True Soldier Gentlemen (Napoleonic War 1) (36 page)

The British were advancing. The 82nd gave three cheers and advanced at a steady pace. To their left the other regiments matched them. They moved forward, bayonets lowered to present a row of sharp points, but the men marching at normal pace and keeping in step. Pringle watched as the front ranks of the nearest column seemed to sway like a flag in the wind. He wished he could borrow Williams’ glass to watch more closely, for it was fascinating being a spectator. He looked down the line to where MacAndrews sat on his horse but there was no indication that they were about to move.

Some Frenchmen reloaded and fired again when the British were no more than twenty-five yards away. A few men fell among the 82nd and were left behind as the line kept on. Then there was a louder cheer and the redcoats were let off the leash. Led by an officer on a grey horse, they surged forward and screamed out a challenge as they charged the enemy. Pringle noticed that the highlanders somehow seemed to speed up faster than the two English battalions on either side of them.

The French held on until almost the last moment, and Pringle expected to see the lines meet and fight a bitter battle with bayonets and the clubbed ends of muskets, but then the enemy were running. The men higher up the slope and farther from the charging redcoats went first, turning in flight. Soon the enemy were streaming back over the ridge, with the redcoats running on in pursuit. For the moment order had gone. The red lines disappeared over the ridge.

A staff officer rode to the centre of the 106th. Shortly afterwards MacAndrews gave the order for the battalion to form up four deep. It was an unusual order, with each company halving its frontage and doubling its depth. It made the battalion more manoeuvrable and allowed it to form square more quickly, but it was something they had rarely practised. There was a muttering until the sergeants bellowed out for silence. The change was made smoothly enough. Then they began to advance in support of the 82nd.

Wounded men were hobbling or being helped or carried
by bandsmen down past them. Other redcoats lay dead, or still moaning softly in the dry grass. One raised an imploring arm at Williams as they marched past. He shook his head and hated himself, but kept in formation, having to check his stride y, but iturry to catch up as he and the men behind him passed over the man. Nearer the top of the hill the bodies were thicker, and most were French. There were also lots of the rough white cowhide packs the French used scattered about the slope. Dobson scooped one up, and to Williams’ amazement managed somehow to rifle through it one-handed, still holding his musket to his shoulder with the other. He produced a bag which seemed to contain some sort of meat and contentedly reached back to push it into his haversack. Then he dropped the French pack. He had never once broken stride.

When they reached the top, they looked out to see the red lines some way ahead. They were now scattered and broken into groups, but still surging forward. They were also splitting into two bigger clumps as the Highlanders and the 82nd went more to the right. The French were fleeing, the teams pulling their guns frantically trying to keep pace across the uneven plain. MacAndrews nodded with approval when he saw the 82nd and the Highlanders halt to re-form. It gave him more time to catch them up. They were soon going forward again, however, and he could see that their lines were more than a little ragged. The French guns became trapped at the foot of a slope which for a short distance was too steep for them to climb, and a great cheer went up as the Scottish infantry fired a volley and then surged forward to capture them.

Sudden movement caught MacAndrews’ eye. To the right of the two lead battalions of redcoats, new columns were spilling over the high ground. They were dressed in the long drab coats of French infantry and beside them was a squadron of cavalry with green jackets and brass helmets. The French were coming and were heading straight at the flank of the ragged British lines. General Brenier had finally arrived.

W
ickham wanted a drink, and even more than that wanted to sit or lie down and rest for a while
. Most of all he was sick of sitting on his mare presenting a target to every French gunner out there. After leaving Lawson he had ridden along the ridge-line. That had not been too bad. There were riflemen ahead of him and the nearest French were some two hundred yards away. Once only had he heard the whirring of a spent musket ball pass his head. Still, it was a considerable relief when he reached a cluster of olive trees and knew that these would shield him from the sight of Lawson or anyone else. It was also good that no one was close for his hand was shaking as it held the reins and he could not control it. Once past the trees he swung down more on to the slope. It might have worked if Sir Arthur’s staff had not been peacefully sitting their horses on the crest about fifty yards farther along. There was no choice but to join them.

A solid shot punched the air just feet away from him as he arrived. He could not help flinching.

‘Was it something you said to them?’ commented Colonel Fitzwilliam cheerfully.

Wickham gulped, but managed to answer. ‘No, the French just recognise talent and so that is bound to make me a target.’

‘Well said, old boy.’ Fitzwilliam had a low opinion of Wickham – indeed knew too much of the man to have anything else – but that might well change if he showed true courage. After all, what was more fundamental in revealing a man’s quality? ‘Sir Harry has come ashore this morning. However, he has most generously declined to replace Sir Arthur in command now that the battle
has commenced. Sensible too, really, since Wellesley knows our dispositions far better. He is waiting back behind the village at an appropriateistance. Doesn’t want to be in the way, of course, or confuse matters.’

‘Should I report to General Burrard?’ Wickham asked, trying to conceal his hope of spending the remainder of the battle in more comfortable and safer surroundings.

