The Fields of Death (81 page)

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Authors: Simon Scarrow

BOOK: The Fields of Death
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‘They are to surrender, without conditions, else we will sack the town.’ Arthur paused, and then smiled thinly. ‘You might mention that we have a division of Spaniards with us who are inclined to show little pity to the French.’
Somerset looked shocked. ‘That’s hardly fair, sir. Morillo’s men are as disciplined as any in the army.’
‘Yes, but they don’t know that,’ Arthur replied patiently as he nodded towards the waiting Frenchmen. ‘Now then, don’t tarry, Somerset.’
Arthur watched as his aide mounted his horse and cantered down the slope to cross the canal that separated the Heights from the town. The Spanish corps and Beresford’s two divisions were stretched out along the Heights, on either side of Arthur’s command post, and their sullen mood was evident in the slowness with which they had roused themselves at dawn and apathetically set to digging the earthworks Arthur had ordered constructed in case Soult decided to counter-attack. Even though the French army appeared to have quit Toulouse, Arthur thought it prudent to continue the work. If nothing else, it gave his men something to take their minds off the bitter fighting of the previous day. It had cost the allies over four thousand men to take the Heights, and across the slopes, raked by roundshot and canister, were clusters of freshly dug graves. With the war all but over, Arthur felt such losses ever more keenly. Even so, all the news from the north was encouraging. Paris had fallen and Bonaparte and what was left of his army must surely be compelled to surrender soon.
The distant figure of Somerset had reined in before the small crowd in front of the gates and was engaged in conversation with a man who had emerged as their spokesman. Arthur raised his telescope to follow the exchange more closely. A moment later, Somerset dismounted and the Frenchman rushed forward to embrace him, kissing the British officer on both cheeks. A light breeze lifted the white flag behind them and now Arthur could make out a design that had been hidden in the folds, a blue fleur-de-lys, the emblem of the Bourbons.
So that was it, Arthur thought with relief: the royalists had taken over the town. A moment later Somerset was in the saddle again and galloping back across the canal and up the slope towards Arthur. His face was flushed with excitement as he reined in and swung himself down.
‘Sir, I have the honour to report that Toulouse is ours.’
‘Yes, I gathered.’
‘The mayor asks me to convey his fraternal greetings to you.’
‘That’s very fine of him, I’m sure.’
‘He asks if you will do him the honour of addressing him, and the other worthies, before entering the town.’
‘Not for the present.’ Arthur shook his head wearily. ‘There will be time for that. Tell the mayor that I would be grateful if he permitted me to set up my headquarters in his offices. When that is done I will be pleased to celebrate the liberation of Toulouse.’
‘Yes, sir,’ his aide replied, somewhat deflated. ‘As you wish.’
Arthur looked at him sternly. ‘Now then, Somerset, the war is not over, and the army must be commanded and its needs catered for. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good. Once we have attended to our duties, you will be free to enjoy the hospitality of Toulouse.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Somerset glanced down towards the Frenchmen waiting outside the gate.‘What about them? They seem quite keen to greet their liberators, sir.’
‘Oh, damn it, then send Beresford. Let him enjoy the mob’s adulation if he likes.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Arthur stared towards the small crowd at the town gates.‘I’ll take my turn in Paris, when the time comes, if that makes you feel any better, Somerset.’
‘It does, sir.’ The aide smiled warmly.
 
