The Fields of Death

Arthur entered the mayor’s reception chamber and handed his coat and hat to a corporal standing at the door. As soon as he saw that his commander had arrived Somerset rose from his desk and hurried over to greet him.

‘The battle reports indicate we have taken every one of our objectives, sir. The first news from our cavalry patrols is that Soult is retreating towards Bayo

‘So we have won our foothold in France.’ Arthur nodded. ‘Which is as well. The army could never have survived for long in the Pyrenees. Now we shall have comfortable quarters for the winter, eh?’

‘Yes, my lord.’ Somerset could not resist a small smile. ‘That is, unless you give orders to continue the advance.’

‘I would, but first the men must be rested. Besides, there is no sure news of how Bonaparte is faring. For all we know he could have defeated his foes and be marching on us at this moment.’

Somerset pursed his lips and shook his head. ‘That’s not what our agents are saying. There is a wealth of rumour and scores of letters found on prisoners, or taken from the enemy dead, that make reference to a great defeat.’

‘Rumours, that is all. Would you have me gamble the outcome of this campaign upon the thin vapour of these rumours of yours? Well?’

‘No, sir.’

‘No. Then until we have more definite proof, we shall assume that the army may need to fight a battle, or fall back, at a moment’s notice. The men must not be allowed to become too comfortable.’

Somerset was chastened, but made one last effort. ‘What about the newspaper reports?’

Arthur shook his head.‘I’d sooner trust the words I read in an English newspaper than a French one. That is how little stock I put in your newspaper reports, Somerset. We need intelligence from a more reliable source. Speaking of which, have we taken any prisoners of note?’

‘Yes, sir. Several colonels, and the commander of a brigade, General Lapessiиre.’

‘Good.’Arthur tapped his fingers lightly on his lips for a moment and then nodded to himself. ‘Very well, I shall entertain Lapessiиre here tonight. I want Beresford, Hill and Picton to join us. Have the best cook in the port prepare the meal, and make sure there is ample wine.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Somerset nodded. ‘Is that all?’

‘For now.’ Arthur hardened his expression. ‘Bring me the butcher’s bill, and the enemy losses, as soon as you can.’

‘Yes, sir. Where shall I find you?’

‘The mayor’s suite. I take it he has a bath?’

‘Indeed, sir.’

‘Then I shall bathe.’ Arthur scratched his cheek. ‘And shave. I shall not provide General Lapessiиre with a poor model of an English gentleman. We have standards to uphold, Somerset. As much before the enemy as before our own men. I will not have some damned Frog looking down his nose at me, by God!’

Somerset looked up as Arthur entered the office, late in the evening. ‘How did you get on with our guest, sir?’

‘He was amenable to a somewhat indirect approach, once he was well into his cups,’ said Arthur. ‘He told us what we needed to know. It seems that the rumours are correct. Bonaparte has received a bloody nose and we have him on the run. Better still we know that he will not interfere with our operations here in the south of France. Indeed, it is likely that he will denude Marshal Soult of forces in order to build up his main strength to face the advance of the Russians, Austrians and Prussians. That leaves us a free hand against Soult. Just as well, since we have but a small numerical advantage over him. If he continues to fight defensively then it is likely that we shall suffer casualties at a higher rate than the French.’ Arthur thought a moment and shook his head. ‘I do not wish to become drawn into such a process of attrition.’

‘Then what do you propose, sir?’

‘We hold our ground for the most part, and take what small gains we can until the spring. If we can coincide our advance with that of our northern allies, then what is left of Bonaparte’s forces will be stretched to breaking point.’

There was a loud knock at the door, and an officer entered. He looked nervous and strode quickly towards the table. By the light of the candles flickering in the candelabra Arthur saw that it was Colonel Whitely, the commander of the army’s provosts. Whitely was a thickset officer, one of the rare men who had risen from the ranks. He cleared his throat as he addressed Arthur.

‘Begging your pardon, sir, but I think you need to come with me.’

‘Why, what on earth has happened? Out with it, man.’

‘Yes, sir. It’s the Spanish troops. They’re looting one of the local towns. Their officers are doing nothing to stop them, and I don’t have enough men to restore order. It’s turning right nasty, sir, so it is.’

Arthur sighed heavily. He closed his eyes briefly and then stood up. ‘Come, Whitely, you’d better take me there directly.’

The streets of Ascain were crowded with Spanish soldiers as Arthur rode into the town, accompanied by Whitely and twenty of his men. Several of the houses were on fire, and nearly all the rest had been broken into and plundered. The ragged Spaniards had taken the opportunity to gorge themselves on food and wine, and now helped themselves to gold, silver and any other items of value that they could find. Some of the local people had clearly tried to resist and several bodies lay stretched out on the cobbled streets, beaten or bayoneted to death. As the small party of Englishmen rode into the town square Arthur saw a jeering mob gathered to one side. A shrill scream cut through the cold night air and he caught a glimpse of a woman trying to break through the soldiers surrounding her. One of them grabbed the torn dress she had clasped to her chest and wrenched it away, baring her breasts. There was a cruel cheer and then someone knocked her to the ground, out of sight.

‘Like I said, sir,’ Whitely muttered. ‘They’re out of control.’

Arthur reined in and looked round at the Spaniards. ‘It’s only to be expected. After enduring the depredations of the French invaders for so many years they now have the chance to turn the tables. The fact that the locals are blameless is irrelevant to them. Besides, their own government rarely pays or feeds them. They see this as their hard-won right, no doubt.’

Colonel Whitely looked warily at his commander. ‘Nevertheless, sir, your standing orders are that no looting is to be permitted, nor any violence to the locals.’

‘I know.’ Arthur sucked in his breath. ‘Where is the divisional commander, General Longa?’

‘He’s settled himself and his staff in the local hotel, sir.’Whitely raised his hand and pointed at a large, neatly whitewashed building fronting the square. ‘Over there.’

They rode across the square and dismounted. Leaving their horses in the charge of Whitely’s men, Arthur and Whitely entered the hotel. There were two soldiers guarding the entrance. One was already asleep, head slumped on his chest as he stood wedged into a corner to one side of the door. The other man brought his musket up to the salute, wobbling slightly as he fought to stay on his feet. He stank of wine, much of which had been spilled down the grubby white facings of his jacket. Inside the entrance hall they saw the torn remains of a tricolour on the floor, and a large painting of the French Emperor hanging above the counter had been slashed by swords. The sounds of shouting came through one of the doors leading off the hall and they made for that, entering a large dining room. The tables had been pushed together along one side of the room and General Longa and his officers were feasting from plates of cold meats and cured sausages, accompanied by wine poured into beer mugs. Some had already passed out, heads slumped on the table in front of them, but Longa, a tall, handsome man with thi