Whose Business Is to Die (43 page)

Myers was struck in the thigh by a ball. For a moment Truscott was sure that he would fall, but then he seemed to recover.

‘Charge, my boys, charge!’ he yelled.

‘Charge!’ FitzWilliam called out. The men cheered, three hearty hurrahs, and at the last the front rank brought their long bayonets down ready to thrust at the enemy.

‘Come on!’ Truscott ran forward, not bothering to look because he knew that his men were following. They ran through their own smoke and the clouds left by the enemy volleys. Soldiers in
blue waistcoats and trousers lay stretched on the ground, many moaning and some still. A handful were standing, and these screamed as the bayonets took them. Truscott saw one of his men, a quiet, rather slow lad called Jackson, twisting his blade with wild frenzy as he held his victim down with his boot.

They ran forward, Truscott nearly tripping on a body that called out in agony as he trod on the poor man’s wounded belly. The French light infantry had fled, but they did not go far, and he could see them clustering around another column some fifty yards back. These men had white waistcoats, so were infantry of the line, and as the last of the fugitives cleared their front they raised muskets to their shoulders.

‘Halt! Reload, reload!’ Truscott began to shout, and then his shouts were blotted out by the rolling deluge of shots. Jackson fell, hit in the arm and knee, and he sobbed as he lay. Another man was struck in the forehead, a look of fixed surprise on his face. The artillery could see them now and a roundshot came through the smoke and took the leg off a corporal who screamed until a second ball shattered his body.

‘Reload!’ Truscott shouted. Myers was carried back by his staff, one of their sashes managing to hold back a little of the blood flowing from his leg.

Men fired as soon as they were loaded, not waiting for the orders. The French were doing the same, and so there was an almost constant banging of muskets and frequent roars from the cannon.

‘Close up! Close up!’

The 106th’s line was ragged, but it was still a line. As men fell they were pulled out of the way and the others shuffled together. Truscott thought that half of his company had already gone, and there seemed no end to the dying.

‘Steady, lads,’ he called until his voice was hoarse. The stench of gunpowder filled his nostrils until there was no other smell in the world apart from the offal stink of mutilated bodies.

‘Close up, there, close up!’

A redcoat had his jaw shattered, and ran around, making
appalling sounds. He grabbed Truscott by the shoulders, sending a stab of pain through him, and the fellow’s eyes begged for understanding and relief from pain.

‘Back, man! Back to the rear.’ He could not think of anything to say, and then a ball hit the man in the back, knocking him and the officer over. A sergeant helped Truscott out, and as he was lifting him he took a ball through the body, so that he dropped his captain.

‘I am so sorry, sir,’ he said. His hand wavered as he grasped Truscott’s hand. ‘So sorry.’ The sergeant fell to his knees and then keeled over to the side.

‘Cease fire! Cease fire!’ That sounded like the sergeant major’s voice.

‘Prepare to charge!’ FitzWilliam joined in the shouting. With difficulty Truscott sat up and then pushed himself to his feet.

‘Cease fire!’ He stuck his sword into the ground so that he could tap men on the shoulders. ‘Stop firing!’ Sometimes he had to yell to men just inches away and they frowned as if he were speaking another language. One of the company nodded his understanding and then was flung back by a ball driving deep into his side.

‘One Hundred and Sixth, follow me, charge!’ He saw the colonel, hat gone, waving his sword as he rushed at the enemy.

‘Charge!’ He took up the cry, pulled his sword out of the earth and went forward. Men on either side of him dropped, but the survivors ran on, bayonets reaching for the enemy.

The French gave way. Truscott slashed at an officer who was trying to keep his men in place, hacking into the man’s arm.

‘Prisoner!’ he bellowed as the man’s sword fell to hang by its wrist strap.

‘
Oui.’
The Frenchman was a veteran, scars on his cheek, and suddenly Truscott noticed that he had an empty right sleeve. He smiled at the absurdity of it all, two one-armed men coming to blows, and then more than a third of the forty-one balls from a tin of heavy canister struck as a cluster and flung them both twitching to the ground.