While General Beresford and his officers, accompanied by several companies of grenadiers, basked in the adulation of the French townsfolk, Arthur and his staff officers entered by a smaller gate further along the wall. Somerset had arranged for one of the mayor’s clerks to lead them through the back streets to the town square. Every so often the thin young Frenchman would turn and grin and call out,‘
Vive le Roi et vivent les anglais!
’ and curious faces would appear at the windows and doors of the houses the small party passed by.
‘If that fellow keeps this up, we shall attract a crowd of our own,’ Arthur hissed testily.
‘You can hardly blame him, sir,’ said Somerset. ‘With the prospect that Napoleon will be forced to make peace any day now.’
The man cried out again and Arthur glared at him, to no effect, and let out an exasperated sigh. His officers read his expression and kept their silence for the rest of the short ride to the
mairie
.When they were shown to the suite of offices assigned to them they began to arrange the desks while they waited for the wagon carrying the army’s records chests to arrive. The sounds of the cheering carried to the heart of the town and every so often a small cluster of excited civilians would hurry by on their way to join the celebrations.
Early in the afternoon the mayor arrived, somewhat drunk, to invite Arthur and his officers to a special performance of patriotic songs and recitals to be held at the town’s theatre that evening, followed by a banquet. In the interests of cementing the friendship of the people of Toulouse, Arthur accepted, and grudgingly made arrangements to have a bath and shave while his baggage was collected from the camp. So it was that he was standing before a mirror, face lathered in soap and razor poised above his throat, when the door to the washroom was unceremoniously opened and Somerset rushed in, accompanied by another officer whom Arthur recognised as Colonel Ponsonby, from the army outside Bayonne.
‘What the devil?’ Arthur growled, lowering the razor. ‘You surprise me like that, and it won’t be an enemy bullet that takes me. I’ll die by my own bloody hand!’
‘Sorry, sir.’ Somerset thrust Ponsonby forward. ‘But you must hear the news.’
‘Ponsonby?’ Arthur frowned. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I was sent to find you directly General Hope received the officers sent from Paris.’
‘Officers? What officers?’
‘Colonel Cooke, and Colonel St-Simon of the French army, sir.’
‘Well?’
‘Sir, I have extraordinary news for you.’
There was no mistaking what the man would say. Arthur held up his hand to silence the colonel. ‘It’s peace. I knew that we would have it.’
‘Aye, sir, we’ve all expected it. But there’s more. Napoleon has abdicated.’
‘Abdicated? It’s time indeed.’ Arthur replied without thinking. Then the full truth of it struck him. Napoleon was finished. With no throne, he would no longer be able to threaten the peace of Europe. At once his severe expression was split by a wide grin. Tossing his razor down into the basin, he clasped Ponsonby’s hands. ‘Abdicated! You don’t say so?’
‘I do, sir.’
‘By God . . . by God, this is wonderful!’ He turned to Somerset and could not help laughing. His whole mind and body was seized by the most pure and irresistible delight. ‘Hurrah! Hurrah!’ Releasing Ponsonby’s hands, he snapped his fingers and hopped lightly from side to side. ‘That I should live to see this!’
‘Just what I was thinking,’ Somerset chuckled as he stared at his superior’s unprecedented display of jubilation.
 
