. For the first twenty paces of the column hardly a man stood. The rest had been mown down and lay dead and wounded, spattered with blood. An officer standing to one side waved the following men past the mangled bodies and the column rippled round them as it continued towards the defences. The smoke still hung about the battery so that they fired their next shots blind, but even though one gun merely succeeded in blasting the branches of some trees in the Great Garden into a shower of shattered twigs and leaves, the other guns struck home, carving more gaps through the oncoming column.

‘Sire!’

Napoleon turned and saw Berthier approaching. He backed away from the embrasure and strode over to his aide. ‘What is it?’

‘The Guard has arrived, Sire. They are marching through the city now.’

‘Where is Ney?’

‘He is here, with Marshals Mortier and Murat, sire.’

‘Murat? What is Murat doing here?’

‘His cavalry is on the road to Dresden, sire. He rode ahead for orders.’

‘Very well.’ Napoleon made his way back across the interior of the fort to the entrance, facing towards the city, where the horses were being held for the Emperor and his entourage. The three newly arrived commanders stood waiting with St-Cyr.

‘Gentlemen, we’re in for some hot work,’ Napoleon announced. ‘The enemy have launched a full-blooded attack. St-Cyr, you take charge of the defences. Hold them off. Ney, Mortier, Murat, you will take one third of the Imperial Guard each and form a reserve, Mortier to the left, Ney to the centre and Murat on the right. You are to have your men ready to move at an instant’s notice. But you are not to act without orders, unless the enemy break through the line in the suburbs. Then you may use your own discretion. But don’t overreach yourself. Eject them from the city and fall back to your original position. We cannot afford to throw away any men unnecessarily. Dismissed.’

When the three men had mounted their horses and galloped back into the city, Napoleon took a last look around the largest earthwork and then, satisfied that it would hold the enemy at bay, he and St-Cyr led their entourage back to headquarters in the cathedral. The sound of artillery and the lighter crackle of musketry echoed along the entire length of the old city and Napoleon pointed up at the cathedral tower.

‘I have to see what’s happening. Where are the stairs?’

St-Cyr showed him to a small doorway in the corner of the nave and, telescopes to hand, the two began to climb the steep spiral steps winding up inside the gloomy stone interior. Breathing heavily and hearts pounding, they emerged into the belfry with its high arched windows affording fine views in every direction. To the south the city was ringed with banks of smoke as the guns of both sides continued to blast away at each other. In between the enemy batteries, and on either flank, the columns of enemy infantry advanced on the defences behind screens of skirmishers, who did their best to provide enough covering fire to keep some of the defenders’ heads down and put them off their aim. As he slowly tracked his telescope across the line Napoleon was gratified to see that St-Cyr’s men were holding their own.

As he watched the attack on the fort he had visited shortly before he saw the remains of the column that had been savaged by the canister fire struggling to get in through the embrasures. The ditch was littered with bodies and those who had reached the rampart were not carrying any ladders and were having to clamber up on to the shoulders of their comrades. Another column was sweeping round the left flank of the fort, hoping to make the most of the distraction caused by their comrades. A ripple of flames from the French guns on the far side of the Elbe announced their entry into the battle and roundshot ploughed through the column.

The assault reached a climax shortly after noon as the Austrians brought their guns closer to the city and attempted to blast gaps in the defences guarding the suburbs. The men in the forts took full advantage of the opportunity to lay down a devastating fire on the enemy batteries, blasting gun crews to ribbons, and smashing their gun carriages. The enemy endured an hour of the cruel punishment before withdrawing the cannon and continuing the assault with infantry. But without any scaling equipment all their discipline and courage came to nothing as they stalled in front of the French lines. St-Cyr’s men held on grimly through the afternoon and as the cathedral clock struck five Napoleon decided that it was time to launch his counter-stroke.

Climbing down from the tower he emerged into the nave and summoned Berthier. ‘The Imperial Guard’s hour has come. Tell Murat and Ney to drive the enemy back. But they are not to lose their heads. The Guard is to advance no more than a mile from the outer works, and then fall back. Be sure that they understand that.’

‘Yes, sire. And what of Mortier? Is he to be held in reserve?’

‘What, and risk the wrath of his guardsmen?’ Napoleon chuckled. ‘I think I had better deal with them myself and put an end to their grumbling.’

‘Be careful, sire,’ Berthier said, in parting, as Napoleon hurried out of the cathedral to mount his horse. He rode east through the streets whose walls echoed the roar of the cannonade and shook under the reverberation of the artillery of both sides. Mortier was waiting at the head of his men, formed up in the confines of a large market square close to the edge of the eastern suburbs. The men, many sporting fine bushy moustaches and the gold earrings that had become something of a fashion amongst the elite corps, were called to attention as their Emperor came in sight. Napoleon slowed his horse to a walk as he made his way down the front rank, scrutinising the silent faces as they stared straight ahead, muskets held at the slope, the tall bearskins making them look like giants.

‘Your men look as formidable as ever, Marshal Mortier,’ Napoleon called out as he approached the commander of the corps. ‘It would be a shame to sully such a fine turn-out by sending them into action.’

‘Don’t you dare hold us back!’ a voice bellowed from the rear of the leading battalion. ‘We’ve earned a chance for glory.’

‘And you shall have it!’ Napoleon called back. His smile faded as he turned to Mortier. ‘The Austrian attack has failed. It is time to throw them back. The Guard is to retake the Great Garden.’

‘Yes, sire.’

‘And I shall be joining you for the attack.’

Mortier knew better than to question the Emperor’s judgement and he nodded. ‘It will be an honour to be at your side, sire.’

‘Then let’s be about it,’ Napoleon replied. ‘The Guard will advance.’

Mortier shouted the order and the drums began to beat the advance, a deep rhythmic rattle that echoed off the surrounding buildings. Then, at the command, the Guard began to march out of the square, down the broad avenue that led to the road leading out of Dresden towards Pirna. As they drew near to the edge of the old town, they passed the wounded being treated in the side streets and they cheered the Guard as they marched past. Now shots were flying overhead with a light zipping sound. The glass in the upper storeys of the houses was shattered and the masonry was pockmarked by musket balls. There were also gaping holes in walls and roofs where Austrian cannon balls had smashed through.

