Whose Business Is to Die (34 page)

In ten minutes there was a line of a dozen guns spaced along the top of the knoll, a mix of howitzers and eight-pounders. A pair of the heavier twelve-pounders, the only two with the army, were further back somewhere in the column following behind them.

‘Your Grace, shall I deploy my leading battalions?’ General
Girard asked. ‘I should prefer to press on, for I doubt that these fellows will detain us for long.’

The marshal was of the same mind. ‘Attack now, General Girard. They will not stand.’

An ADC set off at a gallop down into the little valley. A few minutes later the heavy skirmish line went forward.

Soult made a sign to the commander of the artillery.

‘Fire!’ Battery commanders repeated the order and the gun captains touched burning matches to fuses. The guns belched flame and smoke, leaping back on their trails – Dalmas noticed that the mountain howitzers almost bounced up into the air as they recoiled on their stubby carriages.

On the knoll, Spanish soldiers began to die. The lines were three ranks deep, with sergeants, drummers and a few officers standing behind them. One of the first balls bounced just in front of the 2nd Royal Guards, smashing the knee of the first man to bloody ruin, ripping the man behind completely in two at the waist, flinging entrails and blood on all sides, and smashing the chest of the man in the third rank. The head of a drummer standing at the rear vanished in a spray of blood and bone, his body standing for a moment before seeming to fold down on itself. Sergeants dragged the dead and wounded out of the way, and bellowed at men spattered red by the carnage to close up and fill the gap.

The voltigeurs were within range now, and as the pairs of men advanced, one would kneel, take aim and fire. His comrade covered him while he reloaded and then he too would present his firelock and pick a target. An officer from the Irlanda regiment gasped as he was hit by a ball, the yellow front of his tunic darkening as he bled. Not far away a soldier was struck in the belly and screamed in agony, until a drummer pulled him back from the ranks and a sergeant said quietly that it was not too bad and he should not make a fuss.

‘Fire!’ The French guns once again slammed back. Shells from the howitzers burst all along the other crest. A moment later there was a great gout of orange flame and black smoke spreading up into the sky like some giant sprouting plant.

‘A caisson,’ General Girard said approvingly.

The Colours in the centre of the 4th Battalion of Royal Guards dipped for a moment, the young officers carrying them wounded by the fragments of a shell. A sergeant held one up again, until he was hit in the thigh by a musket ball, but soon the flags rose proudly once more.

‘Fire!’ By now the gun teams were each going at their own pace, so instead of one great salvo, a steady ripple of fire came from the gun line. Shot tore through the Spanish formations, and shells landed to throw up gouts of earth and fling wickedly sharp pieces of casing through the air. All the while the voltigeurs nibbled away at the lines, dropping men here and there, and trying their best to pick off the officers. The Spanish skirmishers replied as best they could, but there were not enough of them. The formed lines remained in place, waiting silently with their muskets still on their shoulders.

‘They won’t take much more of this,’ a colonel from the staff of V Corps announced with confidence.

Others clearly agreed and now the four battalion columns of the leading regiments stood to attention. Drums rolled, orders were shouted and Dalmas could hear the great cheer even over the roar of the cannon.

‘
Vive l’empereur!’

The columns marched forward, one regiment aiming at the centre of the line dressed in light blue coats and the other making for the battery of guns. Dalmas and the others had all seen this so many times before. Skirmishers and guns flayed the enemy, stripping away their confidence as they took the lives of some of their men. It was a horrible thing to stand still under fire, as comrades fell all around, some of them appallingly mutilated. The voltigeurs kept searching for the leaders, dropping the men there to give instructions and inspire confidence.

‘
Vive l’empereur!’

The columns cheered every time the drummers paused before repeating the rhythm of the charge. Marching with muskets resting on their shoulders, the right hand tucked over them to hold
the weapon upright, the men in their light brown greatcoats shouted as loud as they could.

At last the Spanish cannon opened fire, blanketing the front of the battery in smoke. Most of the balls went high, missing the leading battalion. A few struck the column behind, carving bloody furrows through the ranks.

