Read The Fields of Death Online
Authors: Simon Scarrow
The Fields of Death (5 page)
He commanded the largest British army in the field and there were many at home in England who loudly questioned the sagacity of supporting such a large force in the Peninsula, far from the vital battlefields of central Europe, where Arthur’s men could be better used. He disagreed. It was best to deploy valuable British soldiers where they stood a good chance of tipping the scales. Even so, Arthur’s political masters had proved reluctant to allow him to take risks. Or they had been until the victory at Oporto. Then, true to form, the politicians had veered from caution to opportunism in an instant.
Before Oporto Arthur had been forbidden from entering Spain without the express permission of the British government. Now that the news of the victory had arrived in London, together with Arthur’s report of his pursuit of Soult as far as the Spanish border, the Prime Minister had sent him a despatch expressing his disappointment that Arthur had not fully exploited his success. The Prime Minister now urged Arthur to invade Spain, capture Madrid and drive the French out.
Arthur heard footsteps approaching the table and looked up to see his senior aide de camp approaching. Lord Fitzroy Somerset was a handsome youth, but unlike many of the other younger officers in the army he dedicated himself to his duties with a high degree of organisation and intelligence. He had proved to be a valuable member of Arthur’s small team of staff officers and the general had come to rely on him and, on occasion, seek his opinion.
‘Good morning, sir,’ Somerset smiled, proffering a small bundle of letters.
‘Put them there, on the corner of the table. You can deal with them in a moment. For now, read this.’ Arthur pushed the despatch he had been reading across the table to Somerset as the latter pulled up a stool and sat down.
Somerset picked up the document and read through it quickly, his expression settling into an irritated frown as his gaze flitted across the text. He looked up as he lowered the letter.
‘He must be joking.’
‘Only at my expense,’ Arthur muttered.
‘Sir, this is preposterous. They get one whiff of victory and then want the impossible.’
Arthur sighed. ‘You are right, of course. It is impossible. We have barely twenty-five thousand men under arms, and another fifteen if you include Beresford and his Portuguese troops. Against us Joseph Bonaparte has perhaps as many as a quarter of a million men. It is true that many of the enemy are tied down in garrisons but they must still be marched upon and destroyed, and any siege is a costly affair.’ He paused briefly. ‘Speaking of cost, it appears that His Majesty’s treasury has declined to send me the four hundred thousand pounds I requested to fund our operations here. I am told that they have decided that the hundred and twenty thousand already sent is sufficient for the foreseeable future. It barely covers our existing debts.’
‘At least we should be able to pay those off soon enough, sir,’ Somerset responded, as he began to open and read the morning’s despatches. ‘Once Cradock returns from Cadiz.’
Arthur nodded. Cradock was one of his senior officers, entrusted with a hundred thousand pounds’ worth of captured bullion to be converted into Portuguese dollars. He was due back any day, and once there was money in the army’s war chest Arthur would be able to lead his men against the French once more and enter Spain. The Spanish junta, the government opposed to the regime of Joseph Bonaparte in Madrid, had offered to co-operate with the British and Arthur was bidden to join forces with General Cuesta to the west of the capital. Britain’s ally promised to provide ample supplies of food and ammunition to the redcoat army marching to their aid. Arthur had been promised much by the Portuguese government and received little, and feared that he could only expect the same from the Spanish.
Somerset cleared his throat as he looked at a lengthy list of names on a sheet of paper.‘More bad news, sir. A score at least of our officers have requested reappointment to the Portuguese army.’
Arthur’s heart sank at the news. ‘How many is that so far?’
Somerset paused a moment to think. ‘Must be over a hundred by now.’