‘No need. He has let me come forward and said that you could remain as well. Didn’t begrudge us having some fun. You’ll like him. He’s a grand fellow.’

‘Yes, he sounds it.’ Wickham tried to conceal his disappointment. ‘And I must thank you for helping to secure me this assignment.’ There, that would help. A gentleman could readily be expected to show a little discomfort in anything so emotional as admitting gratitude.

That had been nearly an hour ago. He had been forced to be still and appear insouciant as the French round-shot bounced among them. One had taken the rear legs off an ADC’s horse, so that the poor beast sank down, screaming in agony. The rider had sprung off easily enough, but there were tears in his eyes when he shot the animal between the eyes to end its suffering. That was the only hit, but many of the others seemed close enough. It was also the only emotion any of them showed – apart from almost schoolboy enthusiasm when the second French attack came in and the British artillery opened up against the oncoming columns. They were using a new invention, the spherical case-shot invented by Colonel Shrapnel. The shells had a long range, but, if the fuse was cut to the right length, exploded over the head of the enemy. They were packed with dozens of pistol balls and these and the shattered casing itself showered down on the target much like a round of canister.

‘Damned fine!’ called Bathurst, the Deputy Quartermaster General, as one shot exploded directly over a French gun and massacred its entire crew. There was much agreement and even a smattering of applause.

They had moved little during the second French attack. The
two columns of grenadiers had been stopped just as abruptly as the earlier assaults. There had been less skirmishing this time, but even so some enemy skirmishers had come close enough to fire at the cluster of mounted officers. A ball had gone through Fitzwilliam’s hat, much to the Guardsman’s amusement. Afterwards he kept sticking his finger through the hole it had made and grinning.

They did not move until there was a heavy burst of firing and loud cheering from the village behind them. The second regiment of French grenadiers, Junot’s final reserve, were led by Kellerman, a cavalryman by trade and a cunning officer. He took them behind a low hill which kept them out of view of the British on the ridge and hooked round down the road into the village. The 43rd in the churchyard and nearby buildings stopped them. It was a vicious fight, fought at point-blank range and often enough hand to hand. Men had stabbed and shot each other in the narrow alleys of the village and among the tombstones in the graveyard. By the time Wellesley and his staff arrived – Wickham’s mare had recovered enough not to trail too much and he managed to stay with them – his nearest brigade commanders had already brought up reserves to complete the rout of the French grenadiers.

The area around the church was a charnel house. Bodies lay in the street, in the graveyard and surrounding buildings. All the walls were pocked with musket shots. A French grenadier lay propped against the wall of the yard, his stomach slashed open and with his entrails poured out beside him. Near by was a redcoat from the 43rd with his skull almost cut completely in two. Wickham looked around at the carnage. The smell was dreadful, but he found the sights more distasteful than horrific.

‘Now, Twentieth, now is the time,’ Sir Arthur himself called out to Colonel Taylor. Wickham thought back to the dinner the 106th had enjoyed with the dragoons just a month or so earlier. Somehow it seemed more like an age.

The Light Dragoons were ready. Taylor had formed them in the centre, his two squadrons side by side and each in two ranks. He would have preferred a reserve, but did not have the men. The Portuguese horsemen extended his line on either flank. He would also have preferred to have the troopers of his own regiment, who had been unable to find mounts, but that could not be helped. The country was open enough to the south-east of the village and he led his men across the plain at a walk. There was a thrilling scraping of blade on the metal mouths of scabbards as he ordered his men to draw their heavy, curved sabres.

A line of French cavalry in green appeared and tried to form ahead of him. Taylor gave the order and the Light Dragoons went into a trot, the men rising in their saddles. The Portuguese hesitated and then copied them, so that they began to hang back a little on either side. At two hundred yards he accelerated into a canter. The French were not moving and that seemed odd. There was a danger now that he had started the charge too soon, expecting them to come forward to meet his men, but that could not be helped. Anyway it should not matter. If the fools met him at the halt then they would be broken in an instant.

Taylor glanced to the left. The Portuguese had gone. His head flicked to the right. The Lisbon police were still there, but the regular Portuguese cavalry had gone, turning their nags around and streaming to the rear. Oh well, too late now, he thought as he raised his sabre high and bellowed out the order to charge, rising in his stirrups. His trumpeter, young Morrison, resplendent in his yellow jacket and mounted on a grey, was just behind him as he should be, and Taylor winked at the boy encouragingly. Then he turned and concentrated all his attentions on the enemy as the last few yards flew by.

The French Dragoons had their long straight swords thrust out in the charge position, wrists turned so that the blades pointed
forward and slightly down. Yet they were not moving and the herd instinct of their horses took over as the line of British cavalry rushed at them. The animals shifted in the ranks, then some turned and started to run away. Wide gaps opened in the line and the British horsemen flooded into them. Sabres rose and fell. Taylor cut hard at the man in front and to his right. His sabre grated for a moment on the peak of the man’s helmet and then bit deep into his face. The Dragoon screamed and clutched at the dreadful wound, which formed a gash from eyebrow to chin. Taylor was already past and slashed across his body at a man to the left, but was parried, his arm jarring with the shock. The chest of his horse barged into the Frenchman’s horse, and the Dragoon was tumbled from his saddle.

