Whose Business Is to Die (23 page)

‘You might give the army more time to prepare.’

‘I might, but what of my men? If your soldiers are taken they will be prisoners. If we are taken then we will hang. Is a little time worth that!’

More of the men rushed past them. El Charro spoke to one of his officers, and then gave an approving nod. ‘We are away. Will you come with us?’

Hanley considered for a moment. ‘I had better find Lord Wellington,’ he said.

‘Then go with God, my friend!’

‘You too.’ Hanley watched El Charro trot away, keeping pace with his men on foot. There was no sign of the French, and so he walked his horse through the village and set out back towards the Seventh Division. Threading his way down the narrow lanes and between the walled gardens he began to hear isolated shots, muffled by the woods and the still-lingering fog. The path led into a little gully, and although the sides were not steep, he stayed in it to keep out of sight. A bugle sounded the alarm, so the Seventh Division was beginning to react.

The gully ended in some trees, and then the ground rose as he went through them. There was no hint of sunlight in here, the mist still thick and cold, but when he emerged on to a low rise it was as if a veil was pulled back, for suddenly it was bright and he could see well. A quarter of a mile in front Brotherton’s two squadrons had formed up. They were facing French cavalry, and, although it was hard to tell, Hanley did not think that they were the men he had seen before. For a moment more regiments
could just be glimpsed behind them, and then the wind wafted in a bank of fog and they were gone. The attack was clearly a big one, involving at least a couple of cavalry brigades, but that did not mean that it was not a grand feint. So far he had not even glimpsed any enemy infantry. Yet if it was a major attack then it would strike home against a division too spread out to offer much resistance.

One of Brotherton’s squadrons charged, sending a French formation back some way, but then a supporting line came up and it was the British who were going back. The second squadron of light dragoons made a bold front and stopped the enemy pursuit, so that after just a minute or two of action, both sides formed up once more and returned to watching each other warily. Perhaps it was the damp atmosphere, but as he watched them Hanley felt none of the excitement of joining the charge at Campo Major. He pressed on, heading for Poco Velho and keeping well behind where he thought the fighting was going on. Shots were coming more often now, and he heard at least one concerted volley, so the Seventh Division were presumably becoming engaged – unless the French really did have infantry with them.

‘Hanley! Hanley!’ He had only just emerged from the thicker fog in one of the folds in the plain when the voice hailed him. Murray was waving at him from a little knoll, and beside him was a group of mounted officers. As he trotted up to join them, he saw Lord Wellington, who gave him a curt nod.

The general came straight to the point. ‘What is the situation at Nave de Haver?’

‘French chasseurs approached at dawn – at least a regiment and probably more,’ Hanley reported. ‘Don Julian Sanchez did not believe that he could hold and has retreated. The Fourteenth Light Dragoons are doing their best to delay the enemy.’

Lord Wellington gave an abrupt snort of a laugh. ‘That cunning old fox,’ he said, ‘he is turning my flank. Well, we must not permit him to succeed. Thank you, Captain Hanley.’ A gesture summoned a staff officer and the general dictated an order to
him as Hanley walked his horse over to join Murray. The knoll offered a decent view of the plain, but the mist had still not broken and every now and again blotted large areas from sight.

‘They’ve caught us on the hop,’ Murray said, without any trace of worry. ‘We must get the Seventh back to the main army and form a new front, so the task is simple enough – it is merely accomplishing it that will take some delicate handling.’ There were infantry behind the French cavalry, but still some distance away.

‘At least a division, and perhaps two or three,’ Murray said, and then the whole staff was off, following Lord Wellington as he rushed to another vantage point. They passed more light dragoons and the 1st KGL Hussars moving up, but the French chasseurs were joined by regiments of dragoons and outnumbered their opponents by three or four to one. The British and German horsemen charged, retreated and rallied again and again, delaying the enemy, holding them back for a little while, but all the time they were edging backwards.

Hanley followed the general and his staff and heard the reports come in. A British and Portuguese battalion were driven out of Poco Velho by French infantry, and then cut up by cavalry as they retired.