Then, as the avenue bent a little to the right, Napoleon saw that they had reached the edge of the town. A barricade lay across the road and a line of infantry, three deep, were taking turns to fire over it, then duck back and reload. Several bodies had been dragged to the side of the road so as not to encumber their comrades. A thick smog filled the open ground ahead of them, but little blooms of light marked the positions of the Austrians a short distance away, returning fire. A shot whipped by Napoleon’s horse and one of the guardsmen bent forward under the impact, and then crumpled to one side of the column, dropping his musket as he clutched a hand to his stomach.

‘Make way for the Guard!’ Mortier bellowed, then he turned to Napoleon. ‘Sire, if you please, wait here for the colour party. It will be the obvious place for the men to look for you.’

‘And keep me safe, eh?’

‘Yes, sire.’ Mortier nodded sombrely.

‘Very well.’ Napoleon drew in his reins and urged his horse to the side of the avenue. Ahead, the lieutenant commanding the company on the barricade ordered his men to cease fire and clear the way. The enemy, unaware of the new danger, continued to shoot, inflicting several more casualties, and then the way was clear, just as the first guardsmen came marching up. They passed into the powder smoke and emerged on the other side, deployed into line and returned fire with two withering volleys, then lowered their bayonets and marched on.

Immediately behind the first battalion came the colour party, and Napoleon edged his horse alongside the standards and rode out of the town, through the dispersing bank of acrid smoke. On the far side the column passed through two lines of fallen bodies, one French, the other in the white uniforms of the Austrians. Ahead, two battalions of Austrian infantry stood in line, either side of a pair of field guns, but the guardsmen did not falter for an instant as they climbed over the rubble and steadily re-formed ranks. An instant later the guns boomed out and a spray of shot hissed through the leaves and struck down several guardsmen with a chorus of sharp thuds. Napoleon watched as they closed ranks and stepped out towards the enemy. Two times the guns fired, striking down more guardsmen. Then, as they closed to musket range, the Guard stopped, readied their muskets, took aim, and unleashed a volley before their colonel bellowed the order to charge, and Napoleon watched them disappear into the smoke as they swept the Austrians away.

Having endured hours of withering fire from the defenders and failed to break into the city, the enemy had little enough fight left in them, and they hurriedly withdrew in the face of the Imperial Guard’s onslaught. By the time dusk fell, the enemy had been driven back as far as the line of villages where St-Cyr’s men had established their original outposts. Napoleon had returned to his headquarters, pleased with the afternoon’s work. There, Berthier reported that the first elements of Marmont’s and Victor’s corps were entering the city on the other side of the Elbe. Napoleon left instructions for his senior officers to join him at ten o’clock to be briefed for the next day’s battle, and then ordered a hurried meal to be brought to him. Before the light faded completely, he climbed the tower one last time to survey the enemy’s position. The camp fires flickered in a wide arc about the south of the city, but it was clear that the greatest concentration was on the line of hills the locals called the Racknitz Heights. Napoleon stared towards the dull loom in the clouds above the hills for a while and then nodded to himself.

‘It is my belief that the enemy will launch another attack on Dresden tomorrow,’ Napoleon announced to his marshals and senior generals as they sat on the pews arranged around St-Cyr’s map table. ‘They still outnumber us, but cannot be sure of our precise strength. The bulk of the two corps that arrived at dusk will not have been seen, so they will be confident of overwhelming us. However, we shall strike first, as soon as it is light. Since the centre is where their strength is, we shall feint there, and strike at their flanks. Every available man will go into our battle line tomorrow. Murat will command the right wing, Ney the left, and St-Cyr and Marmont will hold the centre. The enemy’s centre and left flank are divided by a tributary river off the Elbe, here.’ He indicated the map. ‘The river Weisseritz. There is only one bridge across the river for several miles, at the village of Plauen. Murat, if you take that, then the enemy’s left cannot be reinforced and will be at your mercy.’

Murat leaned forward and noted the village. ‘Plauen will be mine within the hour, sire.’

‘Good. Just make sure that you can hold on to the bridge.’ Napoleon paused briefly. ‘My intention is to force the enemy down the road to Pirna.’

‘Pirna?’ Ney frowned. ‘Why Pirna?’

‘Because Marshal Vandamme’s corps crossed the river at Pirna this morning. He has cut the enemy’s communications, and will block their retreat.’

The officers, except Berthier who already knew, stirred at this news and Napoleon was delighted to see the spirit that it had rekindled in their tired faces.

‘If we succeed tomorrow, and Vandamme plays his part, then the Army of Bohemia will be eliminated from the campaign. That will leave only Blьcher, and our friend Marshal Bernadotte, to deal with. Bernadotte has been tasked with defending Berlin, and Marshal Oudinot is advancing to deal with him even now. Blьcher cannot hope to defeat us on his own. We are within a matter of days of ending this campaign and winning this war, my friends.’ Napoleon smiled warmly, and then suddenly raised a finger. ‘Ah! There is one further piece of intelligence I wish to impart to you. Earlier this evening, our pickets heard the enemy guns give the salute three times. It would appear that we are graced with the presence of not only Emperor Francis, but Tsar Alexander and King Frederick William as well. If they are taken in our trap, then the coalition is finished at a stroke. Questions?’

There was a pause before Mortier nodded. ‘The plan is sound, sire. But there is one detail that concerns me.’

‘Well?’

‘Marshal Vandamme, sire. Is one corps enough to block the enemy’s path?’

‘I judge it to be sufficient,’ Napoleon replied flatly. ‘If we do our work well tomorrow then the allies will be a spent force and will surrender the moment they realise we have cut their line of retreat. Anyone else?’ He stared round the table. ‘Then it is settled. You know your roles, gentlemen. Now prepare your men for victory.’

Chapter 43

It rained heavily during the night, easing off just before dawn as the soldiers of the Grand Army, wrapped in their greatcoats and with oilskin covers fastened over their shakos, filed into their positions for the start of the coming battle. The ground was slick with mud and the Weisseritz stream had swollen into a swift current, too dangerous to attempt to ford. The last of the cavalry was forming up on the flanks as the first rays of dawn glimmered, dull and grey, above the hills to the east.

