the Guadiana, and fought his way along the bank to reach the fort.
Having given orders for the burial of the dead, and viewed the harrowing list of casualties, Arthur crossed the river and approached the fort together with an ensign bearing a flag of truce. Riding up the steep ramp to the gate he halted and demanded to speak to General Philippon.
After a brief delay the locking beams rumbled behind the thick timbers of the gate and one of the doors swung inwards. Three men emerged, two soldiers supporting the general as he limped painfully between them. Philippon’s breeches were cut away below the right thigh and there were splints on his leg, tied round with bandages through which blood had oozed in a series of dark round patches. He was bareheaded, and his face was streaked with dried blood from a tear across the top of his scalp. Nevertheless he managed to smile as he greeted Arthur.
‘My congratulations on the swift and successful resolution of the siege, my lord.’
Arthur swallowed bitterly. ‘It is hard to derive any satisfaction from the outcome when so many men have been lost. Over three thousand of my soldiers fell before your defences.’
For a moment the Frenchman’s composure slipped as he recalled the ferocity of the previous night’s battle. ‘I never before saw such slaughter . . .’ He cleared his throat and raised his head. ‘My men and I did our duty, just as your men did. That is the cost of war.’
‘An avoidable cost. You could never have held the town. There is no honour in fighting to postpone inevitable defeat.’
‘Is there not?’
‘No. Not for you here at Badajoz, nor for the rest of the French army in Spain. Nor for your master, Bonaparte. He cannot win the war. All Europe is against him, despite the sham treaties and alliances he has forced on France’s neighbours. There is only one outcome, I am sure of it. Bonaparte can’t win. He can only put off losing.’
Philippon smiled sadly. ‘My lord, that is half the reason why men go to war, to postpone inevitable defeat, as you put it.’
‘Then such men are bloody fools,’ Arthur replied tersely. ‘Now then, I have no desire to prolong this discussion. I am here to offer you terms for the immediate surrender of San Cristobal. I do not desire to lose any more men in assaulting this fort, so if you refuse to surrender I will have my siege guns ranged against the fort and they will pound it to pieces. I will not take any prisoners.’
Philippon scrutinised Arthur’s unflinching expression. ‘You wish to discuss terms? Then I will surrender the fort, and my men’s arms, in exchange for free passage to Madrid.’
Arthur shook his head. ‘You misunderstand. I am not here to discuss terms, but to state them. In short, you will surrender the fort unconditionally. Your men will be disarmed and marched to Lisbon where you will be shipped to England as prisoners until the end of the war, or such time as his majesty’s government decides to exchange you. If you will not agree to these terms then you and your garrison will be destroyed along with the fort.’
‘I need time to consider.’
‘No. You accept or reject my terms now.’
Philippon frowned and looked down to conceal his anguished indecision. He shook his head slightly, then paused and looked up, resigned to his fate. ‘Very well. I accept.’
‘Good. Then your men will leave the fort within the hour and form up there to surrender their arms.’ Arthur pointed to the flat expanse of ground below the fort, close to the camp of Beresford’s Portuguese battalions. ‘You will make no attempt to destroy any supplies or equipment within the fort, is that understood?’
‘Yes, my lord.’ Philippon nodded as he stared at the Portuguese soldiers in their camp. ‘But I would rather surrender to English soldiers than the Portugese. In view of the . . . barbarity with which they have treated French prisoners before.’
‘I recall little difference between the barbarity of the Portuguese and that of the French under whom they were forced to suffer. In any case, I cannot afford to despatch one of my battalions to escort your men to Lisbon. I think you will find that the Portuguese, thanks to our training and example, will treat you with greater mercy than you have shown to many of their compatriots,’ Arthur concluded coldly. He lifted his hat. ‘I bid you good day, General. We shall not meet again. Make sure that the last of your men leaves the fort within the hour.’
Arthur turned his horse away and spurred it into a trot, a sour taste in his mouth.
It took four days for the soldiers to recover their senses and start drifting out of the city, nursing hangovers and clutching their spoils in loose bundles. The army’s provost general was all for disciplining them for being absent without leave, but Arthur ordered that no action be taken. Instead, fresh toops were sent into the town to fish out the last of the looters and eject them. Then the work of repairing the damage began. The sick and injured of Arthur’s army were carried into the castle’s barracks to be looked after by the surgeons of the units assigned to garrison the town.
A steady trickle of those who died from their wounds was added to the corpses laid out in a series of long graves a short distance from the walls. When each grave was filled, men wearing gin-soaked cloths about their faces to overcome the stench of the corpses shovelled earth over the bodies and then piled heavy stones on top to discourage wild dogs, carrion and human scavengers.
With Badajoz in English hands Arthur began to plan his next course of action as he waited for the latest reinforcements to reach the army. Despite the losses, his strength, when the fresh regiments and replacement drafts arrived, rose to over sixty thousand men. Enough to take his campaign into the heart of Spain, but - frustratingly - not enough to contemplate facing a combination of French armies. Therein lay the irony of his situation. The more successful the allied army became the more likely it was to provoke the French into concentrating their forces to march on Arthur and destroy him and his army once and for all.
There was another, constant, cause for concern. Having reinforced the Peninsular army the government back in England would expect him to take the war to the French. It was evident that only a small number of wiser heads in the government appreciated the game of cat and mouse that Arthur was obliged to play with his more numerous opponents.
The most obvious enemy force for his army to engage was the army of Marshal Marmont. The latest intelligence suggested that Marmont commanded fewer than thirty-five thousand men, and that decided Arthur.
Early in May, he left General Hill and eighteen thousand men at Badajoz, in case Soult decided to venture out of Andalucia, and marched back to Ciudad Rodrigo to organise his offensive against Marmont. As he waited for the final reinforcements to reach him from Oporto, he gave orders for his wagons to be repaired and loaded with marching rations from the fortress’s depot. The soldiers were rested, and given the chance to repair their kit in readiness for the campaign.
Late in the month, as Arthur was putting the final touches to the campaign plan, Somerset entered his office with the latest packet of despatches from London.
‘Left London on the twelfth. They’ve made good time,’ Arthur noted with satisfaction. He broke the seal, opened out the waterproofed covering and extracted the documents within. At the top of the pile was a small note from Lord Liverpool marked
Arthur raised his eyebrows, then with a slight shrug he pushed the rest of the letters towards Somerset. ‘Prioritise those for me, if you please.’
His aide nodded, pulled up a chair and began to open and sort through the documents, ensuring, as was customary, that personal and administrative missives were placed below more vital communications. Arthur sat back in his chair and broke the wafer seal on Liverpool’s letter, unfolded it and began to read. At length he folded the letter up.
‘The Prime Minister is dead,’ he announced evenly.
Somerset looked up from the latest document he had been glancing through. ‘I’m sorry, my lord, I missed that.’
‘I said the Prime Minister is dead.’
‘Good God. Dead? How? Accident or illness?’
‘Neither. He was assassinated. Shot in the lobby of the House of Commons. Some madman named Bellingham who blamed Perceval and the government for ruining his business, apparently.’
‘I say, that’s a bit much.’
Arthur raised his eyebrows. ‘ “A bit much” is hardly the apposite reaction, Somerset. The man has deprived