‘They have rallied, but have lost heavily,’ an ADC told the general.

Just after eight o’clock, a distant rumble came from the direction of Fuentes de Oñoro.

‘That must be their guns,’ Murray commented as if discussing slightly less clement weather. ‘I dare say they will hit the village again soon.’

The cavalry kept up its bold front, and now and again the half-dozen guns from the troop of Royal Horse Artillery supporting them fired and for a brief moment blotted out the persistent murmur of the French cannon.

‘I cannot understand why they do not press us harder,’ Murray said, as the British moved back again. ‘We could not stand against such numbers if they all came on at once.’ There had been no
more reports or glimpses of French infantry. ‘They are either very clever or bungling the whole thing.’

The words were ill chosen, for as they watched a squadron of light dragoons charged and found themselves fighting against a much larger body of enemy cavalry. Men fell, and others were taken, before the British cavalry fled back, but once again they rallied in the shelter of a supporting line.

The battalions of the Seventh were formed, but scattered over too long a frontage.

‘Ah, the Light Division!’ There was obvious relief in Murray’s voice as he peered back over his shoulder. A battalion of infantry in dark green was doubling up behind them, and beyond the riflemen a column of redcoats marched up with colours flying. Hanley saw a Regimental Colour of a red cross on a white field and a union flag in the corner flapping lazily in the still air. It reminded him of his own regiment, even though this battalion had white facings and not the red of the 106th.

‘Thank the Lord, Craufurd is back,’ Murray said, for the irascible commander of the Light Division had returned from leave only the night before. Lord Wellington rode to confer with the general, but spent only a short while with him before galloping away.

‘Oh, we’re off again, and back to Fuentes no doubt. Stay with the light bobs, Hanley,’ Murray told him. ‘Ride to us or send word if anything requires Lord Wellington to return.’ The colonel used his crop to speed up his horse as he hurried to catch up with his chief.

The arrival of the fresh infantry seemed to slow the French down for a while. Craufurd formed his men into six squares – three from the redcoated battalions, two of Portuguese lights in brown, and one of the greenjackets of the 95th, with the rest of his riflemen acting as skirmishers wherever there was enough cover to hinder the French horsemen. Each square was four deep, with the first and second ranks kneeling. There were wide gaps between them and through these the weary units of the Seventh Division, some very low on ammunition, retreated.

Craufurd remained in place and watched, letting them go for more than half a mile behind him. To Hanley’s amazement so did the French, even when the Allied cavalry and horse guns retired to station themselves in or just behind the same gaps. The enemy simply watched, and he could only think that they were drawing breath for some great effort. He did not ask General Craufurd, for apart from a curt acknowledgement the general had made no attempt to speak to him. Hanley knew Black Bob of old and expected nothing less.

They waited and still the French did not press on, save for a few companies of voltigeurs who appeared and began to squib away at the skirmishers from the 95th. The mist had cleared enough for them to see columns of enemy infantry, but these were standing over a mile away and showed no sign of advancing.

‘I want the First Battalion of the Fifty-second, and both regiments of Portuguese to about-face in column at quarter-distance,’ Craufurd said to one of his ADCs. ‘Have them wait for my signal and then go back two hundred paces, halt, and about-face once again.’

‘If they do not attack us now then it will be a miracle,’ whispered one of the staff to Hanley, who looked on in amazement because it seemed that the plan was simply to turn their backs and walk away.

Orders were shouted, and three of the squares split apart as the companies re-formed into column facing away from the French. The redcoated battalion completed the movement first and began to march off.

‘God damn their bloody hides, they are to stop until my signal!’ the general bellowed in rage. The staff officers were near the square formed by the greenjackets and Hanley saw two of the riflemen nudge each other and laugh.

The redcoats halted, and the general waited for several minutes before he raised his arm and pointed back. Hanley was watching the French cavalry, and saw three squadrons of dragoons in brass helmets and green coats walking their horses forward.