Napoleon had climbed the cathedral tower and stood with Berthier and a handful of other staff officers to watch the opening of the battle. As he had hoped, the thin light revealed that the enemy had been slow to prepare for battle. Unlike the French, who had been billeted in the town and slept in warm and dry conditions, the Austrian and Prussian forces had been camped in the open and the heavy rain had soaked them to the skin and made it almost impossible to sleep. As a result they stirred slowly and formed up in their battalions dispirited and tired.

As the cathedral clock struck six, the signal gun fired and the men massed on the French flanks rippled forward. To the left, they were opposed by the Austrian troops who had taken a mauling in their attempt to assault the city the previous day. Two divisions of the Young Guard led the way, marching steadily across the soft ground, pausing to deliver volley fire at any enemy units attempting to stand their ground. Further out, at the end of the French line, the cavalry picked their way across the muddy fields towards the forest that lined the banks of the Elbe and drove off the infantry who had tried to find shelter beneath the trees during the night.

Turning to the other flank, Napoleon watched the columns of Victor’s corps striking out to the west, their left flank on the Weisseritz, while to their right Murat’s cavalry formed line and waited for the order to begin their pursuit, once the infantry had broken up the enemy’s formations.

Within the hour the bridge at Plauen had been captured and covered with a battery of horse guns, severing the link between the allied left and its centre. Thousands of the enemy, caught in the mud and unable to escape in time, were pressed back against the swollen stream and trapped. Victor’s men stopped to deliver several devastating volleys at close range, and then the enemy began to throw down their muskets and surrender. A few hundred tried to cross the current, but lost their footing and were swept away, crying feebly for help before they disappeared from view and were washed down to the Elbe.

In the centre, St-Cyr and Marmont faced the greatest difficulty as they would be heavily outnumbered and the enemy had fortified every village and farmhouse that lay before the centre of the allied army. Sure enough, by eight o’clock they had been fought to a standstill and a thick bank of powder smoke lazily expanded for almost two miles as murderous volleys were exchanged at close range.

At midday the rain began to fall again and there was a brief lull in the fighting as the soldiers of both sides drew back a short distance to re-form their ranks, and steel themselves for the next onslaught. St-Cyr took advantage of the pause to bring his guns forward in readiness to blast his way through the enemy’s front line.

Napoleon rested his elbows on the parapet as he gazed over the battlefield. He felt a peculiar sense of detachment and realised that it was down to the nature of the battle. Aside from a small force of the Old Guard, every man had been placed in the line and there were no reserves for him to send forward if they were needed. His subordinates had clear orders and the enemy lacked the initiative and the will to do anything but sit on the defensive, so there was nothing for Napoleon to do but act as a spectator as his marshals drove in the allied flanks and attempted to break their centre.

A staff officer brought him a basket of cold chicken and some small loaves of the dark German bread that Napoleon had little liking for. As he ate, the enemy guns began to open fire on St-Cyr’s batteries as they unlimbered and soon a large-scale artillery duel had developed, the deep roar carrying across the battlefield.

‘There has not been much progress in the centre,’ Berthier observed. ‘I fear the attack might be forced to a halt, sire.’

‘It might.’ Napoleon nodded, then jabbed a half-eaten chicken leg towards the Pirna road. ‘Until Vandamme threatens their rear. Then the centre will break.’

‘I trust it will, sire.’

‘It will.’ Napoleon took another bite, chewed swiftly and swallowed. ‘Any news from Vandamme?’

‘The last despatch was timed two in the morning, sire. He had run into the enemy outposts.’

‘Then let us hope he had the sense to drive on through them and march to the sound of the guns here at Dresden.’

As the rain continued, the sound of musket and cannon fire began to dwindle. The left flank had been fought to a standstill, but over on the right Napoleon saw that Murat had unleashed his cavalry. The wet ground was making movement difficult and Napoleon slapped his thigh in delight as he saw large pockets of enemy soldiers trapped in the muddy fields surrounded by French cavalry and forced to surrender. By mid-afternoon the enemy’s left flank had all but ceased to exist. But the centre still held, impervious to the frequent attacks that the French soldiers made at bayonet point.

At length, Napoleon took a deep breath. ‘The army has done all it can for today, Berthier. This rain is bogging us down. Give the order to break off the attack. The men can spend another night under cover, and the enemy in the open, and we’ll see how quickly their spirit breaks tomorrow.’

‘Yes, sire.’

‘And I want reports from every division. Butcher’s bills, and the number of enemy captured and their casualties. By nightfall. There’s another day of battle to prepare for,’ he concluded irritably. ‘Tomorrow we will finish this.’

The rain finally ended as dusk shrouded the battlefield and mercifully concealed the bodies and limbs stuck in the sprawl of mud churned up by the passage of many thousands of men, horses and heavy wooden wheels. The men of the Grand Army marched back to their billets, weary and wet but still in fine spirits, unlike the long column of prisoners that was escorted over the Elbe to spend yet another night in the open. Berthier collated the battle reports that came in from across the army and presented the final assessment to his Emperor as he sat wrapped in a blanket and close to a brazier set up in the nave. It had been several days since Napoleon had slept well, and exhaustion, together with the damp conditions, had combined to give him a slight fever. He trembled as he huddled over the fire.

‘Sire, do you wish me to send for your surgeon?’ Berthier asked anxiously.

‘No. It will pass. Besides, I can rest after tomorrow.’ Napoleon’s face contorted for a moment and then he sneezed.

‘Shall I order some soup for you, sire?’

Napoleon shook his head. His stomach was acutely uncomfortable and the idea of any food at all made him feel queasy. He glanced up at Berthier and nodded towards the papers in the latter’s hands. ‘Are those the reports?’

‘Yes, sire.’

‘Give me the summary.’

‘We have taken some twelve thousand prisoners, and after the body count, allowing for the usual proportion of wounded, the enemy suffered a total loss of over thirty-five thousand men. In addition, we have taken twenty-six guns, and thirty ammunition wagons.’

‘And our losses?’

‘No more than ten thousand, sire.’

‘Good . . . good.’ Napoleon concentrated for a moment. ‘If Vandamme can keep pressing them for the direction of Pirna, then they will break when we renew our attack tomorrow.’ He sneezed again, and then waved Berthier away. ‘I will try to rest. You may wake me if there is any important news, or any sign of movement from the enemy.’

