Read The Man Who Broke Napoleon's Codes Online
Authors: Mark Urban
For the two men nominally running the war in Madrid, irritation over the minister left to mind the shop in Paris and incapable of understanding the gravity of the Iberian situation was minor compared to that engendered by the different army commanders' plain disobedience. Marshal Soult's letters still placed his own command, in Andalucia, at the center of all of Wellington's designs. Even though, as Jourdan remarked by early June, “it was clear to everybody, except the Duke of Dalmatia, that the danger was to the Army of Portugal.” Soult in turn argued that the entire defense of Spain should gravitate southward, even if this meant giving up Madrid and, by implication, any overland connection with France. Soult's letters ran so squarely counter to what all logic in Madrid (or indeed in Wellington's own headquarters) dictated, that they left the king quite puzzled. It was decided to send an emissary to Seville to find out what on earth the duke thought he was doing. The choice fell upon Colonel Francois Desprez, a thirty-four-year-old officer of the engineers from Amiens. As the 1812 campaign progressed, Desprez found himself cast in the unhappy role of sherpa, trekking back and forth between the mountainous egos of the marshallate. Moreover, his mission to Seville required him to travel down some of the most dangerous roads in Spain.
Antoine Fée, the young pharmacist to a dragoon regiment serving in Andalucia's principal city, could have saved Colonel Desprez the journey. He had already become disgusted by Soult's regime:
“The Marshal, commander of the Army of the South, seemed to be more the King of Andalucia than the Emperor's humble lieutenant. No monarch surrounded himself with greater majesty, no court was more submissive than hisâ¦. On Sunday, elite troops lined the route to the Cathedral, awaiting their general in chief. He was followed by the civic authorities and a distinguished staff. This whole gilded entourage wore smiles or a certain look; he rewarded one or the other with a cold and mannered dignity.”
Soult had not only taken on the affectations of a monarch, but he was also helping himself liberally to the wealth of southern Spain, confiscating
treasures such as old master paintings by Murillo and Velasquez that were worth a fortune. He was quite certain that he was not going to relinquish his domains, whatever that old fool Jourdan said in Madrid. Desprez discovered in his meeting that Soult bitterly resented Jourdan's appointment as chief of staff, a job that he felt was his by right, and that he had no intention of sending forces to help Marmont if he came under attack by Wellington.
As for Dorsenne and Suchet, they had already manifested a similar spirit in their letters. The commander of the Army of the North had made clear that he could not support Marmont, and Suchet, in charge on the east coast, had refused a request to provide a division for Jourdan's new central reserve.
Why were Soult or Dorsenne not sacked for insubordination? Jourdan argued in his memoirs: “These chiefs were important personalities, secured in command by the Emperor, who had his confidence and were in correspondence with him and his ministers: the King was reluctant to displease his brother and excite his jealousy or unhappiness by removing them from the army.” Little did Joseph appreciate it at the time, but his reluctance to displease was to be his undoing.
At Wellington's headquarters, there was not yet any intimation of the kind of views Soult expressed so bluntly to Colonel Desprez. On the contrary, intercepted letters from the king to the duke of Dalmatia had led the British general to believe that the Army of the South was expected to make a strong detachment to the north once Marmont came under attack. Scovell's grasp of the
Grand Chiffre
had grown sufficiently strong for him to be able to get some sense of these coded orders from Joseph. Unfortunately for Britain's intelligence effort, Soult's replies had not been intercepted.
Wellington found the fragmented knowledge of the contents of these messages unbearable. He had left a strong Allied detachment under Lieutenant General Rowland Hill to guard the southern entry into Portugal. But what if the king's orders had directed Soult to make mischief somewhere between the traditional northern and southern invasion routes? After all, it was through the mountainous country of the central border region that France's first attack on Portugal had taken
place in 1807, and indeed the British move toward Madrid in July 1809. The thought of this vexed Wellington considerably. Toward the end of May, Marshal Beresford had been sent out to examine this inhospitable country, accompanied by Scovell and some Mounted Guides. They had found one or two places where an army might be able to pass with its artillery, and this raised the prospect of a French corps appearing in the Allied rear some weeks or even days after he had launched his offensive increased Wellington's concerns.
It was imperative that as much as possible be found out about the contents of the king's coded messages to Soult and to his subordinate commander, the Count D'Erlon, who was closest to this possible route into Portugal. On 7 June, Wellington sent copies of three of the messages to his brother, the British minister at Cadiz. These were to be passed on to the Spanish War Ministry to see if they could shed any further light on the contents. Perhaps their decipherers would succeed more quickly than Scovell.
Meanwhile, the divisions of Wellington's army had broken camp and were building up on the Spanish frontier. His attack force would number about 50,000. The stalwarts of the Light Division would be in the van, backed up by six divisions of infantry. There were also four cavalry brigades, totaling around thirty-five hundred sabers. Half of this mounted force would be used for scouting and light actions. The other portion (Le Marchant's brigade and one under the old German cavalry officer General Bock) were made up of heavy cavalry, a precious reserve that could be used to turn the tide in a crucial moment.
Wellington intended to launch himself forward and smash Marmont's army, ideally on the plain of the River Tormes, before the French would be able to concentrate properly. In planning his move, Wellington had not neglected to summon up all of the alarms and excursions that the guerrillas and Spanish army could provide. General Ballasteros was once again incited to move on Seville, threatening Marshal Soult's base. Others were asked to move forward in Galicia and Asturias to the northwest and north of the intended area of operations. The logic behind these attacks was to be the same as it had been in January 1812: to anchor French detachments to the points where they stood and prevent them from answering any of Marmont's signals for a general concentration.