Just two of the British cavalry fell in the brief melee. Several more received wounds, but none was stopped and the French Dragoons were cut or knocked from their saddles or fled as the 20th rolled through them and kept going. The line was broken now, but a concentrated mass of blue-jacketed horsemen galloped onwards across the plain. In a moment they were among the disordered French infantry, the remnants of the grenadier battalions dven back from the village. They had been attempting to reform, but were still scattered, and almost all turned to run for safety as the British horsemen bore down on them. A few – the experienced ones – clustered together into closely packed knots and tried to present a row of bayonet points to any cavalry-man who came at them.

It was natural for the Light Dragoons to pick on the easiest targets. The men who ran were helpless, and it was exhilarating to ride among them, picking a target and then cutting down. A British corporal took care to wait until he was just passing one of the running grenadiers. Then he would slash backwards, slicing deep into the man’s face. The second time he did this the top of the grenadier’s head sheared off neatly. The corporal did not smile or exult, but simply pressed on to the next victim. Other men were wilder. Some of the rawer troopers hacked at the backs of the fugitives. More than one man found himself knocked off his
feet, but would then stagger up to discover that the only damage was a great hole in his backpack. Another trooper laughed as he rode alongside a Frenchman, watching the man nervously glancing up at him. Then he hit him hard with the flat of the sabre, and laughed all the more as the man staggered, losing his shako, and then blinked, looking confused. Another man from the 20th passed and cut down deep into the man’s skull.

Taylor was enjoying the moment. He was an urbane, sensitive and educated man, a product of Christ Church College and he had already killed or wounded five enemy soldiers. The French were at their mercy and his boys were doing well, and Taylor wanted more. There was a thrill to this slaughter, a sense of power and invulnerability, and he spurred onwards. Morrison was still with him and Taylor knew that he must soon tell the lad to sound the recall. Yet they were doing so much damage that his senses told him a few minutes more would harm the French fatally. He saw a close-packed knot of Frenchmen moving slowly back across the plain. There must have been fifteen of them and more fugitives headed towards them. He saw their leader, a lieutenant whose single epaulette was tarnished and whose hair was white, grab a fugitive with a musket and turn him round so that he joined the front rank. Unarmed men were thrust away from the formation as useless.

‘To me, Twentieth, to me!’ Taylor called. If he could break this little formed body then the French morale must be shattered. Morrison was with him and four troopers headed over to join the group. There was also a corporal, King of C Troop, his helmet gone and his cheek flapping from the cut of a blade, but still looking determined. That was good. ‘Come on, boys, let’s finish them! Follow me!’

The seven horsemen formed a rough line, with Taylor ahead and in the centre. They yelled as they pushed their horses forward, using their last energy in a gallop to carry them over the short distance to the little cluster of Frenchmen. The elderly lieutenant halted his men, and got his front rank kneeling with the butts of their muskets pressed into the ground and the points held up to
spear into the horses’ chests if they should dare to come close. There were just four men in the front rank and only three with loaded muskets standing behind them, but the lieutenant waited until the British were no more than ten yards away when he bellowed at them to fire.

It was a small volley and Taylor could see they had left it too late, and then a ball punched into his chest and struck the heart and his eyes faded and then he knew nothing. Involuntarily his arm pulled on the reins and his horse swung to the left, colliding with Morrison’s grey. The horse of one of the troopers was hit and collapsed, throwing him high and far over its neck to strike the ground with a sickening thump. The che was stopped in its tracks, as horses barged into each other or swung away. Taylor was dead and the French lieutenant leaned out to shoot the cavalryman on the ground with his pistol. Corporal King sheathed his sabre and pulled out his carbine. He looked grim, but since his cheek was slashed his expression was not clear. One Frenchman fired a musket at him and the ball passed close to his shoulder, but he did not flinch. He checked that there was powder in the carbine’s pan, and raised it to his shoulder. Firing from horseback was always chancy, but he took deliberate aim.

The ball nicked the French lieutenant high on his left arm, spinning him round. The man staggered, but then straightened up and raised a defiant fist at the British cavalryman. King was disappointed not to have killed the man, but had at least shown him that you did not shoot helpless men. Then he heard the trumpets sounding and saw a line of French Dragoons coming across the plain, the sun glittering off their brass helmets and the blades of their swords. They were formed and fresh, and the British were scattered and weary. It was time to go. King looked for the other troopers, but could see only Morrison. ‘Come on, lad,’ he said, his voice distorted by his wound, and the pair headed back the way they had come, moving as fast as their blown horses could carry them. Behind them, the French horsemen hunted down anyone who fled too slowly.

Wickham and the other staff watched the 20th return from
their charge. More escaped than he had expected, for they had watched the French reserve cavalry approach. Wickham thought he heard Wellesley mutter under his breath, ‘Gallant, but unwise.’