Whose Business is to Die, page 3
‘Looking for your mark?’ Hanley whispered, having seen Williams observing the cavalry.
‘They are not sufficiently close,’ he replied. Almost five hundred yards ahead of the 13th Light Dragoons was a line of French horsemen – to Williams’ eye it looked a slightly longer and more numerous line than that of the British regiment. The enemy were dressed in dark green coats and even without a glass he could see the warm orange fronts of the jackets. Most of the men had baggy brown trousers, and only a few wore the regulation grey breeches above their high black boots. All wore brass helmets in Grecian style, decorated with brown turbans and trailing black horsehair plumes.
‘Dragoons,’ Williams said.
‘Probably the Twenty-sixth Regiment.’ Baynes smiled as the others looked at him. ‘They were reported to be with the French force which came here.’
‘Those are the Chamborant Hussars.’ Hanley pointed to a couple of squadrons of men dressed in brown some way back behind the left flank of the dragoons.
Williams did his best to look like a proud parent as his friend spoke with such confidence.
‘Well, we have seen them before,’ Hanley said in an apologetic tone.
Beyond the hussars there were a few more still on the highway, leading the infantry off. Williams saw two distinct battalion columns marching steadily along the road, with more hussars bringing up the rear. The dragoons and the supporting squadrons must have been drawn from the advance guard and deployed to threaten the British and Portuguese light cavalry.
‘They must have hoped to show a front and keep the Portuguese at a distance,’ Williams told them. ‘My guess is that they formed in two bodies so that if we dared to charge one of them then the other would sweep in around our flank. Would probably have worked if the Portuguese were on their own. I’ll wager they were none too pleased when the Thirteenth appeared. Their dragoons have wheeled to face them, regiment against regiment, so there is not much chance of striking at our flanks. They will still be hoping to get away without a fight.’
‘There are plenty of them,’ Hanley ventured, but with rather less confidence than his earlier pronouncements. Williams wondered whether his friend was thinking back to that dreadful day at Medellín, almost exactly two years ago and not too far away, when the Spanish cavalry had broken, and these very French regiments swept down to massacre the abandoned infantry. Much the same had happened time after time as a long succession of Spanish armies marched off to defeat – the most recent when the army protecting Badajoz was cut to ribbons by the blades of the French horsemen. From the very start of the war, the enemy cavalry had ruled these plains. ‘Will they not fight? To drive us back and give themselves more time to escape?’
Williams shook his head. ‘Only if they have to. They want to get away, for if they stay the numbers will turn more and more in our favour. The heavy dragoons should be coming up so that will make their situation precarious. All they want is to hold us for a quarter of an hour and then they will retire and face up to us again only when they wish to slow us down. That is if General Long does not call their bluff.’
‘Do you think he will attack?’ Baynes asked.
‘I should be most surprised if he does not.’ Williams reached to check his sword again.
‘Bloodthirsty pirate,’ Hanley whispered in a low tone.
‘Then we had better speak to the general without delay,’ Baynes said, and kicked his horse into a trot.
Brigadier General Long proved to be a compact man of middle years riding a dragoon’s horse. A single staff officer attended him, but as they rode up the man cantered off towards the Portuguese.
Hanley saluted. ‘General Long, sir, may I present Mister Baynes of the political service attached to Lord Wellington’s headquarters. We have papers, sir.’ He held out a letter.
Long stared at it as if it were the oddest thing he had ever seen. ‘This is no time for reading, sir.’ His heavy-lidded eyes flicked across them and then fastened on Williams. ‘I know you, Lieutenant, do I not?’
‘It is gracious of you to remember, sir, for it was now two years ago, although I have no doubt that the sorrow remains fresh for us all.’
‘Ah, yes, I recollect.’ Williams had been beside Sir John Moore when he took his mortal wound. He could remember the pieces of bone sticking out from his mangled shoulder, the melancholy procession as the Highlanders carried him back to the town, the general’s lucidity, concern for the fate of the day and of his own staff. Long had joined the men attending him in those last hours, as had Colborne, watching the man they admired above all slip away. ‘He was the best of us,’ Long said, as if to himself. The brigadier looked pale and sallow. ‘Well,’ he added in a firmer tone. ‘What is it you want of me?’
