Soldier of the Queen (23 page)

Heading back to Gravelotte, Colby passed Bazaine’s headquarters. The Marshal, an unprepossessing figure with his paunch and his podgy, piggy-eyed face, sat outside his tent with a napkin at his throat and a knife and fork in his hand, calling for horses to be saddled. A few minutes later he set off down the road to see what was happening, pushing between the stream of refugees trying to bury themselves among the army. There was no panic and the headquarters staff seemed to regard the German attack, with the whole French Army of the Rhine in front of them, as suicidal. Certainly the Prussians were making little impression and, committed piecemeal, their infantry was already being flung back with heavy losses.

As Bazaine disappeared, an aide with blood on his cuffs started arguing in the middle of a group of staff officers. The man he was addressing was being helped into his coat and his head was bare, his sparse grey hair stirred by the wind.

‘A determined attack would drive them back into the ravine,’ the younger officer was shouting.

‘Then tell your general to get on with it,’ the staff officer snapped, holding up his arms for a sergeant to buckle his sword round his waist.

‘He needs support!’ The aide was growing frantic at the casual attitude. ‘He has neither reserves nor resources for such a move, sir!’

The staff officer hitched at his belt and held out his hand for his scarlet-and-gold képi. Slamming it on his head, he turned to his horse. ‘You must wait until the Marshal returns,’ he said. ‘Or rely on local counter-attacks. There’s nothing I can do!’

The firing had grown intense now and smoke was covering the road. An attempt by the Prussians to post guns on the heights was driven off and the infantry on the open slopes were scattered with heavy losses. The French looked uncertain, however, chiefly because the Prussian advances were so confident, and by midday the heights to the south were packed with German batteries which were beginning to dominate the French positions. As the Prussian attacks grew stronger, Vionville, the point of junction between two French corps, fell; and the French artillery fire was directed on to it to make it impossible for it to be held.

It was clearly impracticable to head back to Gravelotte, and, forced to wait behind a row of cottages whose tiles and chimneys were being systematically knocked off by German guns, Colby was surrounded by French soldiers loaded with pots and pans like tinkers. As they began to move forward, a shot struck a tree, showering him with leaves. Bugles screamed and in the distance, a half-battery of Prussian guns hurtled over a rise, the great weapons bouncing.

As the Prussian infantry began to advance again, extending their intervals to cover the French front, drums and fifes were squealing and flags fluttered in the centre of the line. The French gave a defiant yell and rushed forward. The Germans halted and began to fire volleys by alternate platoons, the lieutenants and sergeants counting the drill, precise, mechanical and inhuman, and after two or three minutes of volleying through the powder smoke, the French centre dissolved. As the attack flowed round the Germans, men rolled on the ground, kicking and clubbing and stabbing. Cavalry appeared, sabres jingling, sparks flashing from iron-shod hooves as they crossed a patch of stony ground, then as they cantered forward the retreating Germans broke into a run.

Glancing about him, Colby saw that Bazaine had reappeared and was with his staff in the field nearby, his Chinese face impassive as he pointed to the east. It was obvious he wasn’t contemplating a general advance because he was looking over his shoulders towards Metz, thinking not of defeating the Prussians so much as how not to be defeated himself.

As he waited, a harassed staff colonel told him that Frossard, having borne the brunt of the attack all morning, was in a precarious position. ‘Bataille’s down,’ he said, ‘and his division’s crumbling. They’ve asked for cavalry.’

As he spoke, the high silver note of trumpets cut across the noise and a regiment of Cuirassiers of the Guard moved across the road, the sun catching their snowy gauntlets and the sky blue of their tunics. Picking their way over broken agricultural land and abandoned equipment that spoiled their alignment, they began to sweep down on the German infantry, horse-hair tails blowing from their helmets, embossed guidons flapping. As the Prussian skirmishers ran together to form a line, the sabres lifted and the riders threw back their heads to fill the air with shouts of
‘Vive l’Empereur!’