Marmont gained scraps of intelligence as all this was under way. His analysis of the information at his disposal had been sufficiently good to have expected attack on or around 10 June. He knew better than anyone that it would take him time to concentrate, even without the Spanish diversions. He had therefore already sent word out to some of his outlying garrisons to begin their march.
Despite this, as the British were poised to launch their attack, Marmont's troops were still scattered. His available forces included thirty-six thousand infantry and twenty-eight thousand cavalry. The enemy exceeded this by more than ten thousand, and it was clear he could not face Wellington with these numbers. Once Brenier and Bonnet had come in and joined him with their divisions, as well as men from some other outlying posts, he would have a field force of fifty thousand. Then he could fight if he had to. All the better if he could bring in some more, especially more cavalry and guns, from the Army of the North or Joseph's Army of the Center. These reinforcements were requested urgently.
In the meantime, Marmont knew that once Wellington allowed his juggernaut to begin rolling down from the border highlands it could not be stopped by inferior forces. There was no point seeking an action in front of Salamanca, he would just get crushed. Instead, the marshal resolved just to try to slow the enemy down a little by leaving a couple of strong forts in the center of this city, redoubts skillfully built to dominate the bridges over the River Tormes. It would be very hard for Wellington to use those causeways (necessary for the transit of supplies and heavy guns) under French fire, which would hamper any movement forward and force the British to lose time trying to storm the works. Once the marshal had concentrated fifty thousand or even more men, then he would seek his own battle, giving a forceful demonstration of his powers to the English and those who whispered about him in Madrid.
On the evening of 12 June, the soldiers of Wellington's army rested around their bivouacs. They sat in clumps under the oaks of the border country, pipe-claying the white cross belts that carried their fighting kit, joining in songs and drinking some of the wine that sutlers brought out from Rodrigo or Guinaldo. They all knew what awaited them: some bloody hard marching that required each man to have two or three
spare pairs of shoes in his knapsack. As the sun sank on the western horizon, young officers toured about checking that their men had packed only what the regulations allowed. They had enough to carry as it was, sixty or seventy pounds in marching order, so a flask of grog or a bag of potatoes might make the difference between a good marcher and a straggler. In the 4th or Light Divisions, which had suffered most heavily at Badajoz, there were many new drafts, callow youths who sat around and listened to the yarns of old soldiers with patched clothes and scarred bodies. Several hundred convalescents had come up too, men who had been wounded earlier in the campaign but were now fit to march again. Their reunions with those who had survived the horrors of April's siege created a festive atmosphere in the dark forests.
As was customary on the eve of a great movement, there was no rest for the staff. The burden of organizing the army's march had fallen on thirty-one-year-old William De Lancey, the American-born deputy quarter master general. George Murray, formerly his chief, had been summoned back to Britain by Horse Guards, much to Wellington's chagrin. In the headquarters, young deputy assistants scribbled out copies of De Lancey's orders for the dragoons or Guides who kept appearing in the door and were bound for the commander of each division or brigade. “The Light Division and 1st Hussars to form the advanced guard of the Army,” De Lancey's instructions began. The march was to be in three columns: Sir Thomas Graham commanding the right, Picton the left, with the center under Wellington's hawklike gaze. Below these introductory remarks, a table had been drawn showing where each of the three columns would bivouac on each of the following three nights. For years, Wellington's strategy had been defensive, aimed above all at preserving the British army's toehold in Iberia: now it was time to go forward.
*
Divide and rule.
T
he people of Salamanca did not stint as the first British soldiers entered their city on 17 June 1812. Everything flowed in abundance: shouts of
Viva!;
cups of local wine; petals scattered from upstairs windows and kisses to the bronzed cheeks of Wellington's host. The townfolk “were out of their senses at having got rid of the French,” wrote one young officer, “and nearly pulled Lord Wellington off his horse.” Warre, of Beresford's staff, wrote in a letter to his mother, “It was quite affecting to see the joy of the inhabitants. Many absolutely cried for joy, and we were embraced or had to shake hands with everybody we met. One old woman hugged and kissed [Wellington] to his great annoyance and one man literally kissed my horse as I rode into the town.”
It was not just that the British commander disdained such effusions of unbridled emotion; he was trying to concentrate on giving battle. The French had not cleared out of the city entirely; their forts still dominated the old Roman bridge over the Tormes. Although he
had learned of their construction from his spies in the city, he did not expect the strength of one work in particular (the San Vicente convent) or the complication of trying to assault it in the midst of some impromptu street fiesta. Battalions of the 6th Division were marched up to the river and stood under arms, ready to receive an order to attack at any moment. They were still being mobbed by the public, while the staff looked on, hoping these citizens would not soon be exposed to a hot fire.
As the hours passed, Wellington realized that the main position, the San Vicente convent, had been barricaded and built into a position of such strength that it could not simply be rushed by his men. It stood on a natural promontory, with sheer faces on two of its sides. Houses had been demolished on the convent's other flanks, giving French gunners a clear field of fire and providing debris to build a considerable
fausse braie.
Battering guns would be needed, and the labors of Wellington's engineers. Scovell, one of the few officers in the army to have been in Salamanca before (while accompanying Moore's expedition in 1808), was most struck by the destruction of buildings in that elegant university city that had been necessary to create these French positions.