‘Make ready!’ The riflemen in the third and fourth ranks
pulled back the hammers on their rifles. Unlike the kneeling men in front of them, they had not fixed their sword bayonets, for the heavy blades made the short-barrelled rifle awkward.

The French were trotting, riders bobbing with the motion, the black horsehair crests on their helmets streaming behind them.

‘Present!’ The riflemen brought their rifles to their shoulders and levelled them at the enemy. The French were still two hundred yards away, and a volley at this distance might empty a few saddles, but would not stop a determined charge.

‘Steady, lads, wait for the order.’ Officers and sergeants paced up and down in the hollow inside of the square.

‘
Vive l’empereur!’
The dragoons cheered and surged forward.

‘Steady, lads! Wait!’

At eighty yards the cavalry stopped. They had not provoked the square to fire and any volley at so close a range would most likely be devastating. A few skirmishers fired from a thicket and a dragoon was plucked from the saddle. The rest turned about and went back. Men in the square started to jeer.

‘Quiet, damn your eyes, or I’ll have the skins of your backs!’ barked the general. The riflemen stopped shouting, but most were grinning. By now the other three columns had reached their station and formed back into square.

Cavalry squadrons, a little fresher after their brief rest, walked forward to occupy the gaps between the squares and then these changed into column and – waiting for the order from their cursing general – marched back through the three other squares until they too halted and formed up. The French made as if to charge, but stopped when faced by a British squadron or the steadiness of the infantry, who would not waste a precious volley at too long a range.

‘By God, a ruddy miracle.’ The staff officer sported a disbelieving grin as he spoke to Hanley. ‘There must be four or five thousand of them out there, and they are letting us get away.’

There were three thousand eight hundred men in the Light Division, and perhaps twelve hundred horsemen supporting them. The French cavalry threatened, and sometimes charged,
but whenever they did they either baulked at the prospect of the steady squares or were driven back by a charge from the British and German horsemen. Apart from the voltigeurs no enemy infantry came up to support their cavalry, and so stage by stage Craufurd’s men withdrew. A few French horse guns appeared and tore holes in the squares, but none dared to come close enough to inflict real damage.

To Hanley it all looked more like a field day than a battle. The Light Division went from one formation to another with precision. For a while they did not bother to form square and remained in column, simply turning about to face the French. Then the enemy became bolder, and so for twenty minutes they marched in square. That was never easy, for the danger was that gaps would open up as the sides and rear stepped out at different speeds, and yet the men in green, red and brown did it as smartly as on a parade ground. Hanley wished Williams was here, or old MacAndrews, for he was sure their military hearts would have warmed at the sight.

After two miles, the French began to hold back a little further. Hanley realised that they were back near Fuentes de Oñoro, and that Lord Wellington had formed a new line, extending the old one at a right angle. In the early hours it had taken him twenty minutes of leisurely ride to reach Nave de Haver. It had taken the Allies all morning to retreat.

The French did not launch a serious attack on the new position, instead sending battalion after battalion into the narrow streets of Fuentes de Oñoro. Hanley had ridden through the village many times, and never thought it in any way remarkable. It seemed absurd that so many men were dying to capture the modest stone houses and little church.

‘They nearly took it,’ Murray said when Hanley rejoined Lord Wellington’s staff. ‘And if they had, then perhaps they would have launched a more general assault. But we hurled them back across the stream in the end.’ It was afternoon, and apart from desultory skirmishing and the occasional cannon shot, the battlefield had gone quiet. ‘Still, once Craufurd brought his fellows back into
the main line I do not believe that they would have broken us, even if they tried.’

‘Is the fighting over, then, sir?’

‘My guess is yes,’ Murray told him. ‘Although the peer is saying nothing and will no doubt keep us all active for the rest of the day. I will have a word with him later on, but suspect that he will permit you to go back to Marshal Beresford tomorrow. Let us hope you will find the siege of Badajoz well under way by the time you get there.’

18

T
he hooded lantern offered only a poor light, although sufficient to recognise the figure waiting for them.