Whose Business Is to Die (42 page)

‘Not in as many words,’ Pringle confessed. ‘I felt it only right to seek your blessing first.’

A roundshot flung up a plume of earth as it struck the ground in front of them and bounced high, striking the barrel of one of the grenadier’s muskets and flinging it from his grip. By the time it landed the stock was broken and the barrel itself twisted and bent.

‘Move to the rear rank, lad,’ Dobson said as the man massaged his hands. ‘There’ll be another to pick up soon enough.’

Lieutenant Colonel Myers was down, but then they saw his slim figure get up again and call for another horse. Until it arrived he marched at their head.

‘I suppose I shall have to weigh the matter with great care.’ Williams was now more sober than Pringle, but Billy thought he saw amusement in his friend’s eyes. ‘Yes, great care, and I must keep a close scrutiny of your conduct.’

‘Get back to your post, damn your eyes!’ Pringle knew that he was grinning.

‘I am not sure that cursing will help your cause,’ Williams said with mock solemnity.

Even at the quick pace they seemed to crawl across the plain. After ten minutes they stopped to redress the ranks, and then did the same again after a similar interval. The Portuguese were falling further behind than they were supposed to be, but otherwise they were coming on boldly enough. Their four battalions had seen no real service, but were well-trained and eager.

Slowly the Fourth Division advanced and the French guns killed men by ones and twos, and occasionally by fours and fives. Drummers helped the wounded to the rear, but there were soon too many of them to be carried, and so they added to the trail of red bundles left behind by the Fusilier Brigade. They were leading and so the guns on the knoll concentrated their malice on them.

Pringle’s ensign had his thigh shattered by an eight-pound shot, and that made Billy all the more glad that he had Williams there. The men marched on, heads bowed, and Pringle found that it took real effort to keep his own upright and looking at the enemy. There were three distinct columns ahead of them, with more troops behind. Some of the guns were firing canister now, which meant that they were at long last getting closer. The hail of balls rattled and pinged off the muskets of his company. Then a burst came lower and three men were flung back, bodies
twitching from the strike of missiles bigger and heavier than a musket ball.

Billy wondered when they would form line. The French liked to advance in column, and often tried to barge through the defending line without bothering to change formation. That only worked against unsteady troops and risked leaving it too late. If it came to a contest of musketry then the narrow-fronted column was at a severe disadvantage because fewer men could fire their muskets compared to a battalion in line.

A shell exploded, the force staggering him, and there was a pain in his right arm and blood on his sleeve. Williams ran to him.

‘It’s nothing,’ he said, for he could see that the gash was not deep. ‘Back to your station, you pirate.’ Williams nodded and went back. Pringle glanced around and waved to Truscott. His friend looked drawn, but then he doubted his own appearance would be any better. They had been marching for almost half an hour and most of that time under fire. Only a fool would relish something like that, and the thought brought young Sam to mind. Truscott had plenty to worry about.

Truscott’s company had been ordered to fall back a little, for the battalion needed longer gaps between companies if it was to deploy into line.

‘Brigade will halt!’ Myers had remounted.

‘Halt!’ This time FitzWilliam had the sergeant major deliver the order since his voice needed to be heard over the cannonade.

The 1/7th were little more than one hundred yards away from the French. Pringle’s grenadiers were some fifty yards behind them and the 1/23rd a similar distance again. Fortunately the French infantry were still busy moving into position. Pringle could see them up the slope, three battalions with blue jackets and trousers, so probably a regiment of light infantry. They were in a column of divisions, with a frontage of two companies, and as yet had not had time to send out skirmishers.

The 106th began to form line on the centre company, which meant that Pringle had to wheel his grenadiers, take them to what
would be the far right of the line and then have them about-face. The minutes spent with his back to the enemy as they marched into position were wearing, but he had to concentrate on the task in hand for any error would upset the whole manoeuvre and place the battalion in danger. He tried not to imagine the greencoated dragoons spurring their horses into a charge.