More Prussians had thickened the line and they showed no inclination to budge. There was a crashing volley and the line of horsemen sagged and heaved, then burst into fragments, moving to the right and left of the infantrymen. A second volley stopped the charge dead, and a third and fourth disintegrated the formation. As the horsemen galloped wildly about, German dragoons and Brunswick Hussars with black uniforms galloped up to a counter-attack and drove them back to their lines, only to be caught in the French fire in their turn and also driven off.

Spectacular, invigorating and entirely ineffective, Colby thought dryly.

To the north of the road a wide grassy sward stretched westwards towards the valley of the Yron. It seemed a standing invitation to more attacks and, as the smoke cleared, Colby studied it carefully. It was perfect cavalry ground and, deciding that before long someone was going to take advantage of it, he began to pick his way round it back towards Gravelotte.

Prussian infantry were pushing forward again now, their flags against the sky, then, bursting from the trees, the outline of men, horses and cannon appeared abruptly as a French battery raced across the brow of the field, opening fanwise as it went. Guns, caissons and carts jolted over the rutted ground, leaping like gigantic grasshoppers, the drivers plying their whips and spurs. As they swung, bouncing over a shallow ditch, they gouged great ruts from the earth.

As the great weapons were unlimbered and the horses trotted back out of sight, there was a moment of frantic activity, then a wall of yellow smoke that cracked and bellowed and was streaked with red glare. Splinters flew like knives, howling and humming into the mass of advancing Germans to dot the grass with squirming bundles that gave off a low moaning pierced by high, tearing screams.

It was the Prussians who were struggling to hold their positions now but, as Colby watched, a brigade of German horsemen emerged, taking their time to get their alignment and put their flank guards in position. Partially concealed by a depression, they were moving towards the French batteries, clearly intending to hold them until further troops could come up. For a moment, smoke hid them from sight, then as they lifted in a colourful wave out of the depression, they came down on the batteries in a charge as effective as anything Murat had ever attempted. German shellfire had already driven off the French infantry supporting the batteries and, with no time to fire, the guns were caught in the open. The Prussian horsemen swept over them like hounds over a fence, their riders sabring the gunners at will. Only fifty or so horses had gone down, but as the remainder faltered, their order lost and blown after the gallop, fresh French cavalry, outnumbering them five to one, came thundering down on their flank.

Trumpets screamed the recall and, breathless, thinned, without reserves, the Germans swung away. Officers yelled for a rally and as the French were checked, they were able to cut their way out of the mêlée in small hunted groups. The batteries had been thrown into confusion and the threat to the German positions had been smashed.

In the lull that followed, Colby pushed further round the broad area of grassland to the north of Vionville, and as he moved through a belt of trees he found himself among a regiment of lancers just cantering into position as the German cavalry retired. At once, several of them detached themselves and surrounded him, chivvying him towards the officer in command. It didn’t surprise him in the slightest to find it was de Polignac.

‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded.

‘You know damned well what I’m doing,’ Colby snapped. ‘I’m an official observer for my government.’

He was half-expecting to be arrested, but de Polignac was gesturing towards where the remnants of the German cavalry were still withdrawing.

‘Did you see it?’ he asked. ‘It was magnificent, was it not? The Magdeburg Cuirassiers and the 16th Uhlans. How I wish I could have done that! They tell me the correspondent of
The Times
of London rode with them. Did you see him? He took his place alongside one of the troop leaders, and even carried back a wounded officer.’

He was elated, excited and fidgeting in the saddle, itching to be in the action. But the Prussian infantry was being driven back now and it seemed that at any moment they would be forced from the field. As the French continued to hesitate, however, they again risked everything by rushing forward every man they had. Fresh troops appeared and were thrown into the fight, but they were in close order and with no advance guard as they blundered through Mars-la-Tour into the thick blue lines of French infantry coming from the north. Caught in the bottom of a valley, they had to crouch, exhausted and immoveable, for ten minutes while the French fired into the inert mass. Then, roused by their officers and drummers, the French hurled themselves forward to drive them back up the slope at the other side of the valley.

‘Now!’ de Polignac said. ‘Now is when Marshal Bazaine will launch our cavalry!’

‘He’ll never do it,’ Colby said. ‘He hasn’t the experience.’