34

M
acAndrews was summoned to assume command of the 106th because FitzWilliam had taken over the brigade, the second replacement for the grievously wounded Myers. His Light Companies remained in square, the Portuguese still in line and facing off the French cavalry. These had tried a second charge, but it was a half-hearted affair compared to the first and stopped as soon as they saw the determination of the blue-coated infantry waiting for them. MacAndrews’ men had suffered no other casualties, so at least he would be able to tell Captain Truscott that his young brother was safe.

By the time the Scotsman reached his regiment he found that he was now brigade commander. FitzWilliam had taken a ball in the hand and a much nastier wound to the neck, and so had been carried to the rear. MacAndrews was the senior major left on his feet; in fact, as far as he could tell, he was the only major left on his feet.

Billy Pringle commanded the 106th as the senior remaining captain, with Williams in charge of the Grenadier Company. The Welshman had picked up a musket and was now standing in the ever thinning line of men. He pulled the trigger, felt the butt push back hard against his shoulder, adding more smoke to the clouds surrounding them. He did not know what time it was, how long they had been engaged, for the battle now seemed to have raged for days. He did not know how many men he still had, and had no idea whether the balls he fired found a mark.

Slide the left hand to the middle of the musket. Drop the butt, and with right hand reach into pocket for a new cartridge.
There was only one left after this, which meant that he would soon have to search in the pouches of the dead and wounded for more. Put the paper cartridge to the mouth, bite off the bullet, making that bitter, salty taste of saltpetre all the stronger. Flick open the cover to the pan, sprinkle in a little powder, then flick the cover shut. Butt falls to the ground, then pour the rest of the powder into the muzzle. Stuff down the empty cartridge, and spit the ball after it. Then slide out the ramrod, thrust down firmly once. Withdraw the ramrod and slide it back into its hoops. Raise musket to the shoulder, pull back the hammer to full cock, settle, aim and then fire.

The noise was constant, so that it was hard to tell whether it was real or just in his head. A grenadier was on all fours in front of him, vomiting blood. There were some French in white and blue scattered among his own men, for this was where the second charge had brought them. Dead and wounded alike shook when blasts of canister churned up the ground. Dobson had taken a couple of balls in the leg, but swore that it was nothing and had bound them up. He stood beside Williams and loaded and fired, and it was almost as if three years had not passed and they were still front and rear rank men.

‘Close up!’ The cries were less common now. Not because fewer men fell, but because it was an unthinking reaction. Redcoats dropped on either side, and the survivors edged closer together.

Truscott was hit – badly from what Dobson had said. Sergeant Murphy had lost a leg and might lose the other, but sat behind the grenadiers, telling them that he was just getting angry with the French.

Williams found himself wondering whether there had ever been a battle where everyone died. Talavera had been a hard fight, but it had not gone on as long as this. Then he jumped as something hit his shoulder.

‘Sorry!’ Pringle said, smiling and lifting up his hand. ‘We need to charge again. Get the men to stop firing.’

‘Cease fire!’ Pringle shouted. ‘We have to drive these fellows off.’

‘Stop firing, stop firing!’ Williams’ throat cracked as he tried to yell. Dobson took up the cry and then pointed to the right.

‘Cavalry!’

Williams could barely see the shapes through the smoke.

‘Close up, lads, close up!’ He started shoving men together so that the remnants of the company formed a two-deep line. ‘Front rank, kneel!’

‘Bayonets!’ Dobson called, and took his place at the far end of the line.

‘Second rank present!’ Williams did not know how many of the men were loaded. His own musket was ready, even though he could not remember loading it. Still, for the moment it was more important for him to give orders than to fight.

The weight of the charge was heading towards the 1/23rd and he heard a ripple of fire, but could not see much in the gloom. The silhouettes of a dozen or more lancers were coming at the grenadiers, led by a tall officer on a big horse. As they came close Williams saw the red and white pennants and the glinting armour of their leader. It was Dalmas.

‘Wait for it.’ Williams had eleven men in the front rank and twelve in the second rank.

The lancers came on, so close now that even their short mounts looked like tall monsters. Pennants rippled as they brought them down into the charge. Williams could hear the drumming of their hoofs even over the general din of the battle.

‘Second rank, fire!’ he shouted. Two muskets misfired, but the enemy were only fifteen yards away. Three of the horses were down, one sliding to a halt just a couple of feet from the front rank. Another was without a rider. Dalmas rode on.

‘Lucky sod,’ Dobson said, recognising the man.