‘Yes, sire.’

Once Berthier left him, Napoleon reached for some more wood to put on the brazier, and then wrapped the blanket tightly about him and shut his eyes. He felt truly wretched - his body strained beyond the point of endurance. His body had become weak, far weaker than it had been in the glorious early years when he had been lithe, and tough, and lack of sleep and long marches had been as nothing to him. The years had marked him, as had the burdens of being a ruler. As he leaned towards the fire he felt the pressure of his stomach on his thighs and was struck by a sudden sense of revulsion at the sorry state of his physique. The thin sallow face of the young general had become almost spherical, with an unseemly roll of flesh forming under his chin. He tired too easily, and the effort of climbing the cathedral tower had left him gasping for breath by the time he reached the top. The present campaign must end soon, he reflected, before his failing health incapacitated him. If not, then he in turn would fail the army, who depended on him to guide them to victory.

If ever there was an implacable tyrant in this world, he mused miserably, it was time. The remorseless army of time, in its serried ranks of hours, days and years, swept all before it. The greatest general was as powerless as the rawest recruit in the face of such an enemy, and all men were doomed to defeat.

Napoleon was bracing himself to climb the tower again when a message came in from one of the cavalry pickets. The allied army had withdrawn. Only a small rearguard remained, covering the line of retreat.

‘Damn them!’ Napoleon growled. ‘They outnumber me and still they run. Cowards.’ He turned away from the tower steps and went over to the map table. ‘Do we know which direction they are headed?’

‘Yes, sire. South, towards Bohemia.’

‘Then we must effect a pursuit immediately. They have several hours’ lead on us. The Grand Army must be ready to advance this morning. Murat can take the cavalry forward to harass them, and try to slow them down.’ Napoleon quickly examined the map. ‘We must send word to Vandamme. If he can reach Teplitz before the allies emerge from the mountains then they will be caught between Vandamme and us. The campaign is still ours to win.’

Berthier set the headquarters staff to work as they drafted the orders for the pursuit. Murat’s cavalry were the first to move off, trotting south towards the Heights. Behind them the infantry of Victor’s corps were forming up outside the city ready to march when a new message arrived at headquarters. The despatch was handed to Berthier by one of his aides and he read it quickly before he glanced up anxiously and hurried over to Napoleon.

‘Sire, Marshal Oudinot has retreated to Wittenberg.’

‘What?’ Napoleon turned swiftly. ‘What is he doing there? He promised me that he would be in Berlin four days ago. Why has he retreated?’

‘He reports that he was defeated by a superior force outside Berlin on the twenty-third.’

‘And he has run back to Wittenberg, rather than hold our northern flank.’ Napoleon gritted his teeth. ‘The fool has left the way open for the Prussians to march on Dresden. Damn him! Damn him!’

Everyone in the nave fell quiet as Napoleon shouted. They watched him nervously as he fought to control his temper, glaring at the map and balling his hands into fists. Berthier was silent for a while, then swallowed and cleared his throat.

‘Sire, what are your orders?’

‘Just a moment. I must think.’ Napoleon closed his eyes and forced himself to concentrate. This news changed everything. The great advantage that had been won over the largest allied army would be worthless if the Grand Army was forced to abandon the pursuit in order to turn and face the new threat. Conversely, Napoleon could leave Dresden garrisoned and continue the pursuit, but if the city fell then he would lose his supply base and be cut off from France. He seethed with fury at Oudinot’s incompetence.

‘The army will continue the pursuit. There is still a chance of trapping the Army of Bohemia in the mountains. I will stay here with the Imperial Guard and wait for further news from Oudinot.’

Berthier nodded. As Napoleon looked round the nave he became aware of the silence and the stillness of his staff officers and aides. ‘Well, what are you waiting for? Prepare the orders!’

At once the men bent their heads over their notebooks and despatches and carried on with their tasks, not daring to look up in case they caught the Emperor’s eye. He stood, arms crossed, glaring at them for a while before turning back to the map. Coloured wooden blocks denoted the three main enemy armies, north, east and south of Dresden. Napoleon knew that he could defeat any one of them. But he could not be in more than one place at a time, and that meant he was compelled to delegate his command of scattered formations to his subordinates. They had failed him in this campaign. Perhaps they too were losing their touch, he thought. Fellow victims of the strains of age and weariness.

The pursuit continued for two more days, and then, on the evening of the thirtieth, a muddied dragoon officer arrived at headquarters with the news that Vandamme had been defeated at Kulm. Napoleon nodded calmly and bid the officer make his report in full. Vandamme, it seemed, had obeyed his orders with alacrity, driving his troops on as they marched round the hills to cut off the enemy’s escape. On the twenty-ninth they had encountered the rearguard in the narrow valley at Kulm and fought an inconclusive battle. That night, another enemy column, in an attempt to escape St-Cyr’s corps, had blundered into the rear of Vandamme’s men, trapping them in the valley. Nearly ten thousand had managed to cut their way free, but the rest were either dead or had been taken prisoner, like Vandamme himself.

Napoleon heard the news without interruption, and then politely dismissed the officer before turning to Berthier and the other staff officers.

‘It seems that the pursuit has failed. Recall the army to Dresden.’

‘Yes, sire.’ Berthier nodded. ‘What are your plans now, sire?’

Napoleon frowned and shook his head. ‘Plans?’

For a terrifying moment, he could think of nothing. His mind was numbed by lack of sleep and in any case every scheme he had devised to defeat the enemy had failed. It was becoming clear to Napoleon what the enemy’s campaign strategy was. While they were content to fight his marshals when and where they could, they had resolved not to face Napoleon in person if possible.

‘Clever, very clever,’ he mused wearily. There was little doubt that the allies had finally hit upon an effective means of fighting him. Worse still, the fatal weakness that they had divined in the Grand Army was one of his own creation. For years now, Napoleon had exercised personal authority over every aspect of his army. His officers and men had come to rely on him utterly and had lost the ability to use their own initiative and trust their own judgement. So now, he was obliged to be everywhere, or concentrate all his men in one unwieldy host so large that it could not possibly survive for long off the land as it attempted to corner an enemy who was ever willing to trade time for space.

‘Oh, yes . . .’ Napoleon muttered under his breath. ‘Very clever indeed.’

