Read Online The Man Who Broke Napoleon's Codes by Mark Urban - Free Book Online
Authors: Mark Urban
Ads: Link
front of them and a quite breathtaking vista presented itself. From their vantage points the British could look across theDouro, deep in its channel. The curves of the river and the depth of its course opened Portugalâs second city to them like a ripe fruit: the spires of the Se cathedral and the Tower of Clerigos marking its tempting center. Wellesley intended to make a sensational start to his second Portuguese campaign by delivering Oporto from French occupation.
The Serra occupied a point on the southern side of the river that was singularly suited to the British generalâs purpose. It was virtually the only one close enough to the heights opposite for cannon to rake them with fire. Looking down to the quayside on the northern bank, the occasional sentry making his rounds marked the only French presence. To the foreigner, there seemed an air of normality in the city. A local would have expected to see more bargemen and fishermen moving about on the quay, but the French sentries had told them to stay indoors. Smoke snaked lazily into the sky from the homes in the city above and behind them.
Wellesley and his men knew that the next few hours were going to determine whether their plan would secure them a famous victory or end in ignominy. So far, their presence in Vila Nova and that of thousands of troops filing through its little streets had gone undetected.
Oportoâs heart, that morning of 12 May 1809, remained under the hand of Marshal Soult, and with him the same force that had driven the British into the sea at Corunna less than four months before. Despite the hour, Soult was still asleep after a night of dictating orders, while his staff was settling down to a leisurely breakfast. On the northern outskirts, General Mermet was gathering a convoy of wounded, wagons and artillery, getting ready to evacuate the city.
Soult had pulled back into Oporto when the British had come up from Lisbon, a movement Wellesley began in April. In order to improve the strength of his river line, the French commander had blown up a bridge that connected Vila Nova to the rest of the city. Upstream, he had scuttled the ferry boats. Downstream, he had posted dozens of lookouts from Franceschiâs cavalry. The marshal thought Wellesley more likely to attack downstream, between the city and the Douroâs exit into the Atlantic, since it was natural for the English to exploit the sea, where they would enjoy so many advantages. For all the marshal knew, the British might use naval transports to sail past the riverâs mouth and land troops on the coast north of it, so turning his flank. The French cavalry had been deployed to give early warning of any such project. The marshalunderstood his force was smaller than that of the redcoats and their Portuguese allies, but he relied on the deep dark waters of the Douro to protect him. If things went well, he would catch his enemies in the act of landing and crush them before they had achieved a critical mass. And if things went badly? The river would ensure that he still had a couple of days for a smooth evacuation.
Wellesleyâs staff was deeply nervous as they watched a small party of soldiers and locals bringing four barges from the northern quay to where British troops were waiting, still apparently undetected by the French. Their general, they were discovering, was as good at hiding his emotions as any man could be: he wore the mask of command, possessing that inscrutibility so vital for a leader in war. But they, who had so much to gain or lose from their masterâs good opinion, chatted nervously, lit the long brown cigarettes smoked by so many of the local people, and waited for Wellesleyâs audacious orders to unfold. There was probably much conversation about the previous dayâs affair at Grijó a few miles away. A squadron of the 16th Light Dragoons had been ordered to charge the French as they fell back to Oporto. The ground, studded with trees and
The Serra occupied a point on the southern side of the river that was singularly suited to the British generalâs purpose. It was virtually the only one close enough to the heights opposite for cannon to rake them with fire. Looking down to the quayside on the northern bank, the occasional sentry making his rounds marked the only French presence. To the foreigner, there seemed an air of normality in the city. A local would have expected to see more bargemen and fishermen moving about on the quay, but the French sentries had told them to stay indoors. Smoke snaked lazily into the sky from the homes in the city above and behind them.
Wellesley and his men knew that the next few hours were going to determine whether their plan would secure them a famous victory or end in ignominy. So far, their presence in Vila Nova and that of thousands of troops filing through its little streets had gone undetected.
Oportoâs heart, that morning of 12 May 1809, remained under the hand of Marshal Soult, and with him the same force that had driven the British into the sea at Corunna less than four months before. Despite the hour, Soult was still asleep after a night of dictating orders, while his staff was settling down to a leisurely breakfast. On the northern outskirts, General Mermet was gathering a convoy of wounded, wagons and artillery, getting ready to evacuate the city.
Soult had pulled back into Oporto when the British had come up from Lisbon, a movement Wellesley began in April. In order to improve the strength of his river line, the French commander had blown up a bridge that connected Vila Nova to the rest of the city. Upstream, he had scuttled the ferry boats. Downstream, he had posted dozens of lookouts from Franceschiâs cavalry. The marshal thought Wellesley more likely to attack downstream, between the city and the Douroâs exit into the Atlantic, since it was natural for the English to exploit the sea, where they would enjoy so many advantages. For all the marshal knew, the British might use naval transports to sail past the riverâs mouth and land troops on the coast north of it, so turning his flank. The French cavalry had been deployed to give early warning of any such project. The marshalunderstood his force was smaller than that of the redcoats and their Portuguese allies, but he relied on the deep dark waters of the Douro to protect him. If things went well, he would catch his enemies in the act of landing and crush them before they had achieved a critical mass. And if things went badly? The river would ensure that he still had a couple of days for a smooth evacuation.
Wellesleyâs staff was deeply nervous as they watched a small party of soldiers and locals bringing four barges from the northern quay to where British troops were waiting, still apparently undetected by the French. Their general, they were discovering, was as good at hiding his emotions as any man could be: he wore the mask of command, possessing that inscrutibility so vital for a leader in war. But they, who had so much to gain or lose from their masterâs good opinion, chatted nervously, lit the long brown cigarettes smoked by so many of the local people, and waited for Wellesleyâs audacious orders to unfold. There was probably much conversation about the previous dayâs affair at Grijó a few miles away. A squadron of the 16th Light Dragoons had been ordered to charge the French as they fell back to Oporto. The ground, studded with trees and
Similar Books
