thought of all those who were lost at Albuera, but I beg you, do not humiliate me in this way.’
‘That is not my purpose. I no more desire to humiliate you than I would thrash a horse who had stumbled beneath me. It is clear to me that you require a rest from the strains of command. That is all. Once you have made me some more soldiers you shall return to the campaign. You have my word.’
‘I see. And what of my army? Who will command it?’
‘I shall. Since I am here. I will continue the good work that you have begun here, my dear Beresford.’
Beresford considered the situation for a moment and then nodded. ‘As you wish, sir. Thank you.’
It pained Arthur to see the pathetic look of gratitude that Beresford shot at him but he nodded anyway and turned towards the door. ‘Send the report to me as soon as it is rewritten.’
‘Yes, sir. Where will you be?’
‘I’ll see the wounded. Where were your casualties taken?’
‘They’re in Elvas, sir. Being well cared for at a Franciscan monastery.’
‘Then that is a small mercy.’ Arthur nodded. ‘Send the report to me at Elvas.’
The monastery was on the edge of the town, set into the sturdy wall that ringed the town. General Beresford’s chief surgeon commanded a small team of overworked orderlies who did what they could for over a thousand of their comrades wounded at Albuera. As Arthur and Somerset entered the refectory they saw that the long tables and benches had been pushed to the sides and the vast open space was now crowded with row upon row of wounded British soldiers. Their limbs were wrapped with soiled bandages and hundreds of them had suffered amputation of an arm or a leg, and now lay in miserable contemplation of a life of begging and reliance on others. Many were groaning or crying out in pain, or were tormented by hunger and thirst, since the medical orderlies had no time to see to their needs as they dealt with the more seriously wounded.
‘This is a disgrace,’ Somerset muttered as he scanned the dim interior of the monastery, and wrinkled his nose at the smell of the soldiers who had soiled themselves and now lay in their own filth. ‘Why aren’t there more men assisting the surgeon’s team?’
‘I suspect that our friend Beresford has been too preoccupied to consider these men’s needs. That must change.’
‘My lord . . . sir . . .’ a voice called hoarsely. Arthur turned and saw a young corporal staring at him from one of the few mattresses the monks had been able to spare for the soldiers imposed on them. ‘Sir, a drink. For pity’s sake.’
Arthur nodded and turned to Somerset. ‘Find this man some water, or small beer.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Arthur found a stool and eased himself down beside the corporal. For a moment he said nothing, and then, as the soldier turned his head slowly to face him, he saw that a blast of grape had mutilated the other half of his face, which was now a mass of dried blood and purple flesh.
‘What is your regiment?’ Arthur asked.
The corporal licked his lips. ‘Twenty-ninth Foot, my lord.’
‘How did the Twenty-ninth fare?’
The corporal gestured to the rows of men surrounding him. ‘Most of ’em are from the same regiment, sir. We were pretty badly cut about.’
Arthur looked round at the casualties before he continued in a muted voice, ‘By God, I am so sorry to see so many of you wounded.’
The corporal nodded. ‘If
Chapter 21
Once Beresford’s rewritten report was safely on its way to London and the general had returned to Lisbon, Arthur directed his attention to the siege of Badajoz. On first hearing the news of the battle at Albuera he had sent for the main column, ordering that a small covering force be left behind to keep the defenders of Ciudad Rodrigo bottled up behind their walls for as long as possible. Due to the heavy losses at Albuera, Beresford’s command was too weak to continue the siege on its own and Arthur was reluctantly compelled to concentrate all his strength against Badajoz.
General Beresford and his engineers had bungled their initial attempt to capture Fort San Cristobal. The approach trenches crossed open ground and had not been dug deeply enough, so that they filled with water and mud every time it rained. They also provided inadequate shelter from enemy fire and Beresford had lost hundreds of men to the blasts of grapeshot and bursts of mortar shells as they laboured to dig their way towards the fort. The difficulties facing the allied army were compounded by the lack of decent siege guns. The guns stripped from the walls of Elvas dated back two centuries and lacked accuracy, calibre and ammunition. The batteries that had been constructed for the guns were too far from the fort and as a result it was a chance shot that ever actually struck the areas targeted for breaches.
Had there been sufficient time Arthur would have given the order to abandon the attempt on the fort and turned the army’s efforts towards the walls of Badajoz itself. However, the network of spies run by his quartermaster general, John Waters, had reported that Marshal Massйna had been replaced by Marshal Marmont, who was already marching his army south to join forces with Soult for another attempt to relieve the garrison at Badajoz. The French would be able to muster more than sixty thousand men against Arthur’s fifty thousand, a third of whom were Portuguese and Spanish. Such odds were not favourable, and unless Badajoz could be reduced quickly then the allied army would be obliged to withdraw.
As the sun rose over the rolling Spanish countryside, bathing it in a dusty orange hue, Arthur glanced down at his pocket watch.
‘Ten to six,’ he muttered.
Around him a small cluster of staff officers nervously glanced at their watches and some adjusted them to synchronise with their general. Arthur clambered up on to an upturned gunner’s tub to peer out of the embrasure. Ahead of him the trenches zig-zagged across the bare ground, scored by heavy iron shot. Only a handful of heads and hats bobbed up occasionally as the engineers risked a quick glance towards the fort. The men of the assault party, and the brigade assigned to follow them up if they succeeded in clearing the breach, remained out of sight, crouched down in the churned mud at the bottom of the closest length of trench. Arthur raised his telescope and scrutinised the defences the small force would have to overcome. There was perhaps a hundred yards of open ground to be crossed before the men would reach the base of the hillock upon which the fort stood. Then they would have to clamber up the slope, negotiating the abattis that had been placed at all angles to break up any assault. Then there was the fort itself, protected by thick walls twenty feet high. Expending the last of the ammunition, the siege batteries had succeeded in battering a small gap that ran most of the way down the wall. Arthur estimated that the breach was perhaps ten feet wide. Barely enough to be considered practicable for an assault, yet there was no choice in the matter. Arthur was running out of time. A few days from now Marmont would join forces with Soult and the combined French army could arrive before the walls of Badajoz in less than a week.
‘Let us hope that your men succeed this time, seсor.’
Arthur turned to the neatly uniformed Spanish officer standing at his shoulder. General Alava was a slight man with a ready smile who had been assigned by the junta in Cadiz to act as Arthur’s liaison officer. Although Alava had only been on Arthur’s staff for a brief time he had already begun to win Arthur’s respect by offering a considered opinion when he was asked for one. He was also honest about the shortcomings of those who commanded the Spanish armies and the politicians who were supposed to pay and supply their soldiers. In short, General Alava was exactly the sort of man Arthur required to mediate between himself and the Spanish authorities, who promised so much and delivered so little. It was a great pity, Arthur mused, that the patriotic fervour of the common soldiers and people of Spain was so ill served by many of their leaders.
Arthur puffed his cheeks as he considered Alava’s remark. Three days earlier he had given orders for the first attempt on the breach. A hundred and forty men, weighed down by ladders, had dashed towards the fort, into the face of a withering fire of musket balls and case shot. They had not even reached the wall before half of them had