Chapter 44

Early in September Napoleon ordered Marshal Ney to make one last attempt to capture Berlin. Ney only managed to advance as far as Dennewitz before he was defeated and sent reeling back to the south. Meanwhile, Napoleon had taken the Imperial Guard with him to join MacDonald’s army and crush Blьcher, who he hoped would prove too impetuous to refuse battle. But, true to the allied strategy, Blьcher fell back, and at the same time the Army of Bohemia advanced on Dresden once again, forcing Napoleon to race back.

For the rest of the month the enemy continued to probe towards Ney and MacDonald and each time Napoleon was obliged to force-march reinforcements to meet the threat, only for the enemy to withdraw again the instant they detected his presence. Napoleon was aware that Saxony could no longer feed his army. The supplies that had been built up in Dresden were steadily dwindling as the soldiers’ daily ration issue was cut and cut again until the soldiers were being issued less than quarter of their usual allowance of bread. Forage for the horses was also running short and Berthier’s daily report of the strength returns revealed a steady decline in the army’s numbers.

‘What do we do, gentlemen?’ Napoleon asked his marshals at a meeting in Dresden towards the middle of the month.‘We have too few men to cover all the ground we are obliged to occupy. Those men that we do have are weak and weary and have lost the zeal that they showed when they fought here last month. And now there is news from our spies that the Russians have sent a fresh army from Poland to join the campaign against us.’

‘We need to shorten our front, sire,’ said Murat. ‘Pull back to a more central position, behind the Elbe, concentrate our forces and wait for the opportunity to strike on our terms.’

‘That is all very well, but what do we do about Dresden? We cannot afford to leave the city exposed to the Army of Bohemia. It will have to be defended, by at least one corps.’

‘Why, sire?’ Murat raised his eyebrows. ‘Dresden has ceased to be of any real military value. It has all but run out of food, and the magazines are nearly empty. It would be better to have the garrison with the main army than cut off in Dresden and unable to affect the outcome of the campaign.’

Napoleon regarded Murat patiently. ‘You are a fine soldier, Joachim, but you show poor political sense. Dresden is the capital of our sole remaining German ally, now that Bavaria is expected to declare for the coalition any day. If we abandon Dresden then we abandon any legitimacy for having French soldiers stationed on German soil. We cease to be allies protecting the interests of our friends, and become occupiers - invaders - instead. I can think of nothing more dangerous to our interests at the moment. The thought of every German peasant with a gun turning on our supply convoys is an alarming prospect.’

‘Not if there are reprisals, sire. If we shoot enough peasants then I’m sure we will have no trouble.’

Marmont laughed drily.‘Have you forgotten your time in Spain? For every man we shot, five more took his place, filled with desire for revenge.’

‘I remember Spain,’ Murat replied. ‘My only regret is that I did not shoot more of them.’

‘Gentlemen, that’s enough,’ Napoleon interrupted. ‘I have made my decision. We will leave a garrison in Dresden. St-Cyr, you are the obvious choice. I will leave you Lobau’s division as well. You will hold out at all costs.’

St-Cyr nodded.

‘That leaves us the question of where to make our new centre of operations.’

‘The Elbe, then,’ said Murat.

Napoleon thought briefly and shook his head. ‘That is too much of a risk. Too long a front. We have to assume that the enemy will be able to get over the Elbe. If they manage to cross in more than one place then the front will collapse. What we need is a base from which we can concentrate our forces and then strike in any direction.’ He leaned forward over the map, and pointed. ‘Leipzig. It’s a large city, connected to good roads, and will give us the advantage of interior lines if the enemy does advance from more than one direction. Thoughts, gentlemen?’

None of the marshals demurred and Napoleon nodded, the decision made. ‘Very well, then the army will be ordered to concentrate at Leipzig.’

As the year moved into October the Grand Army’s position grew steadily worse. Blьcher and Bernadotte were operating in concert to the north, while General Bennigsen’s Army of Poland was advancing from the east. The Army of Bohemia had bypassed Dresden and was forcing Murat back on Leipzig. As Napoleon read the reports he could not help but marvel at the scale of the coming struggle. A quarter of a million Frenchmen and a handful of allied contingents were facing nearly four hundred thousand Russian, Austrian and Prussian troops.

It was early in the afternoon as Napoleon entered Leipzig. The sound of cannon fire from the south told him that Murat was fending off the vanguard of the Army of Bohemia. The people of the city had learned that a great battle was imminent and were hurrying from their homes clutching whatever valuables they could carry. Some went east, but most went west, Napoleon noted. Clearly they judged that he would win the day and did not want to get caught on the wrong side of a pursuit once the battle was over.

His escort cleared a path for his carriage through the refugees, some of whom stopped to marvel at this glimpse of the great Emperor of France. The carriage and squadron of hussars trotted through the city, passing soldiers forcing their way into shops and houses to find food and secure a comfortable billet, and soon reached the Grand Army’s headquarters in Leipzig’s chamber of deputies. Berthier and his staff had arrived at dawn and occupied the clerks’ hall, immediately settling down to work to ensure that the army’s communications would flow efficiently once the battle was under way.

Napoleon greeted Berthier and then sat heavily in a chair beside his chief of staff’s desk. ‘Have the cavalry patrols located Blьcher and Bernadotte yet?’

‘Not yet, sire.’

‘Even if they have joined forces, they are at least three days’ march from here. That will give us a chance to tackle the Army of Bohemia before they can intervene. I intend to give battle in two days’ time. The line of hills to the south of the city is ideal for artillery. That will be where we take up our position. The plan will be the same one we used at Dresden. Pin the enemy centre in place while we envelop their flanks. The army will use tomorrow to move into position so that the attack can begin the following morning.’

‘Very well, sire. And what about our northern flank?’

‘What of it?’

‘If Blьcher should appear, then we will need to block him, else he will cut the road to the west and fall on our rear.’

‘We are safe from Blьcher. He will not reach us until after the battle,’ Napoleon replied dismissively. ‘But you are right to be cautious. Marmont’s corps can guard the northern approaches until the battle is under way. If there is no sign of Blьcher he can march south and add his weight to our right flank.’

‘Yes, sire.’ Berthier nodded, relieved. ‘I will give the orders at once.’