Hanley explained their concern to secure the French siege train.
‘Well, as to that, sir, perhaps you should direct your petition to Marshal Beresford. He commands here and appears eager to instruct us all in every detail of our duties.’ Long frowned, perhaps concerned that his comment was indiscreet.
There was a strange gurgling sound, quite distinct, and clearly emanating from a human or animal body. The brigadier general pursed his lips, but said nothing. His eyes looked at each of them in turn as if in challenge.
‘Go to the marshal, sir. I have no time for such matters now. First we must beat these fellows before I can concern myself with capturing convoys miles away along the road. Let the marshal worry about that for you.’
‘Would you object if we stayed to watch?’ Baynes ventured, with none of the usual assurance in his voice.
‘You may do as you please, sir, but do not get in my way.’ The general shifted slightly in his saddle and at that moment broke wind, the sound amplified by the leather.
No one betrayed any sign of noticing.
‘Good day to you, sir,’ the general said. ‘And it is good to see you again, Lieutenant.’
As they moved away, Williams did his best to maintain an impassive expression. A stout old fellow who tended to sit in front of his family in church back in Bristol had been prone to similar eruptions, almost always in the moments of silence during a service. His sisters would giggle whenever it happened, and it was hard not to join them. Their mother, the stern, devout, unyielding Mrs Williams, who never let anyone forget her pride in being born a Campbell, would have reproved them with a look, and then once they were home gone off to a room on her own and laughed out loud.
His head snapped round as movement flickered all along the line of dragoons. The French cavalry had drawn their long straight swords.
‘It may be only a threat,’ he said quietly, ‘or they may have decided to see us off their land.’
Brigadier General Long trotted over to speak to the commander of the 13th Light Dragoons, and they were close enough to hear the exchange.
‘Colonel Head, there’s your enemy. Attack him.’ Long’s voice was calm and confident, no doubt meant to be heard by the light dragoons. Fortunately there was no repeat of the recent emissions. ‘And now, Colonel, the heavy brigade are coming up on your rear, and, if you have an opportunity, give a good account of these fellows.’
‘By gad, sir, I will,’ was the simple soldier-like response. Lieutenant Colonel Head walked his horse round to the front of his regiment.
Williams and the others stopped some fifty yards or so behind the line.
‘The Thirteenth will prepare to advance,’ Head shouted in a high, clear voice. ‘Draw swords.’
This time they heard the grating sound of steel blades scraping free of their scabbards. An old troop sergeant had once told Williams that the noise broke his heart every time he heard it because the metal rubbing against metal took a little off the finely honed edge. Even so it was invigorating, a hint of firm purpose like screwing a bayonet on to the muzzle of a musket.
His horse’s ear flicked forward in excitement. He patted her neck, noticing that the King’s German Legion hussars were calming their horses as instinct took over and they wanted to join the rest. Williams reached over to draw his sword and then felt Baynes’ arm on his.
‘Not yet, if you please. I would prefer you to stay back with us and watch,’ the plump man said. ‘We will follow, but not get too close for the moment.’
Williams wondered whether for once the self-assured merchant and master of spies felt that he was not in control. He had no sword, in fact appeared to be wholly unarmed. The Welshman was surprised that Baynes had not left them and gone back to the marshal and his staff.
‘Walk march.’ The 13th Light Dragoons went forward.
‘Wait a little before we follow,’ Baynes said.
‘Have you ever ridden in a cavalry charge, Bills?’ Hanley whispered.
‘We are only watching, are we not?’ The irony was forced, and then he realised his friend was anxious. ‘No need to worry. Stay close to me and even closer to those fellows.’ He jerked his head towards the corporal and the three hussars. The King’s German Legion were widely held to be among the finest cavalrymen in the army and these men looked very capable. ‘Apart from that, just try to stay on.’