Dearth of supplies was not the only difficulty facing the army,Arthur mused ruefully. The men were in good enough spirits, despite the frustration of watching Soult escape when they reached the border, but the mood amongst many of the officers was far less encouraging. In an army where commissions were bought and sold like any other commodity, those without a family fortune or access to large loans were often destined to spend the whole of their careers as junior officers. So it came as little surprise when many of them requested a transfer to the Portuguese army where they would be assured of swift promotion and far better pay. Beresford, charged with training and leading the Portuguese army, had already been promoted to the rank of marshal, technically outranking Arthur himself. It was frustrating to lose good officers this way, but at least they would be helping to improve the performance of Britain’s allies. Besides, Arthur could not begrudge the unfortunate officers unable to buy their chance of advancement in the British army. If only some of his more incompetent subordinates could be induced to transfer to the colours of Portugal along with the others, Arthur mused briefly.
He nodded wearily. ‘Very well. Have their applications approved in my name. Then send a memo to the War Office to notify them of the relevant vacancies in our ranks.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Somerset continued working through the morning’s paperwork and then paused as he came across a small, neatly addressed bundle of letters. He cleared his throat and held the bundle up. ‘Correspondence from Lady Wellesley, sir.’
Arthur glanced up briefly. ‘Put it with the rest. I’ll attend to it when I have the time.’
Somerset was still for an instant, as if considering adding some further comment, and then put the bundle in the wooden tray reserved for low priority papers. Arthur felt a flicker of irritation at the imputed reproach of his aide. After all, he had an army to command, with all the duties that came with the post. His wife was back in London in a comfortable house, surrounded by servants. Yet Kitty contrived to drag him into making decisions about the pettiest issues of domestic management. While he found her news of friends, family and society mildly diverting, his heart began to sink when Kitty turned to the more substantial issues that consumed her thoughts: how to end the service of a difficult or incompetent maid, or whether to redecorate a room, or her latest choice of school for their sons, even though they were little more than infants. Despite his polite efforts to encourage her to take charge of the family’s affairs whilst he was away on campaign, thus far she had proved to have little faith in her ability to do so. Privately, it infuriated Arthur, just as it did when one of his officers failed to show the initiative required of his rank and responsibilities. It occurred to him that a wife and a subordinate might not be quite the same thing, but he dismissed the notion. A wife had duties, just the same as a man, and should be measured by how well she carried them out.
Marrying Kitty had been a mistake, he accepted. Nevertheless, the deed was done, though for all the wrong reasons save one: that he had given his word that he would marry her before he set off for India. She had waited for his return and so Arthur had dutifully married her, though her looks and youthful charms had long since faded. Now, if he were honest, he was glad to be away from her.
As he shook thoughts of Kitty aside, Arthur spied a movement on the far side of the river. A small convoy of wagons was snaking through the olive trees down towards the bridge that crossed the Tagus. A thin gauze of dust hung about the wagons as they rattled along the crude roadway. Two squadrons of cavalry escorted the convoy, one at its head and the other guarding the rear.
‘Somerset.’
‘Sir?’
‘See those wagons down there, on the far bank, approaching the bridge?’
Somerset looked in the direction indicated. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Ride down there and see if it’s Cradock. If it is, send him directly to me.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Somerset lowered the document he was reading, saluted and made his way over to the horse line where several mounts waited in the shade of some cedar trees, their tails flicking at the flies that buzzed round them in a constant cloud. He unhitched the reins and swung himself up on to the saddle of the nearest horse, then spurred it towards the track that led down to the bridge.
While he waited, Arthur pulled a blank sheet of paper towards him and took up a pen. He paused a moment as he composed the arguments necessary to try to squeeze more money and men from the government. Try as he might,Arthur could think of no new way to state the obvious. If the politicians in London were serious about winning the war then they would provide the means to see it through. If they were not serious, then whatever Arthur said would not sway them from the path to defeat. All that he could do was lay the facts in front of his political masters and trust to their good sense. With a deep, weary sigh, he flipped open the cap of the inkwell, dipped his pen and began to write.
‘Cradock!’ Arthur looked up as Somerset returned with another officer. He lowered his pen and rose from his chair, leaving the table to greet the new arrival. Cradock’s short jacket and bicorne hat were covered with dust, which had also settled into the creases of his face, making him look far older than he was. ‘Good to see you!’