Two days later the dawn was cold and misty and the soldiers of the Grand Army quietly took their places along the line of hills either side of the village of Wachau. Opposite them, across the rolling countryside south of Leipzig, the Army of Bohemia spread out across a wide front. Even before Napoleon and his escort reached his forward command post there was a deep roar of guns as the enemy opened fire.

‘It seems that they have attacked first,’ Napoleon said to Berthier. ‘Very well, that serves our purpose. Let them expend their effort and then we shall take them with a counter-attack.’

The highest point along the line of hills was called the Galgenburg and it was here that the headquarters staff had prepared the Emperor’s command point. The ground underneath his boots trembled from the exchange of artillery fire for the first half-hour and then the enemy batteries began to fall silent as the first waves of infantry advanced towards the French line. Vast columns of men marched forward beneath the national colours of Austria, Prussia and Russia, straight into the hail of case shot from the massed guns of the Grand Army. Gaps appeared in the enemy’s leading battalions as men were smashed away, but the ranks closed up and the battalions came on without missing a step. Shortly before the waiting French infantry they halted to deploy into line, still under fire from cannon, and then began the deadly business of musket volleys as the two armies set about each other in earnest.

From his high position Napoleon followed the battle with satisfaction as the enemy attack made little progress. Here and there, the allies broke individual French battalions, but elsewhere their units crumbled away under the weight of French fire, and withdrew in disorder. The enemy took the village at Wachau at ten o’clock, and then it was retaken by French infantry after a bloody mкlйe in the narrow streets which were left strewn with bodies, the neatly painted walls spattered and smeared with blood.

As midday approached it was clear that the enemy attack was spent and the battle had settled down into a deadly process of attrition.

Napoleon had seen no sign of the approach of Marmont’s corps to take its place on the right wing of the French line, where it would be needed to swing the balance in Napoleon’s favour once the time was right to launch the counter-attack.

‘Berthier!’

‘Sire?’

‘Have there been any messages from Marmont?’

Berthier checked his log book. ‘None, sire.’

‘Then where is he? He should have reached his position an hour ago. Find out. Tell him I want him here, or he may cost us the battle.’

‘At once, sire.’

At noon the French attack began as General Drouot, the commander of the artillery, gave the order to open fire on the enemy centre. The range was long and the gunners used round shot, but even so the heavy iron balls smashed deep into the enemy regiments formed up opposite the Galgenburg. On either side of the battery the French army began to advance, the infantry pausing to unleash volleys at close range before charging home with the bayonet. All along the battlefield Napoleon saw that the enemy was steadily being forced to retreat, giving up all their earlier gains, and then more ground as they were pressed back towards their reserves. On the left flank, Murat unleashed his cavalry in a great sweeping arc intended to cut behind the enemy line.

As the attack drove forward, Napoleon heard more cannon fire, this time from the north. He became concerned as it rapidly intensified. Leaving the command post, he mounted his horse and galloped down the reverse slope of the Galgenburg and past the suburbs of Leipzig, making for the sound of the guns. Two miles north of the city was the village of Mцckern, where the smoke from scores of guns was rising up in the still air. Spurring his horse on, Napoleon came across the first of the wounded, stumbling back from the battle raging to the north of Leipzig. It was Blьcher, Napoleon realised. He had come up on them more quickly than Napoleon had calculated.

Marmont was directing his corps from a hill a short distance outside Mцckern when Napoleon found him. The French still held the village, but the rest of the line had been forced to give ground. To the north Napoleon could see long columns of infantry and cavalry marching up to join Blьcher’s vanguard.

‘Why the devil didn’t you report this?’ Napoleon barked in response to Marmont’s salute. ‘Did you not think the arrival of Blьcher was a matter of some importance?’

‘Sire, I was ordered to hold my ground by Marshal Ney. I assumed he would inform you that I had been attacked.’

‘Ney?’ Napoleon shook his head in frustration. ‘Never mind. Can you hold Blьcher back until tonight? You must buy me time.’

Marmont glanced over his line. ‘I can hold them for two, maybe three hours, sire, but they are growing in strength all the while.’

‘Do whatever you can to delay Blьcher. Then fall back to the outer defences of the city.’

Marmont nodded. Napoleon stayed with him for another half-hour, until he was confident that Marmont’s men showed no signs of breaking, then he turned his mount south and returned to the main battle. It was past five o’clock before he reached the command post. Berthier greeted him with a worried expression and made his report. ‘The attack is stalling, sire. The enemy have more reserves than we thought. We have pushed them back the best part of a mile, but no further. We can’t break through and our own reserves have been exhausted. Only the Imperial Guard remains.’

‘Then why weren’t they sent forward?’

‘I didn’t have your authority to give the order, sire. It was in the battle orders that they could only be deployed by you.’

Napoleon sighed with exasperation that he had been distracted by events at Mцckern at the critical point of the main battle. It was too late to do anything now. The light was starting to fail and night would be upon them in little more than an hour. He clasped his hands tightly together behind his back and mastered his frustration before he could give the necessary orders to Berthier.

‘Call off the attack. Order all commanders to withdraw. Once they break contact they are to retire on Leipzig.

The Grand Army fell back on Leipzig under cover of darkness, forming a defence perimeter around the edge of the city. The strength returns sent in to headquarters indicated that the day’s fighting had cost twenty-five thousand men, and it was likely that the enemy’s losses had been somewhat higher, mainly due to the bloody failure of their initial attack. That was of little comfort to Napoleon now that the enemy’s armies were closing in on Leipzig. There was no longer any possibility of fighting them one at a time, and no hope of defeating them en masse. Retreat to the Rhine was the only course of action lying open to Napoleon now, and the knowledge weighed heavily upon his weary mind.

The following day there was only skirmishing as the allied armies moved into position, preparing for a simultaneous assault on the city. Napoleon took advantage of the delay to send his baggage across the river that ran to the west of Leipzig. The ground on the far bank was composed of a low-lying marsh, crossed by a causeway, and it was clear that there was a danger that the army would be caught in a bottleneck if it collapsed under the coming onslaught. That night, Napoleon revealed his decision to retreat to his marshals.

