The Man Who Broke Napoleon's Codes (39 page)

The briefest of instructions to the QMG staff on top of the hill followed. Wellington then clapped heels to his charger and galloped off the
back of the Teso San Miguel in search of Pakenham. Within minutes he was outpacing those who tried to follow (De Lancey among them). Soon the single figure of the British commander came galloping across the scrub to meet his brother-in-law at the head of his column. “Edward, move on with the 3rd Division, take those heights in your front and drive everything before you.” Wellington directed Pakenham to move up the end of a ridge just south of the village of Los Arapiles and strike the unsupported French division moving northwest across it. “I will, My Lord,” the divisional commander replied, and the two men shook hands. And with this simple exchange, Wellington had lit the fuse under the bomb intended to destroy Marmont. The British commander turned about and began galloping back to Los Arapiles. Meanwhile, the staff had flown to each corner of the army relaying messages so that everyone would know their part in the battle about to happen.

Major Scovell took his horse closer to the French down the front of the Teso San Miguel, and behind Los Arapiles to a hollow beyond where Le Marchant's brigade was waiting. His old teacher and mentor, now in command, was nowhere to be found. Scovell surveyed the brigade of heavy cavalry: more than one thousand horsemen of the 3rd Dragoons, 4th Dragoons and 5th Dragoon Guards. Almost every officer there would have been known to him, for the heavies were a tight-knit brotherhood. The 4th, after all, was his old regiment, the source of so much pride when he was commissioned into it and of so much regret when he had been forced to sell up and exchange with Oliver of the 57th. His old commanding officer, Lord Edward Somerset, was at the head of the 4th that day, as was another acquaintance, Colonel Dalbiac, the second in command. Scovell's misgivings at being unable to join them can only be guessed at, but he knew he had Wellington's business to attend to that afternoon. These tough men in their patched red coats, overall trousers and watering caps watched the familiar staff officer moving among them. Some of the veterans bore the livid scars of past combat on their countenances. They were a superior kind of soldier, paid more than the footsloggers and brighter with it. Tall men on big mounts, dubbed
les messieurs en rouge
by their enemy, the heavies had been waiting in reserve more or less throughout Wellington's entire campaigns until that day.

At about 4
P.M
., the French batteries on the ridge only about 750 yards away opened fire, but the brigade had been sent to their fold in the
ground precisely to make them invulnerable from such shot. To be double sure, the troopers had dismounted and stood next to their horses holding them by the reins. Scovell weaved through until he found his brother-in-law, Major Leigh Clowes, who was in command of the 3rd Dragoons. They greeted one another cordially and Scovell delivered his message. “You should expect the immediate advance of the 3rd Division to your right,” he said, their conversation punctuated by French round shot ripping through the air a few feet above them. Be prepared to support them, for Lord W plans to use Pakenham's men to hit the French on their flank.

Not long after Scovell's visit, Wellington appeared and found Le Marchant. He told the brigade commander to be prepared to move forward and hazard everything on a charge should the opportunity present itself. Le Marchant may well have said a silent prayer, his habit before battle, and looked about for his son, Captain Carey Le Marchant, who had joined his father's personal staff despite every insistence that no special favors would be shown.

The 4th and 5th Divisions of infantry then began moving forward to take position south of Los Arapiles. They drove out some French light troops and found themselves under fire from dozens of guns on the Azan ridge opposite. Their metal began biting into British ranks, flipping men over in crazy somersaults or sending an arm or head on its own yawing into the sky. Batteries of Royal Artillery six-pounders began answering the French cannonade. Soon shot was crisscrossing the land, a pounding of guns and musketry that began to fill the air with a dense smoke, blotting out the bright blue dome above.

Marmont too had realized that something was wrong with the division on his flank. He looked out from atop the Greater Arapil, straining his eyes to see through gaps in the pall. What was Thomières doing? Was he trying to bring on a battle all by himself, just as Clausel had four days before? Why was he getting so far ahead of Maucune on the ridge? Marmont knew he had to stop it at once. He scrambled down the rocks just below the summit, mounted his horse and set off toward Thomières.