The night’s banquet was a raucous affair as British, Spanish and Portuguese officers celebrated with their French counterparts from the town’s garrison. Just as the main course was cleared away the two colonels sent from Paris arrived, bearing the official despatch. Arthur read it through, then stood to announce to the hushed audience that Bonaparte was to leave France for ever before the end of the month. Louis, the brother of the previous king, was to be returned to the throne. As the cheers echoed round the banqueting hall he sent for champagne to toast King Louis. As the glasses were recharged General Alava, who had recently re-joined the army from Madrid, quickly stood up and raised his glass towards Arthur.
‘To Field Marshal the Marquess of Wellington,
el liberador de España!
’
A great roar of approval went up from the assembled officers and they downed their champagne. Then one of the Portuguese commanders made a new toast. ‘
El Douro
- saviour of Portugal!’ There was another cheer before the mayor of Toulouse staggered up and toasted Arthur in broken English. ‘To Monsieur Wellington. He save France!’
This time the cheering did not end. The officers thumped their fists down on the table in a deafening rhythm that set the remaining cutlery and glasses trembling. Arthur slowly rose at their acclamation. He bowed his head to each side, and tried to make his thanks, but it was impossible. At that moment, as he looked round at his men, it was not joy, nor triumph, that filled his heart. It was gratitude, and an almost paternal affection for those who had become closer than family to him.
Slowly the cheering subsided and then there was a respectful but expectant silence as they waited for him to speak. Arthur smiled nervously, then lowered his head and shook it gently, afraid his voice would betray the emotions that gripped him. Somerset saw his difficulty and hurriedly rose to his feet, leaning towards his commander.
‘Shall we have coffee, sir?’
‘What’s that?’ Arthur mumbled.
‘There’s been a deal of champagne drunk tonight. Some of the officers will need sobering up before they go back on duty.’
‘Yes. Coffee.’ Arthur nodded. He raised his head, and cleared his throat. ‘I, ah, thank you all, most humbly. And much as I hate to break up the night’s celebrations, it is time for coffee.’
Some groaned at his words, but most were just bemused, and happily cheered and clapped the suggestion.
As he sat down, Arthur turned to Colonel Cooke and his French companion. ‘Do you have a copy of the despatch for Marshal Soult?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then you must find him at once. Ride on, to the south-east. He cannot have more than a day’s start on you.’
‘Tonight, sir?’ Cooke replied, surprised.
‘Yes, tonight. Hill’s men are pursuing him, and I’ll not have one more life lost through any avoidable delay in getting the news through to Soult. Go now.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Cooke said, and gestured to Colonel St-Simon to follow him as he strode from the banqueting hall.
 
Most of the French soldiers in the south were eager to believe the news, but Soult refused to accept that his master had fallen until he received confirmation from the hand of Berthier. Having allowed his men to celebrate the victory, Arthur soon began to issue the orders for their withdrawal to Bordeaux, from where they would be shipped home to Britain in due course. While the men were excited by the prospect of returning home, their officers were less sanguine once the initial delight over the great victory had faded. For many of them peace would mean half-pay and no chance of further promotion.
While the army began to adjust to the prospect of peace after two decades of war, Arthur travelled to Paris to take his place amongst the victors as they led the parade through the streets towards the Tuileries. There, the new King of France would review the soldiers and offer his gratitude for the sacrifices made by the allies in ridding Europe of the scourge of the Corsican Tyrant.
On 3 May, the day before the parade, Somerset presented Arthur with a letter from the Prince Regent as he sat eating his breakfast in his rooms in the suite provided for him and his staff in the Tuileries. Arthur lowered his knife and fork and finished chewing a morsel of lamb chop as he broke the seal and read through the contents. At length he lowered the letter on to the table and picked up his knife and fork to continue his breakfast. Somerset let out a low sigh of frustration.
‘Well, sir?’
Arthur cut off another chunk of lamb and glanced up. ‘I have been offered the embassy here in Paris. Oh, and it is confirmed that I am officially gazetted as the Duke of Wellington.’
Somerset beamed. ‘And not before time. May I be the first to offer my congratulations, your grace?’
‘I thank you, Somerset. It is, as you say, overdue, in as much as it honours all those who have served under me these last years.’
It might have sounded like a platitude from another man, but Somerset knew his commander well enough to know that the sentiment was heartfelt. For his part, Arthur felt a pang of resentment that this recognition of the army’s achievement should have been delayed by the enemies of his family in Parliament. The wretchedness of petty political intrigue had constantly threatened to undermine him and his men throughout their campaigns in the Peninsula. Well, it was better that reward came late than not at all.
Somerset looked out of the window, across the public square outside the palace, and saw that the crowds had already begun to mass along the route of the procession.‘You’ll have quite an audience today, your grace. All come to see the general who trounced Bonaparte’s marshals.’ Somerset paused. ‘It is a shame that you never had the chance to face him in battle.’
Arthur shook his head. ‘No, I am glad that I never did. I would at any time rather have heard that a reinforcement of forty thousand men had joined the French army, than that he had arrived to take command.’

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