‘It seems that we have another Berezina, gentlemen.’ Napoleon smiled thinly. ‘We are outnumbered two to one. Our ammunition is running low. We must evacuate the city. We will start pulling men out of the line from midnight. MacDonald, Lauriston and Poniatowski will form the rearguard and keep the enemy at bay until the rest of the army is over, and then fall back themselves. In order for the evacuation to succeed, it is vital that the men cross the river and the causeway in good order. The rearguard will be covered by our guns on the far bank, and when the last men are across the bridge will be blown. Berthier will send you orders when it is your turn to cross the river.’ Napoleon shrugged. ‘That’s all there is to say, gentlemen, except good luck.’

A light rain began to fall during the night, and it helped to conceal the sounds of the retreat as the horses, guns and men of the Grand Army filed across the river Elster. When dawn broke, half the army was still in the city, and in order to buy more time Napoleon sent an officer to the enemy to offer an armistice, spinning out the negotiations for as long as possible. Eventually the allies became aware of the ruse and sent the officer back, and began their attack shortly afterwards. There was little to gain from remaining in Leipzig and Napoleon mounted his horse and made his way through the streets to the crowded approaches to the bridge.

Once he reached the causeway Napoleon dismounted to observe the final phase of the evacuation as the soldiers pressed forward eagerly, despite the angry shouts of the engineer officers struggling to ensure that the men did not dangerously crowd the bridge. Napoleon approached the officer in charge of the demolition of the bridge as he supervised the laying of the fuses.

‘You are certain that the charges are sufficient to destroy the bridge, Colonel . . .’

‘Montfort, sire.’The officer smiled nervously. ‘Colonel Montfort. Yes, indeed, sire. There’s enough powder under the arches to blow it to pieces twice over.’

Napoleon nodded. ‘That’s good. You understand your orders?’

‘Yes, sire. We light the fuse the moment the last of the rearguard is over.’

‘That’s right.’ Napoleon regarded the man carefully. Montfort’s left hand was twitching at his side. Napoleon patted him on the shoulder and smiled reassuringly. ‘Just do your duty, Colonel, and we’ll all be able to thumb our noses at the enemy, eh?’

The soldiers continued to file across the bridge as the last hours of the morning passed, until only the rearguard, some twenty thousand men, remained on the eastern bank. The sounds of fighting gradually drew closer to the bridge but Poniatowski reported that the rearguard was falling back in good order. Then, shortly before one o’clock, a party of Austrian soldiers appeared at the windows of a house overlooking the river. At once they opened fire on the men crossing the bridge. The range was long, and most of the rounds cracked into the stonework or zipped over the heads of the intended targets. Only a handful of men were struck, but it still caused a ripple of panic amongst those packed on the bridge.

Napoleon saw the danger at once and hurried over to the nearest gun covering the bridge, close to the position where the engineers stood by their fuse.

‘Sergeant! You see that house there?’ Napoleon pointed across the river, and a moment later there was a flash and a puff of smoke from one of the windows.

‘I see ’em, sire.’The sergeant nodded.

‘Then traverse your gun and put some case shot through those windows,’ Napoleon ordered.

‘With pleasure, sire.’

As soon as the gun was laid, and the elevation screw adjusted, the sergeant ordered his crew back and touched the portfire to the fuse cone. The field gun kicked back as a short jet of flame stabbed towards the house. Glass shattered and plaster exploded from the wall, splashing down into the river below. As Napoleon had hoped, the enemy musket fire ceased for an instant, but then a musket barrel appeared at the window and a shot was fired. The ball smacked into the bridge close by Colonel Montfort and he cried out as a stone chip grazed his cheek.

‘Sweet Jesus!’ he shouted, eyes wide with fear.‘The enemy are on us!’ He turned quickly to one of his men, no more than a youth, holding the smouldering taper. ‘Light the fuse! Do it now!’

Then he turned and scrambled up the bank, brushing past Napoleon as he ran along the causeway. Another shot struck the surface of the river close to the young engineer and he ducked and lit the end of the fuse.

‘No! Don’t!’ Napoleon shouted, thrusting out his hands.

There was a bright flare, and then the spark raced along the fuse, hissing and spitting like a demon as it followed the loops of cord towards the central arches of the bridge. One of the guardsmen escorting Napoleon grabbed his sleeve and hauled him away.

‘Take cover, sire!’

They stumbled across the bank of the river, making for the shelter of a low stone wall. The guardsman heaved Napoleon over the wall and dived after him, just as there was a blinding flash that shot jets of flame and smoke into the air. The concussion hit them with a deafening roar. Napoleon glanced up and saw chunks of masonry, men and limbs blasted into the air, where they hung for an instant before tumbling back down. A slab of paving smashed through the tiled roof of the house adjoining the wall.

For a moment Napoleon sat on his hands and knees, stunned by the ferocity of the blast. Then he scrambled up and looked over the wall. The central arches of the bridge had gone and the water beneath was churning as the lighter bits of debris rained down. A gap nearly a hundred feet wide had been blown out of the bridge and on either end the stonework was scorched black. Further back the bodies of his men lay heaped on the cobbles of the roadway. Here and there a dazed survivor struggled to free himself from the bloody carnage. On the far bank a crowd of men stood and stared, aghast. Their only escape route from Leipzig was gone. A collective groan reached Napoleon’s ears from across the river.

‘Oh, shit,’ the guardsman muttered. ‘They’re fucked.’

Napoleon nodded. Already he could hear the sounds of musketry increasing in intensity as the enemy pressed forward against the French rearguard. Some of the men on the far bank looked round anxiously and then the first of them threw down his musket and struggled out of his backpack. Stripped down to shirt, breeches and boots, he clambered down into the current and struck out for the opposite bank. More followed suit, some clinging to small kegs and other items that would give them buoyancy. Most made it across, heaving themselves up on to the grassy bank either side of Napoleon. Some, poor swimmers or injured, were carried away by the current, and thrashed for a moment before being dragged beneath the surface by the weight of their uniforms and equipment.

‘Look!’ The guardsman thrust out his arm. ‘Look there, sire. It’s Marshal Poniatowski!’