Cradock saluted briefly and grinned. ‘And you, sir.’
‘How was the journey?’ Arthur asked, and then shook his head apologetically. ‘By God, where are my manners? You must be hot and thirsty. Somerset, get you to the innkeeper and have some refreshment brought here.’
Somerset nodded and hurried away. Arthur turned his attention back to Cradock and lowered his voice. ‘I’ll ask about the journey later. First, tell me that you have changed the Spanish gold.’
‘Yes, sir. It’s locked away in pay chests in the wagons. Though I’ll admit that a hundred thousand in gold doesn’t buy as much Portuguese currency as one would like.’
Arthur looked sharply at him. ‘Explain yourself.’
‘It’s the money changers, sir. They knew how much we needed the money and charged a somewhat higher commission than we were expecting. I did what I could to get the best deal.’
Arthur frowned. ‘Damn them! The Spanish are fighting to survive, and we’re putting our heads on the block to try to help them, yet those blasted bankers still try to get their claws on every last penny that passes before them. By God, sometimes they forget whose side they’re on.’
‘Alas, sir.’ Cradock shook his head. ‘ ’Tis a well-known fact that bankers are a nation unto themselves and damned be the rest.’
‘Amen to that,’ Arthur said with feeling. ‘Anyway, the greed of bankers notwithstanding, at least the army can move forward again.’ He nodded down towards the river where twenty or thirty men were spraying handfuls of glittering water at each other. ‘It will do the men good to remember that we are here to fight the French, not play like children.’
Cradock gazed longingly down towards the river. ‘I suppose so, sir. But I have to say they’ve earned their pleasure.’
‘Maybe.’ Arthur pursed his lips. ‘But there’s a long road ahead of us, Cradock.’
Somerset emerged from the inn, followed by a teenage boy carrying a tray with some old chipped glasses and a bottle of white wine. He set it down on the table, bowed his head and withdrew.
Arthur nodded to Somerset. ‘You do the honours.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Somerset pulled out the cork stopper and half filled each glass before handing one to Arthur and Cradock. Arthur raised his and smiled. ‘Gentlemen, the toast is death to the French, and an end to tyranny!’
‘Aye!’ Cradock agreed and the three officers downed the wine. It was cooler than Arthur anticipated and he guessed that the owner of the inn kept a deep cellar beneath his house. He set his glass down with a sharp tap on the table and turned to Somerset.
‘Right then, pass the word to all the senior officers. The army is to prepare to march.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Somerset smiled. ‘In case I am asked, might I enquire in which direction the army will advance?’
‘Why, towards Spain, of course. Towards Spain, and glory.’
Chapter 4
The early days of June brought renewed heat that beat down on the columns of the British army as it tramped along the dusty road towards Madrid. The hearty spirit that had upheld the men as they crossed the Portuguese border had soon faded as they settled into the exhausting routine of rising before dawn to break camp and begin the day’s marching in the coolest hours of the morning. The infantry trudged forward, bent under the load they carried in their wooden-framed backpacks. The cavalry rode half a mile out on each flank, their kit hung behind the saddle, tightly stuffed forage nets slung across the pommel. A screen of light horse fanned out some distance ahead of the army, watching for signs of the enemy, and the outriders of General Cuesta.
As the sun rose across the barren Spanish landscape it washed a warm ruddy glow over the British soldiers and suffused the choking dust kicked up by boots, wheels and hooves with a fiery hue. As Arthur and his small staff rode to the side of the main column, far enough away not to be bothered by the dust, he was amused to think that any Englishman at home who might suddenly be transported to Spain would hardly recognise these soldiers as his compatriots. Most of the men had sprouted beards and their uniforms were worn and patched, their shakos battered and badly misshapen. The red woollen cloth in which British soldiers were normally dressed was almost unknown in Portugal and the men had to make do with the cheap local material, which seemed to be available in brown only. After the first months of campaigning the makeshift repairs to uniforms and the accumulation of dust meant that the British army appeared to be predominantly clothed in a murky brown.
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