They started to walk their horses forward.
3
The 13th Light Dragoons were formed in two ranks, with subalterns, some NCOs and other file closers dotted along behind the rear rank. They were in loose files, with some six inches between each rider rather than the close order where a man’s knees almost touched those of the riders on either side. With five troops present, two pairs were formed into squadrons with the fifth, orphaned troop on the right. Hanley tried to count in groups of five as Williams had taught him, and reckoned that there were around one hundred men in each rank, with perhaps thirty or so file closers. He could not see past them all that well, but thought that they must just about match the length of the main French line, if not their flanking supports.
‘I am not sure that you will find that suitable at the moment,’ Williams said to him in a low voice.
Hanley realised that he was still holding the axe. Part of him wondered whether his friend was wrong. There was a primitive feel to the weapon, so much like the sort of thing one imagined a Red Indian wielding, and it seemed fitting for there was something very ancient, almost primal, about being so close to all these horses and men with swords. His own mount was stirring, wanting to run, and even if he could not tell whether it wanted to go forward or back, he could sense that it felt part of a herd. When infantry marched forward to mow each other down with musketry it did not feel like this.
Williams looked calm. The man always did, and it was hard to know what he really felt. For all his piety and sober disposition, Williams was a sensitive, intelligent man with a lively imagination, so must be as plagued by fears as everyone else. Hanley remembered MacAndrews drumming it into them that as officers they must always appear fully confident of success and survival in any situation. Hanley was unsure how convincing he was in this act.
The light dragoons were still walking, their heavy-bladed, curved sabres resting on their shoulders. Then they went into a trot. Hanley had not heard the order, so intent was he on the scene. He watched the men as they sat in their saddles, backs swaying with the motion.
‘Far enough for us, I think, gentlemen,’ Baynes said. Williams glanced at the corporal and there was doubt in both their faces.
‘It may be better to follow or go back a little,’ he said. Hanley was inclined to take his friend’s advice when it was a matter of the battlefield, but Baynes did not appear worried.
‘We will stop here, so that we can see. I dare say we can run away in plenty of time if it becomes necessary. Forgive me, Mr Williams,’ he continued, a fresh smile beaming, ‘I did not intend to imply anything by that. I speak merely as a fellow of too many summers and too many joints of beef to desire to make the acquaintance of any sword-wielding Frenchman. We need to be able to see in case one of those rogues is about.’
Hanley was not really listening. The light dragoons had gone into a canter – again he had missed the order. He stood up in the stirrups, trying to see past them, but could not.
There was a spattering of shots – individuals popping away rather than an ordered volley.
‘The squares,’ Williams said. Hanley had forgotten the French infantry on the road. He had not seem them form from column to square, but had not really been paying them much attention.
‘Vive l’empereur!’ He had heard the shout many times before. This time it was a little more ragged, although just as determined as when a column of infantry came on.
‘Charge!’ He heard Colonel Head’s shout this time, and then the light dragoons were yelling – not a cheer so much as a roar. Sabres came off shoulders and were raised high, points towards the enemy though turned slightly to cover the face.
The line looked solid, men and horses only slightly shifted from their places. Hanley still could not see the French, but their cry had suggested no lack of spirit. They must be very close, and the British cavalrymen did not show any signs of checking or hesitation. He knew that horsemen would not charge home against a solid square of infantry, but he suspected that it would be different when cavalry met cavalry. Horses barged each other readily enough at the best of times. His mind tried to picture the French dragoons galloping straight at the British horsemen, and imagined the two lines getting closer and closer before slamming into each other in a collision that must surely shatter bones and tumble horses and riders.