Napoleon scanned the far bank and quickly caught sight of the marshal, his left arm in a sling, urging his horse through the throng, accompanied by a handful of his staff officers. All around him the French soldiers were throwing down their muskets and waiting to be taken prisoner. Poniatowski reached the edge of the river and reined in, gazing down at the men attempting to swim across the current. He looked up, in Napoleon’s direction. For an instant Napoleon stared back, his first impulse bitterness to see the capture of such a fine officer. Just when France needed every worthy man, to save her from her enemies.

Napoleon cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted,‘Swim for it!’

He saw Poniatowski nod and turn to his officers. The nearest shook his head and there was a heated exchange before Poniatowski waved his uninjured hand dismissively, grasped his reins and spurred his mount down the bank into the river. The horse slithered the last few feet and splashed into the water, kicking out for the far bank. Poniatowski leaned forward, urging it on as he clung to the reins with his good hand. Napoleon watched, willing them on. Enemy soldiers further along the river bank were busy firing at the hundreds of Frenchmen in the current, struggling to escape captivity. Spouts of water leaped into the air amid the splashing from flailing arms and legs. Just as the marshal reached the middle of the river his horse was hit in the neck. There was a welter of blood, and the animal thrashed wildly, rearing up in the water. Poniatowski was thrown from his saddle and Napoleon watched helplessly as the man’s head surfaced a short distance downstream from the stricken horse. The Pole managed a few desperate strokes with his good arm, and then slid beneath the whirling eddies and splashes of the surface and was gone.

Napoleon desperately looked for any further sign of him, to no avail, and then took a deep breath. Poniatowski was lost to him, together with scores more of his most experienced generals and over twenty thousand men and all their cannon, equipment and stores.

The campaign was lost. The thought struck him like a physical blow, dazing him momentarily. This was the kind of crushing defeat he had inflicted on his enemies in the past. He had been humbled. Napoleon felt sickened by the realisation. There was nothing he could do to save his empire east of the Rhine. The Grand Army would have to retreat, leaving behind tens of thousands of men still holding out in the towns and fortresses of Prussia and the other German states.

He needed time to prepare for what was to come. The war to hold the French empire together was lost. Soon, very soon, Napoleon and his battered and weary men would be forced to fight for the very survival of France.

Chapter 45

Arthur

St-Jean-de-Luz, 10 November 1813

As he rode through the camp of the Light Division that night, Arthur could see the good humour in the faces of the men, lit warm and red by the glow of the camp fires. The week’s fighting had gone well and Soult’s line of forts barring the way into France had been successfully stormed with a combination of courage and audacity that had warmed Arthur’s heart. The allied army had crossed the Bidassoa and Nivelle rivers and crossed the enemy’s border. They were now settling in for the night on French soil, and the thought filled Arthur with pride. Even so, he was already planning the next stage of his campaign. Bonaparte was unlikely to tolerate the damage done to his prestige by the incursion across the border from Spain. The French Emperor would be sure to order his forces to hurl Arthur and his soldiers back across the frontier.

Arthur smiled to himself. What Bonaparte might order and what reality might permit were two very different things. His intelligence officers had picked up rumours from French prisoners that the Emperor had suffered a serious reverse at the hands of England’s European allies. Since the rumours came by way of letters received by the soldiers opposed to Arthur, it was difficult to know how much store to place in them. The enemy’s censors were well practised in concealing bad news from their people, and the French newspapers that had come into the possession of Arthur’s staff officers carried no hint of any setback. On the contrary, the cheaply printed news bulletins spoke only of Bonaparte’s continuing mastery over the hordes of the Tsar and his incompetent allies. Arthur had grown used to the lies, as indeed had most Frenchmen, he noted with a smile. It had even become a catchphrase amongst the French - to lie like a bulletin.

If Bonaparte had indeed suffered a serious defeat then he would be hard pushed to reinforce the army under Marshal Soult that was facing Arthur. Which was just as well, since Soult already had nearly as many men, and more artillery and cavalry, than Arthur. A few years before, Arthur would have been far more cautious about taking the war on to enemy soil before his lines of communication were securely guarded. As things stood, the enemy still held Pamplona, and Marshal Suchet and his army were still in the field in the region of Valencia. However, Suchet showed little sign of stirring from what had become his personal fiefdom, and the garrison of Pamplona was under siege by a Spanish army. Accordingly, Arthur felt the risks were acceptable. In any case, his political masters in London had allowed the allied army’s swift advance and spate of victories to go over their heads and had insisted that Arthur proceed with an invasion of France.

Thus it had always been during the war in the Peninsula, he sighed wearily as he crossed the bridge and entered the town gate of St-Jean-de-Luz, touching the brim of the oilskin covering his cocked hat in response to the salutes of the sentries. His caution and careful planning had ensured British success, so far. His country was grateful to him, and his army trusted him, the latter being by far the more valued by Arthur. No amount of titles, spoils of war and parliamentary votes of thanks ever made a better general of a man, nor a better man of a general, he reflected.

He stopped a civilian for directions to the mairie where Somerset had been sent to set up the army’s headquarters. The man briefly registered a look of surprise when Arthur addressed him in French, but he seemed almost unconcerned by the presence of so many English soldiers in his town. He turned and pointed towards the end of the street, where it appeared to open on to a small square. Arthur thanked him and walked his horse on. As he clopped into the square he noted with approval that a number of provosts were patrolling the area, keeping a watchful eye on the soldiers to ensure that they did not breach Arthur’s orders concerning respectful treatment of French civilians and their property. More than ever he was dependent upon the goodwill of the locals. The allied army was no longer liberating a people from an invader. Now the allies were the invaders and Arthur knew it was vital that his men did nothing that might provoke the French civilians.

Arthur entered the mayor’s reception chamber and handed his coat and hat to a corporal standing at the door. As soon as he saw that his commander had arrived Somerset rose from his desk and hurried over to greet him.

‘The battle reports indicate we have taken every one of our objectives, sir. The first news from our cavalry patrols is that Soult is retreating towards Bayonne.’

‘So we have won our foothold in France.’ Arthur nodded. ‘Which is as well. The army could never have survived for long in the Pyrenees. Now we shall have comfortable quarters for the winter, eh?’

‘Yes, my lord.’ Somerset could not resist a small smile. ‘That is, unless you give orders to continue the advance.’

‘I would, but first the men must be rested. Besides, there is no sure news of how Bonaparte is faring. For all we know he could have defeated his foes and be marching on us at this moment.’