The cuirassier was just yards from them, but his horse slowed as it saw the row of bayonets of the kneeling front rank. Dalmas was yelling curses at them, trying to force the big horse closer
so that he could make it rear and let its feet clear a path. The remaining lancers had faltered, but now came on again.

Williams raised his musket, steadied his aim and squeezed the trigger. He saw the ball strike the front plate of Dalmas’ cuirass, and there was a dull metallic thunk as it punched a hole in the metal. The Frenchman shook with the impact, and was struggling to stay upright as his horse wheeled away. He rode off, the lancers going with him, and the grenadiers cheered as loudly as parched throats allowed.

‘The One Hundred and Sixth will prepare to charge!’ Mac-Andrews rode along behind the line.

‘Mr Williams, take command of the battalion,’ he called to the Welshman. ‘You will charge on my order.’ He must have seen Williams’ concern. ‘Pringle is hit in the leg. I do not believe it is serious. Now take command, sir, and do your duty.’

‘Sergeant Dobson,’ Williams said, turning to the veteran.

‘Sir.’

‘You have the Grenadier Company.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Dobson smiled. ‘Bloody hell, sir.’

‘The army’s going to the dogs,’ Murphy jeered, his face as white as a sheet.

Williams ran to the centre of the battalion, struggling to believe that all the captains were down. He suspected several of the companies were led by sergeants. He found the Colour Party, and saw Derryck and young Truscott holding the flags. How the lad had got here from the flank was a mystery. The standard poles had been broken by musket balls and in some ways that made it easier for the boy to manage the Regimental Colour with its red cross on a white field. The silk was torn and filthy from powder smoke. A headless corpse lay on the ground behind the line, and it was only when Williams saw the four white chevrons on the sleeve that he realised that it must be the sergeant major. He pushed his way past the others to stand in front of the line.

‘Are you in charge now, Williams?’ Derryck said. He chuckled. ‘At this rate I shall be a colonel by tomorrow!’

Williams filled his lungs and then shouted as loud as he could. ‘Prepare to charge!’

MacAndrews rode back along the front of the line, and then his horse was struck and he fell, rolling as he hit the ground. He stood up, and then drew his sword.

‘We’re going to charge, lads. So let those blackguards hear you!’

The cheer was thin, but that was surely because so few were left to raise it.

‘Follow me, charge!’ MacAndrews dashed forward.

‘Would it not be a jape if none of us followed,’ Derryck said quickly.

‘Charge!’ Williams ignored him. He dropped his empty musket as he ran, drew his sword and then pulled the axe from his sash for good measure.

The French quit. As they went through the smoke they saw figures in white waistcoats turning and running and any that moved too slowly were clubbed or stabbed to the ground. There were bodies everywhere. Williams knew that if the French had managed to charge it would probably have been the battered redcoats who ran.

Marshal Soult’s last reserve was broken, and his entire infantry began to run. The 106th and the rest of the Fusilier Brigade charged for thirty or forty yards before exhaustion hit them and from then on they could only trudge forward. Up on the ridge the remnants of the Second Division advanced and so did the few knots of Spanish soldiers who had refused to retire or to give in. They walked forward as men in a dream, eyes staring at some far horizon, but they went forward because they would not give in.

Williams saw what looked like a company of men in line around their Colours, the Regimental Flag a yellow field. Marshal Beresford appeared, the first time he had seen the commander for what seemed like an age.

‘Stop, stop the Fifty-seventh.’ Williams thought the marshal sounded on the verge of tears and yet his words carried. ‘It would be a sin to let them go on.’

The French artillery did not run, but they did begin to retire, half of the guns pulling back while the others fired a few more shots. A shell from one of the mountain howitzers pattered on to the ground near Williams and rolled towards the Colour Party. The fuse was fizzing and then it erupted. He was flung hard on to the ground and felt something slap him on the rump.

‘Oh dear God, I cannot see.’ Derryck – irrepressible, laughing Derryck – put a hand to a face that was a sheet of blood from where a large fragment of casing had sheered across at eye level. The sergeant standing behind Sam Truscott was struck on the forehead and the jagged metal tore through his shako and blew off the top of his skull. The young ensign was smeared with blood from both men, but did not seem to be hurt. He was shaking so that the flag in his hands quivered.