‘Bless me!’ Baynes sounded like a parson noticing a fly in his soup. The light dragoons had broken up, the files opening to more than a horse’s width between them. It took only an instant, and then suddenly the regiment was spread out and Hanley could see French dragoons in green coming through the gaps, like passing the fingers of one hand between those on the other. Swords flashed as men went by each other, slashing and jabbing. In a great scything cut one of the Frenchmen was chopped from the saddle. Another took a slice that opened his mouth to his chin. Hanley saw one of the Thirteenth jabbed in the sword-arm. The man slumped, arm limp and sabre hanging down by its cord. Then they were through, a loose crowd of green-coated dragoons coming on in a swarm towards them. It was one of the strangest, most unexpected things Hanley had ever seen.
‘Back! Back!’ Williams shouted. The Welshman yanked at Baynes’ reins to turn his tubby horse and then slapped the beast on the rump to send it running off. ‘Move, you fool!’ he yelled into Hanley’s ear, breaking the spell.
Hanley kicked his horse into a canter and then urged it into a gallop, following the others. The four hussars were clustered protectively around Baynes, and Williams was trailing a length behind, looking back to make sure that he was following.
They did not go far, and when Hanley was able to turn he saw that the mass of enemy horsemen were wheeling round. It was no longer a neat formation, but a crowd, each going about at his own pace. No one had followed them, although if they had stayed where they were they would have been in the middle of several hundred Frenchmen.
Officers urged them on, waving their swords in the air and shouting. Hanley heard another big roar, knew that it was the light dragoons, and then the French were answering with their own cries and spurring their horses back the way they had come in a new charge. The two crowds merged into one, not flowing through this time, and then green jackets and blue were locked in hundreds of little duels. Sabre clashed against sword, blades struck ringing blows on helmets or bit into cloth and flesh with a dull sound. Even from this distance Hanley was amazed at the amount of noise. As a boy he had often gone to watch the coppersmiths at work. This was like that noise magnified a thousand times. Men fell, horses reared and screamed.
‘You should go back to General Long, sir,’ Williams said to Baynes, ‘for I must borrow your escort for a moment.’ The words were quietly said, and just as evidently a command. The Welshman turned to the German corporal. ‘Follow me.’ Then he was trotting forward.
The corporal glanced at Baynes, and gave a crisp instruction in his own language before he and his men followed. Williams drew his sword, a light, well-balanced blade with a gentle curve. The hussars copied him, each carrying the heavy 1796-pattern sabre like the light dragoons.
Hanley followed.
‘You don’t have to come,’ Williams said, and then grinned.
Hanley gripped the handle of his own sword and pulled. The blade was unwilling to come. He yanked, tried to turn it back and forth, and with an effort it came free, and his arm swung out high and wide.
‘Scheiße!’ hissed one of the Germans as the tip of the blade swept within a few inches of his face.
Williams laughed, then pointed. ‘On the left. We hit them there and cut our way through.’
Hanley saw that the French were crowding around the British right, and it was only there that the light dragoons were outnumbered and looked to be giving way.
Dear God, just six of us to sway the balance, he thought, but then Williams yelled and charged. Hanley’s horse lurched as its stride changed. He had his sword up now and stared at it. There were spots of rust dotted along the blade. The weapon felt clumsy and awkward in his hand. He had rarely held it and never used it before and wondered why he had come and not stayed with Baynes. Just in time he remembered to loop the rather grubby red sword-knot around his wrist.
The last twenty yards vanished under them, the sound of their horses’ pounding feet adding to the other noise. One dragoon turned to face them. The man wore a tall bearskin cap instead of a helmet and had red epaulettes on his shoulders, so must be from the elite company. Like the grenadiers in an infantry battalion, such men were meant to be the tallest and best soldiers.
Williams rode straight at him, the Frenchman kicking his heels to stir his own mount forward. The Welshman’s mare was much the same size and moving faster, and perhaps that was why the Frenchman’s horse flinched. Williams lunged, beating the man’s guard and striking just above the collar. Dark blood gushed on to the orange front of the man’s jacket as momentum carried the lieutenant on and he jerked his blade free. Williams closed with another man, coming from behind. The Frenchman turned, wheeled away, and his thrust changed into a slash that ripped through the dragoon’s sleeve and gashed his bridle arm. Williams kept going into the mass.