‘
Vive l’empereur!’
The regiment did not check, and they were now well within musket range of the defenders. Weakened by guns and skirmishers, it was an even more terrible thing for an enemy to wait as the formed infantry bore down on them. Dalmas and the others had also seen this many times. The defenders would be stung into firing too soon, and even if they still had good enough order to deliver a volley and not simply shoot individually, then the volley would be too high and at too long a range. It would not stop the column, which would keep coming on, the drums and the shouting getting closer and closer until the column charged and the enemy line fell apart like rotten wood.

‘
Vive l’empereur! En avant!’

The columns were within a hundred yards of the waiting infantry and still the Spanish held fire. A cannonball skipped at waist height into the Irlanda regiment, cutting a file of men in two. Shells exploded, making the lines quiver as men fell. One burst in front of a Spanish four-pounder and swept away half of the crew. Still the Spanish waited.

‘
Vive l’empereur!’

The voltigeurs ran back into the gaps between the columns, for their job was done for the moment. Grenadiers led each of the columns, and the colonel of the regiment on the right had ignored regulations and kept the old bearskin caps. The other regiment boasted shakos, but with the rim and chevrons on the side decorated in red, and all four companies had tall red plumes and red epaulettes. They were the biggest men in the regiment, all of them picked veterans, with long moustaches and thick side whiskers. On they marched, muskets tucked into their shoulders so that no one would be tempted to halt and fire. Officers
capered in front, waving their swords and urging the men on, and the drums beat and the men cheered. On the southern knoll the guns kept firing, the shape of the valley allowing them to shoot over the columns at the Spanish lining the crest. Dalmas knew that no one liked any artillery, even their own, firing over their heads, but the men would be glad of the havoc wrought against the defenders.

General Girard was sitting up, almost standing, in his stirrups as he watched his men approach the enemy. Even from this distance they could see the light and dark blue Spanish lines seem to ripple like a flag in a wind and they knew that soldiers were bringing muskets to shoulders. A wild volley would not stop these veterans, these ‘old moustaches’, and it was always more difficult to fire down a hill rather than up one because the instinct was to fire high.

‘
Vive l’empereur!’

At last the French guns stopped. The howitzers which lobbed their shells up to drop down on the target kept firing, but the gouts of smoke they threw up were blotted out when the Spanish infantry fired and a dirty cloud covered the whole line of the crest. Alongside the infantry the four-pounders boomed, each gun loaded with canister, metal tins which shattered as they left the muzzle and sprayed musket balls out like giant shotguns.

The fronts of the columns quivered like live things as men fell.

‘Now, go on, finish them!’ General Girard urged his men, as if his will alone was enough to give them victory.

The grenadiers charged, but the Spanish did not run. The Royal Guards and the Irlanda were busy loading their muskets, and they stood in their ranks, not terrified by the big grenadiers as they ran forward. A few of the French kept going, led by an officer on a grey horse, until one of the four-pounders, firing a little after the others, aimed a canister at them. Horse and rider were peppered with dozens of balls, and three of the men following pitched back. It seemed to take the heart out of the attack.

Some grenadiers ran back a little way to re-form on the company following them in the column. Others stood their ground
and brought their muskets up to their shoulders and fired. Men fell in the Spanish lines, and then they began to reply, each man shooting as soon as he was loaded.

‘Merde!’

Dalmas was not sure which of the generals spat out the word. The attack had stalled, for the despised Spanish were not running.

‘Come on!’ General Girard beckoned to his staff and set off down into the valley to get things moving. General Gazan looked at Soult, waited for the curt nod, and then followed.

‘Not you, Dalmas,’ the marshal said as the cuirassier’s instincts made him start walking his horse after them. ‘I want you to ride to General La Tour-Maubourg. Tell him to watch the enemy horsemen, but to be ready to charge in support of our infantry if there is a good opportunity. Stay with him, Dalmas. Come back only if there is something I need to know.’