De Polignac gave him a bitter look, but the enmity seemed to have gone from him, as if they were both professionals discussing a point of war.

Colby was quite right, and the opportunity was missed. While the French waited, five German squadrons came through the smoke. As they swept forward, the French infantrymen flung themselves down and the cavalryman, finding it impossible to use their swords on them, wheeled their horses in frustrated fury, yelling for lancers to be brought up.

‘Now it will be our turn,’ de Polignac said, his eyes alight.

But no orders came and, as the German cavalry circled, other French horsemen moved forward from the right to meet them. The shock was tremendous. It came across the air like a great clash of cymbals, while, as the dust rose, the shapes of riders flickered against it in a curious sort of shadow show.

De Polignac was almost beside himself now with impatience, shifting in his saddle and circling his horse to look for the galloper he confidently expected to bring his orders. Lacking the experience to know when to strike on his own, he was angrily watching the horsemen in front, still struggling in small knots. In the distance a sombre line of woods stretched towards the Yron and across the grass lay a trail of wreckage, overturned artillery limbers, smashed guns, thrashing horses and the red-trousered shapes of dead French Lignards. Then, on the left, a half battery of Prussian horse artillery began to move into position, the crimson hussar facings of the drivers clear in the sunshine, and Colby found himself urging de Polignac forward.

‘Now’s your chance,’ he said.

De Polignac glanced at him, eager but uncertain, his eyes questioning.

‘This is your moment. They’re unprotected. I’d better be going.’

De Polignac’s mouth twisted in a reluctant smile. ‘You won’t be in the way, Monsieur.’

Colby hesitated. It was an invitation and a challenge at the same time, an effort to forget the bitter feelings that had existed between them. If he retired, as he ought to, the Frenchman would consider him either afraid or still full of hatred.

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I’ll ride with you.’

De Polignac’s smile grew firmer and he gestured. ‘Perhaps you’d like to take up your position alongside me,’ he said. Then, as he turned to his line of troopers, his sabre came out with a metallic screech. Lifting it high in the air, he swung it down until it pointed to the struggling artillerymen in front.

With the snort of excited chargers, the lancers leapt at once to the gallop. De Polignac had moved ahead of his men, his cap lost, his dark hair floating in the breeze created by the speed of his mount. A gun fired and, as men and horses went down in a tumbled heap, the riders near them streamed in ribbons to the right. But de Polignac screamed at them and they recovered to crash over the Prussian guns, only to find themselves facing a thin line of Prussian dragoons, who went down in a tangle of rolling horses before them. A fresh line of French hussars, seeing their success, emerged from the woods and swept over the brow of the slope to join in. In reply, more German horsemen appeared and de Polignac’s line caught them in the flank, sending horses to the grass in a growing mêlée. There was so much dust and smoke it became impossible to tell friend from foe, but the figures that loomed up in front of Colby all seemed to swerve to right or left. The air was thick with the cries of men and the neighing of horses as the line was swallowed up. As they crashed into the enemy squadrons, the battle seemed to heave and sway, surging this way and that, then the two wings began to wheel inwards, so tightly locked it was impossible to have any wish in the matter of where to go.

Seeing the growing battle, both sides poured men into the struggle. Cheers sounded but it was impossible to see why, and all control on both sides was lost. A French lancer came at Colby from the flank, his weapon at the point, saw that Colby wasn’t wearing uniform and swerved away, to lift a German hussar out of the saddle. Then he found he was thrusting off a Uhlan who seemed equally startled to find himself facing a civilian. As the German swung away, his horse crashed into the heavy mount of a French cuirassier and went down under the hooves of another line of riders bursting out of the smoke. Several of the oncoming horses leapt over the thrashing charger but others, following close behind, were brought down and a group of French lancers began to prod at the screaming mass until they were driven off by a charge of German hussars. Riderless horses were bolting, half-demented at the noise and excitement of the battle, neighing with fear, their eyeballs bulging, blowing crimson froth from their nostrils. Their riders, blackened by smoke and maddened by thirst, were reeling in their saddles with fatigue.