Whose Business is to Die, page 33
‘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.
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
MacAndrews 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.’