A cannonball passed so close that he was buffeted, and then it ripped off the backpack of one of his men, hurling him down, before it tore the arm from another. The man knocked over screamed, until Murphy went over and dragged him to his feet.

‘You’re not hurt, you idiot!’

The line was formed, so Pringle could pay attention to the enemy once again. He did not understand why the French had watched them and could only assume that they were also busy. One of the three columns was squarely in front of the 106th, the others facing each of the fusilier battalions.

‘The brigade will advance!’ Myers sat on his horse looking as calm as a man out for a leisurely hack.

‘The One Hundred and Sixth will advance,’ the sergeant major boomed. ‘March!’

Then the French dragoons began to trot their horses forward.

33

M
ajor MacAndrews was pleased with the way his little battalion was behaving. The three companies from Kemmis’ brigade had been attached only a few hours ago, and it had taken a little thought to work out how the temporary formation would form and manoeuvre. In the end he decided to have two companies forming the front and rear of the square, one on each side, and let the Brunswickers skirmish. If pressed the ‘Owls’ would run back to shelter under the bayonets of the square. He formed the Light Companies each in four ranks, the sides effectively marching in column, for it would be a simple matter to turn them if needed.

It was a long march, and as they were the unit on the far right and held furthest back it was a while before they began to go forward. A square, even an open one like this, usually offered a target no gunner could resist, but today they drew little fire. One shell exploded and cut down two men from the 23rd’s Light Company, and a stray roundshot took the foot off one of the Brunswick riflemen, but in the main the French artillery concentrated on the rest of the Fourth Division and especially the fusiliers.

‘Why are they always uphill?’

‘Sir?’ His acting adjutant, a lieutenant from the Royal Fusiliers, looked puzzled.

‘My apologies, Mr Carson, I was merely thinking aloud. But on the last two occasions I have fought the French they have always held the high ground and we have had to drive them off
it. That is a most unnatural feeling for a Highlander – we expect to be the ones up a mountain!’

‘Halt!’ The Portuguese brigade formed line a good one hundred yards back from the Fusilier Brigade.

‘Face front!’ MacAndrews had improvised the command and now the men at the sides and the rear turned to face outwards. Only one man turned the wrong way and had to be pushed into place by the sergeants.

‘First and second ranks kneel! Fix bayonets!’ They were level with the right-hand battalion of the Portuguese brigade and now offered a solid block shielding them from an attack on their flank.

‘Here they come,’ Carson said. MacAndrews had already spotted the squadrons of enemy dragoons moving forward.

‘Steady, boys, wait for the orders.’

Two regiments of dragoons were advancing, and their walk turned into a trot. MacAndrews counted the front rank of one squadron, multiplied it, and came up with a force of at least six hundred men. There were two squadrons with red fronts to their dark green jackets, coming one behind the other, and to their left three squadrons with yellow collars and fronts.

‘Wait, boys, wait.’

The French were aiming for the blue-coated Portuguese standing in two deep lines. Most of them were young, and all were small, and in the early years of the war French horsemen had swept aside battalions like this with ease.

‘Steady, lads, wait.’ MacAndrews watched but saw no sign that any of the squadrons was coming for his square.

He heard a trumpet sound and the French horses began to come on, closing the distance fast. If the Portuguese fired too soon then the helpless sense of holding an empty musket might well panic them. MacAndrews held his breath.

‘Well done,’ he whispered as the young soldiers in blue jackets waited just as they should.

‘Third and fourth ranks, make ready!’ he ordered. The sound of flints being pulled back came from all sides of the square.

‘Front face only,’ he added, making his order more specific this time. ‘Present!’

Steel glinted as the dragoons drew their long swords and the trumpet called again. MacAndrews could see the horses as they threw up clods of earth, their mouths open and yellow teeth bared. The riders were shouting, and beneath the long moustaches he saw the men’s mouths gaping almost as wide as their mounts’ great jaws.

Flame and smoke spouted all along the bluejacketed line and the sound of the volley reached him almost immediately. MacAndrews saw horses and men tumbling.