As he rode away Dalmas heard the guns firing again, and that meant the high tide of the French advance had flowed back a little and let the gunners see the enemy without fear of hitting their own men. They pounded the Spanish lines, and soon another wave would surge forward. The enemy could not stand for ever, but if the infantry failed to shift them then the cavalry would do the job. On that happy thought, Dalmas rode to join the massed squadrons.

By the time the Fusilier Brigade halted the firing was a continuous rumble from the south and ahead of them by Albuera itself. Pringle stood with Truscott and they stared at the high ground more than a mile ahead of them and tried to make sense of the battle.

‘Looks like they have hooked around our flank,’ Pringle said. All around them the 106th were taking off their greatcoats and rolling them up. They had marched for more than nine hours, losing their way in the dark and having to double back, so that the sixteen miles turned into twenty, but at long last the Fourth Division had arrived.

‘Wonder where they will want us,’ Truscott said. The brigade
had marched left in front, which suggested that someone had either felt creative when writing the order or expected them to deploy to the left. It made little difference to the 106th, for as the junior corps in the brigade their place in the line was always in the middle between the other two battalions.

‘Hopefully they will want us to eat something first.’

‘What? Food before glory? Have you no soul, Billy?’

‘I have a deep hunger,’ Pringle announced, aware that quite a few of his grenadiers were watching, so performing for the audience, ‘and also a raging thirst. Any more of this and I shall waste away.’ He patted his ample girth.

Lieutenant Colonel FitzWilliam and the adjutant trotted back along the column.

‘We are in reserve, boys,’ the colonel called out. ‘So get something inside you and have a little rest, for they are sure to need us later.’

‘Someone of authority evidently has a deep respect for your stomach, old boy,’ Truscott said when they had passed.

The 106th settled down to rest and eat, the sound of battle throbbing away in the distance.

27

I
t took time to bring the brigade back from its station just behind Albuera.

‘I hope that the Spanish can hold out,’ Colborne said with doubt in his voice, as the noise of cannon fire became so frequent that it could be heard even over the sound of the guns closer to them.

Major General Stewart was ordered to take the Second Division to the south to meet the French flank attack, and the general did not want to set out until his three brigades were in the proper order. Colborne’s was the strongest, with four battalions, and it was also the senior brigade in the division, so it should lead the formation and then deploy on the right. That was the way the entire division was used to forming and fighting, and it was sound enough to want to act in this way in the chaos and confusion of battle, but it did take time, and Williams wondered whether it might not have been better to send the other two brigades on ahead in case the enemy broke through.

They needed thirty minutes to explain matters to the battalions and then bring them back to their original position, and then another ten to form into column of march. The Grenadier Company was at the head of each battalion, then the eight Centre Companies and the Light Company bringing up the rear. At long last they were ready, and a relieved Dunbar rode up and reported to the colonel.

‘Proceed, Colonel Colborne,’ Stewart told him, before galloping off to instruct his other brigade commanders.

The Buffs led, the wind stirring their flags so that Williams could see the dragon at the centre of both the King’s and
Regimental Colours. He kept meaning to ask why one of the oldest corps of the line had this most Welsh of symbols on their flags, for officially this was the East Kent Regiment. The other regiments all had variations on a shield with their number in Roman numerals surrounded by a wreath of roses, thistles and shamrocks, although sadly nothing representing Wales. Each Colour was six foot high and six and half feet wide, each side almost always taller and wider than the young ensigns carrying them. When the 2/48th followed the Buffs, he saw two young lads struggling to manage the heavy flags as the breeze caught them. The four sergeants marching behind them as protection for the precious flags were older, bigger men, each carrying a sturdy half-pike taller than the young officers. Next were the 2/66th, their Regimental Colour with a greenish yellow field to match their facings rather that the pale buff of the other three battalions. The 2/31st brought up the rear, and behind them was a brigade of KGL artillery, with six guns towed by teams of horses and the gunners jogging alongside them.