At around 4:30, Thomières discovered the terrible consequences of his headlong advance. His 101st Regiment marching at the head of the column had been spotted by D'Urban and two of his Portuguese cavalry
scouts. They turned, bringing up two hundred Portuguese horse, and swiftly charged the French infantry. Such was the unexpected nature of this attack, the horsemen bursting through the trees just a few hundred yards in front, that the leading battalion of the 101st had no time to form square or even bring its men together in closed column. They broke and fled. The bloodied routers came running into his main body of troops, and out of the oaks in front of him, the 3rd Division appeared in two columns. Barely missing a step of their march, the British troops deployed into battle line. He had seconds in which to respond. Desperately, he tried to order his men out of their column of march and into some sort of formation. His artillery battery came swiftly into action, and Curto at the head of the cavalry on his left reacted instinctively to the danger that had suddenly appeared. Shells began to fall into the British ranks. Pakenham's men, however, were already moving in a line just two men deep, so the shot did them far less damage than the 3rd Division's own guns, smacking into the deep files of deploying French.

It probably took no more than fifteen minutes for Thomières division to be defeated. D'Urban, and some squadrons of the 14th Light Dragoons under Colonel Hervey, soon drove off the French horse and the 3rd Division continued its advance up onto the Azan ridge. The two leading French regiments had lost all formation and were trying to defend themselves as a clump of individuals. One of the 3rd Division's brigades advanced up to them in a kind of crescent, the two ends of its firing line curving around the dazed mass. After receiving two French volleys, the redcoats, with the Irish of the 88th at their center, shouted a couple of hurrahs and went in with the bayonet. In moments the 101st's colonel and its eagle, the gilded symbol that the emperor had urged them to defend to the death, had both been captured.

As this had been going on, the 4th and 5th Divisions had also advanced into the trough that separated them from the French and up the other side toward Maucune's division. The British battalions began a heavy fire of musketry, which was returned by the defenders.

For a moment the French held the ridge, making the most of its natural strength, but then the 4th and 5th Divisions' batteries engaged them with howitzer fire. These artillery pieces were able to loft a shell on a higher trajectory than a normal cannon, and if the fuses of their shrapnel shells were set just right, they would explode over the heads of the
French ranks, showering them with hot metal. Scovell watched the howitzers open up from near Los Arapiles and noted, “A few shells most judiciously thrown made the Enemy give way, and our light troops and line hurried on and gained the Heights.” The French, flinching from this new source of death, dressed their ranks back a few yards from the top of the ridge line. In the new position, enveloped in smoke, they could not see that Le Marchant's heavies had mounted and were deploying into line in front of Los Arapiles.

The 4th Dragoons and 5th Dragoon Guards emerged from their cover and, one by one, troops fell into a solid line of horse. The 3rd Dragoons followed on in reserve. With a chorus of trumpets, they all set off on a trot past Los Arapiles and toward the ridge. At this point General Stapleton Cotton appeared and ordered Le Marchant to charge, an instruction that seemed entirely superfluous given Scovell's earlier warning and Wellington's personal commands. At that moment, however, Le Marchant could not see beyond the ridge and much of the field was wreathed in thick smoke. Cotton lost his temper with the brigade commander and strong words were exchanged. Le Marchant continued on his way after this, trying to fulfill Wellington's original order to attack in support of the 3rd Division and leading his men into the uncertainty ahead.

The French artillery played on them ineffectually, for much of its fire had been turned to the British infantry, which was closer at hand. Le Marchant looked to his left and right, surveying the line of troopers that moved forward, filling the air with the jingling of saddlery and the sweet smell of horses. Here and there men pulled back on their stirrups, trying to check the impetuosity of their steeds. Others spurred them on so they did not fall behind. Regularity was everything in the business they were about to conduct. They had been trained to ride almost stirrup to stirrup, forming a solid wall of flesh and metal. If the mere sight of this great armament did not cause the French infantry to break and run, the matter would be settled by the merciless application of the 1796 heavy cavalry saber.