‘Front face fire!’ he called, and then the enemy were lost behind the smoke.

From horseback he could look over the heads of his men, so when the smoke thinned just a little he saw the dim shapes of French horsemen pressing on, as their reserve squadrons came up.

A second volley split the air and MacAndrews remembered thinking that the first was not as loud as he expected. The Portuguese must be firing as platoons or as half companies, so that they kept up a steady, rolling fire.

In less than a minute the French dragoons were going back, leaving thirty or so horses and a score of men on the ground. For the moment the other enemy cavalry remained where they were, watching the British and Spanish squadrons to see who would make the first mistake. Alongside the square, the KGL and British artillery began to set up their gun line.

MacAndrews felt happy. The Portuguese were doing well, and now the Allies had guns of their own. Then the sound of great rolling volleys came from the Fusilier Brigade and he knew that none of this would matter if the redcoats could not break the enemy. In the end, it was always the infantry who decided matters. MacAndrews had faith in his own battalion and the others, but before he lost sight of them in the smoke he could not help thinking that the odds were against them.

‘They’re always damned well uphill,’ he said to himself.

*

The three battalions of redcoats were now in line level with each other. Canister from the French guns continued to flay them, snatching groups of men from the companies and flinging them back. Truscott saw a single burst kill one of his front rank and wound the man on either side, knocking over the men behind as well. One cursed, but shrugged off the nick to his face and trudged on. Another limped to the rear. The rest lay moaning or sobbing in pain.

‘Close up!’

‘Steady, lads,’ he said. He was on the end of the company, next to Pringle’s grenadiers, and as he turned he saw Sergeant Dobson, as always carrying a musket rather than the regulation half-pike. The sergeant winked at him.

At ninety yards the front of the French column vanished behind a bank of smoke. Musket balls snapped through the air above his head. One of his men fell, blood jetting from his throat, and several more were down.

‘Steady,’ he said.

‘Close up there, close up!’

They marched on, no longer at the quick step, but the ordinary rate of seventy-five paces per minute. As the smoke cleared, he could see the enemy better. They were from a light infantry regiment, and he thought he could glimpse its eagle standard somewhere in the centre of the column. Each man was busily reloading, even though only the three ranks of the leading companies could fire. The men were not in jackets, but wore their long sleeved blue waistcoats instead.

A shell burst overhead and something slapped into his left shoulder, causing a stab of pain. He tried to twist his head round and managed to see a quarter-inch fragment of shell casing sticking through his jacket.

‘Are you wounded, sir?’ his ensign called.

‘It is nothing,’ he said, for the pain was now less and he did not think that it should slow him down much. Yet why did the French have such a strong dislike for his left side?

At forty yards he saw a ripple of movement from the enemy
column as muskets came up to shoulders. Officers were shouting at their men, trying to wheel out companies to extend the line, but the men did not move willingly. He had seen the same reluctance at Barrosa.

The volley struck the companies nearer the centre of the 106th. Truscott saw the line shake like a flag in the wind.

‘Halt!’ The sergeant major’s voice rang out. They were little more than twenty yards away now and the artillery fire slackened because they were so close to the enemy. As the smoke thinned Truscott could see their faces, some staring at the redcoats, others trying to ignore them as they set about reloading. All seemed to have moustaches and it made them look older than the clean-shaven redcoats.

‘Make ready!’

French officers tried again to bring the supporting companies out from behind the shelter of the front of the column, but they were having to drag men one by one.

‘Present!’

Lieutenant Colonel Myers had dropped back so that he was in the gap between Pringle’s grenadiers and the left-hand company of his own Royal Welch Fusiliers. FitzWilliam was sitting on his horse in front of the 106th’s Colours.

‘Fire!’ The noise was appalling, even though he had known what to expect. All three battalions fired, not bothering to use sophisticated platoon fire, but both ranks shooting as one.

‘Fix bayonets!’ Truscott drew his sword as the men slotted the long spikes on to the muzzles of their muskets.