The Generals

After twenty minutes of terrible carnage, the Austrians were still attempting to draw their men up in a battle line. Napoleon realised that this was the moment to strike the decisive blow.

‘Order Marmont to cease fire. Tell Desaix to charge home!’

‘Yes, sir,’ Berthier nodded.

As soon as the last of the guns fell silent, the leading battalions of Desaix’s men marched through the dense bank of smoke and emerged a short distance from the enemy. Napoleon watched as Desaix ordered his men to halt and volley fire, before they advanced to point-blank range and halted to reload and fire again. Volley after volley rang out from both sides, each one wreaking terrible carnage. As he watched Napoleon sensed that the impetus was quickly draining from the French attack. Unless the Austrians broke soon, he doubted that they ever would.

A sudden sheet of flame tore up into the sky a short distance behind the head of the enemy column and Napoleon saw scores of men hurled aside by the blast. The red flame of the explosion faded and a rolling mushroom cloud billowed above the Austrian lines. He saw a crater in the road and scores of blackened bodies and body parts lay scattered around it.

‘Jesus,’ Napoleon muttered in horror. ‘What was that?’

‘Must have been an ammunition wagon,’ Berthier replied. ‘Lucky shot from our side must have set it off.’

The explosion caused a brief lull in the fighting.The Austrians had turned towards the sound of the blast, dazed and frightened. At that moment a trumpet call sounded from Napoleon’s left and he turned and saw that the small body of cavalry covering the left flank was moving, picking up speed as it surged forward down the side of the enemy column, and then wheeled inwards towards the Austrians, still shaken by the blast.

‘The young fool!’ Berthier said through clenched teeth. ‘He’ll get himself killed.’

Napoleon strained his eyes and realised that the cavalry formation belonged to Kellerma

Kellerma

As dusk gathered over the battlefield Napoleon made his way forward with Berthier. There was a thick belt of bodies where Marmont’s guns had torn into the leading battalions of the enemy column and then two lines of corpses where Desaix’s men had exchanged volleys with the enemy before they had finally broken. From the earliest reports to have reached headquarters it seemed that over five thousand of the enemy had been killed and an even larger number taken prisoner, along with forty guns, fifteen colours and General Zach, the second in command of the Austrian army. Nightfall, and the presence of strong detachments of Austrian cavalry, had ended the French pursuit and across the plain the exhausted men were re-forming their units and marching back to camp.

Amid all the reports there had been no word from Desaix and Napoleon felt a growing concern for his friend as he edged across the battlefield. Then, just outside the hamlet of Vigna Santa, he saw a group of officers gathered beside the road. Amongst them stood an Austrian general, head bowed in shame. Napoleon strode across the corpse-littered ground towards them and saw that they were clustered about a body sprawled on the ground. Napoleon pushed his way through and looked down.

Desaix lay on his back, head flung to one side, eyes wide open. A bloody hole had been torn through his breast. His sword lay at his side.

Napoleon knelt down. He stared at the body, and his throat tightened. No words came to him. His heart felt heavy and he reached forward and closed Desaix’s eyes as Berthier approached the group.

Berthier clapped his hands together as he gazed round the battlfield. ‘My God! We’ve won! We’ve beaten them. Sir, you’ve won a geat victory . . . sir?’ Then he saw Desaix. ‘Oh, no . . .’

‘Excuse me,’ a voice interrupted, in accented French. ‘General Bonaparte?’

Napoleon glanced up and saw the Austrian officer standing over him in the gloom, holding out his sword, handle first. Rising to his feet, Napoleon faced his enemy. General Zach stood stiffly as he surrendered his weapon.

‘To you the victory, General Bonaparte.’

Napoleon took the sword, noting its finely wrought hilt and jewelled guard. He held it for a moment and then shook his head.

‘The victory is not mine. Had it not been for Desaix I would be presenting you with my sword. No, the victory is not mine. Truly, it belongs to another.’

He knelt down again, and placed the sword across Desaix’s chest, and folded the dead man’s arms across the blade. Then he stood up and pushed his way through the cordon of officers and strode back towards his headquarters before anyone could see the first tears welling up in his eyes.

Chapter 55

Arthur

Seringapatam, May 1799

As the sun rose on Tipoo’s capital, the day after the city had fallen, it revealed the men of General Baird’s assault column still plundering the city and wholly out of control. Smoke billowed up from several fires that were spreading, unchecked by the British forces inside the walls.

As he waded across the south Cauvery river with Captain Fitzroy Arthur looked at the columns of smoke billowing up into the rosy sky with growing anger. His companion sensed his mood and muttered, ‘What the hell does Baird think he’s playing at? If those fires aren’t put out we’ll lose half the city.’

‘Yes,’ Arthur replied quietly. ‘That’s something we’ll have to put right as soon as I take charge.’

He unconsciously touched the bulge in his jacket, where he had put the orders from General Harris authorising him to take command of all British forces in the city. The same orders required Baird and his staff to quit Seringapatam and return to Harris’s camp two miles to the west. Arthur had already given instructions for his regiment, the 33rd Foot, to be formed up and ready for action the moment he assumed command of the forces inside Seringapatam and restored order to end the looting, raping and murder.

By rights, as brigadier of the day, Baird should not be relieved until midday, but General Harris realised that the sacking of the city had to be ended as soon as possible. Baird was not the man to do it. His dislike of Indians generally, and his vengeful hatred of the people of Mysore in particular, meant that he was the very last man in the British army who could be trusted with bringing order back to the city and steering it towards a long-lasting alliance with Britain and the East India Company. By contrast, there was hardly a man more suitable for the job than Arthur Wellesley. He spoke the native tongue, and had the necessary tact and respect to work alongside the people of Mysore. More shrewdly, Harris was aware that the younger brother of the Governor General would be sure to do his utmost to implement Richard’s policy of expanding British power in India by way of treaties, alliances and, where necessary, force. A policy of which Harris wholeheartedly approved.