Just a couple of minutes after they had set off, the heavies came cantering up the Azan ridge, directed by Le Marchant to move into a space between the 5th Division on his left and the leading elements of Pakenham's 3rd on his right. At last, the trumpeters sounded the charge, unleashing the torrent that had been kept in check until that moment only by an iron discipline.

The footsloggers of the 66th and 15th
de ligne,
forming one of Maucune's brigades just behind the ridge, probably had no idea what was about to hit them. They were enveloped in smoke and had moved back from the ridge line to escape the British artillery fire, spirits shaken too by the sight of Thomières's men who were flooding around them. Their hallooing and shouting as they fled back over the ridge was an intimation of the arrival of an enemy force on their flank at any moment. Fearing cavalry, their commanders had initially formed them in squares, but packing the men together like this had only increased the effect of a hail of musketry by the 5th Division to their front. The British battalions were deployed in line, firing into the densely packed Frenchmen, who could only respond with volleys from one or two sides of their squares. The French commanders had taken their companies out of square and were just moving them back again to escape the withering fire when they heard the thundering of Le Marchant's men. Many of the infantry were not even facing the right way at that moment, but those who turned around became witness to a terrifying spectacle. When the
messieurs en rouge
erupted from the smoke, only seconds remained in which to react.

The 66th were lost in moments. The point of each saber delivered a ton of mass at the speed of the gallop. Where they connected with their targets, hundreds were impaled. Those not run through by those sharp blades were sent flying by horses' shoulders or trampled under thundering hooves. The moment of contact between dragoon and
fantassin
was in most cases a fleeting one, and having ridden down the 66th, Le Marchant's brigade maintained its forward momentum toward the 15th. With the advantage of a few moments' warning, their officers had turned them about and managed to fire off a volley. About a dozen dragoons dropped from their horses, but then the 15th too disappeared under the flood of cavalry.

Le Marchant, who had led from the front cutting down many men with his own hand, knew that his brigade was breaking up. Many troopers were wild with triumph and had gone off in pursuit of little groups of enemy soldiers who scattered into the oaks on the back side of the ridge. The brigadier detailed a squadron to herd the prisoners and then carried on rallying his regiments for a further charge. They met the 22nd Regiment, the leading unit of another Army of Portugal division, Taupin's, at the charge once more. These battalions had the time, while the British heavies were reordering their ranks, to align
themselves in heavy columns and deliver a powerful volley when the British were only ten yards or so away, felling dozens of men of the 5th Dragoon Guards. This last-minute fire did not save them, though, and seeing that the galloping cavalry could not be checked, despair spread immediately in the ranks.

By now, the heavy brigade's charge had almost expended all of its immense energy. Eight battalions of French infantry had been ridden down. Colonel Somerset's 4th Dragoons had taken five pieces of artillery too. Watching from his vantage point behind Los Arapiles, Wellington turned to the commander of his cavalry and exulted, “By God, Cotton! I have never seen anything so beautiful in all my life!” The British commander knew that Pakenham's charge and the actions of Le Marchant's brigade had ruined two enemy divisions and that Marmont would need a miracle to recover from the loss of one-quarter of his men.

What Wellington did not appreciate was that Marmont had been wounded at least one hour before. He had fallen victim to one of the British artillery shells as he turned to mount his horse, trying to organize his forces against the British onslaught. Marmont had been hit in the arm and was evidently losing a lot of blood, for he was carried from the field. His place had been taken by his most senior divisional general, Bonnet, who had been similarly powerless to save the French left.

All across the ridge, the combat of two armies had degenerated into the brawling of individual groups. Bands of five or ten French infantry, many of them lacerated with dreadful sword wounds to the head or upper body, were meandering around, trying to find their bearings. British dragoons, meanwhile, were riding about, hacking as they passed. One young officer wrote home, “It was a fine sight to see those fellows running and, as we held our swords over their heads, fall down on their knees, drop their muskets and cry:
Prisonnier, Monsieur!”
As Le Marchant was trying to restore order and bring together one squadron for a final charge, he was shot. The ball broke his spine, killing him almost instantly. Like Moore and Craufurd before him, the torchbearer of scientific soldiering had been killed at this moment of triumph.