Davey lifted his face from the rest provided by his hands.
“Well, one thing, we’ll not be first, boy, not from back here. That’s the job of those up front, and, for it, I’d not swap places.”
He chased a flea down the back of his neck, then spoke from a strained mouth as the chase proved difficult.
“But we’ll be up there, sometime, no fear of that. Those lads out in the hills will winkle ‘em out sometime, let’s hope that happens before the likes of us have to tackle the thing head on!”
With that, he stood and went off to a nearby stable to relieve himself. Pike remained in gloom, his head sunk lower on his hands, dreaming of his Mary. Meanwhile, from their higher position, sat on chairs, Lacey and O’Hare could see that their rest would now be soon over. A battery had arrived on the only small hillock besides Rolica, a site now shared with another windmill, built on this high ground near the village. They watched the guns being unlimbered, the horses led to the rear and the guns loaded. An Officer checked the elevation and alignment of each, took himself beyond the rightmost gun and then raised his arm. His cry of “fire” was dwarfed by the shattering crash of six field guns firing as one, then the gunners moved to rapidly reload. Lacey got to his feet.
“I think that opens The Ball. Get the men formed up.”
The men had seen for themselves the arrival of the battery and all eating equipment had been immediately packed. They had only to stand and re-form their ranks, their assembling being copied throughout the whole army, but few could bring themselves to raise their eyes and study the formidable sight of the ridgeline topped with French uniforms. The guns fired again, but the effect of solid shot against an open hillside was impossible to see, but this time, French guns answered, not at the battery, but seeking targets somewhere on the British right. These guns must have been sited there early in the day, proving that the French had fully planned to make their stand on the ridge, not before as Wellesley had hoped. The aide-de-camp arrived again.
“General Crauford wished to keep you aware, Sir, that he is now the centre, with General Hill on the right. Hill’s 5th will attempt the gully on the right, the 29th will attempt the two gullies right centre. The 82nd will try the left hand gully and the 45th will make an attempt up the height with the windmill, the farthest left. You are to support the 45th, Sir, therefore if you could position your men, Sir. Those are the 45th you can see now, Sir, to your immediate front.”
The aide-de-camp pointed to the rear of a firing line now being exposed, as the 91st marched off to the right to support the 82nd, these now drawn up before their own gully, the most leftward of the French position.
“Very good, Captain. Now I would be obliged if you could return via the Colonel of the 45th Nottinghamshires and inform him that the 105th Wessex is close behind and he can be assured of our fullest support.”
The aide-de-camp fully appreciated the emotion within Lacey’s request and saluted smartly, then, as he left them, Lacey looked at O’Hare.
“If we are to go up that narrow slope, our ground will be constricted. The Lights and Grenadiers will lead off first, skirmishing order across our front. Then columns of Companies, six Companies, with two held back, in reserve. Make those Three and Four. The six Companies in formed fours, there’ll be room for nothing wider.”
O’Hare ran off, calling for the Captains. Soon the 105th were formed up, a main line of six columns, each company forming its own column, merely four men wide. The 45th moved forward as the guns sent round shot over their heads and, 400 yards distant from the ridge, the 105th halted, leaving the 45th to move on. Finally the effect of one British shot could be seen; the windmill was at last put out of its misery, a shot hitting the centre of the arms sending at least two to the ground. This was not lost on Carr.
“That’s scotched some poor Devil with a telescope.”
He was using his own telescope, from a position almost equally perilous, stood up on the corner fencing of a paddock, leaning for extra balance on a long pole. Drake was impatient for news.
“What can you see? What’s happening?”
His answer to the second question came not from Carr, but from the hillside; musketry erupting from the right centre, beginning with the French above, then answered by the British below, but at no other point along the line. However, Carr was forming an answer to the first question.
“Well …….”
He moved the Dolland to his right eye and tried to focus one handed, for his left hand was clinging to the pole.
“……… it looks as if someone’s taking his men in early. Got there too soon and didn’t stop. They’re going up. If they get in, they’ll be up there alone and taking on the whole lot that Johnny’s got waiting!”
As an endorsement of Carr’s appraisal, more firing came from the same point, with redcoats pouring forward, but then firing erupted along the whole line. Soon smoke covered the whole hillside, perpetuated and thickened by a furious exchange from both forces, above and below, soon Carr could see nothing more and stood down. Lacey was standing with O’Hare, watching what could be seen, this being only the backs of the 45th assaulting their portion of the hill. Fane’s Rifles emerged from the hillside on the left and began an assault in from the extreme left. It was intense fighting, in which the British left was making little progress. As the 105th stood and watched, they saw small groups of both Rifles and 45th gain a foothold on the summit, only to be thrust back down by counter-attacks. Solid shot sighed overhead, heard even above the din of the incessant firing, but to little effect, at least for the assault troops, bravely mounting attack after attack, but all in vain. They watched the almost hopeless contest for almost an hour, then Lacey turned to O’Hare.
“Pass the word. Weapons, water, and cartridge box only. Leave all else behind. Then form up, as agreed.”
Lacey was relieving his men of almost 40lbs of equipment, to better enable them to scramble and climb up the steep hillside. He waited and within minutes his men were formed in their six assault columns, with the Lights and Grenadiers skirmishing out in front. A hare, startled and frightened, ran panicked across the front of the 105th, spurred on by the hoots of the men, some following the terrified animal with their muskets, as it dodged, helter-skelter, off to safety. It was a moment of humour that relieved the tension of the moment and all were grateful.
Lacey had received no orders, but he could see for himself that the assault of the 45th was waning. Their efforts had been resisted for over an hour; they must be tired, short of ammunition and more then a little dispirited. O’Hare had taken himself over to the right and so Lacey placed himself before the Colours, held by Number Three, one of the two reserve Companies. Major Simmonds could be seen positioned to the left. Lacey turned to Rushby and Neape.
“When we go up, I do not want to see you two leading the way! When we go forward, you follow the assault, not lead it. Clear?”
Rushby nodded, but Neape was paralysed at the sight of what was before him, a cacophony from Hell, shots, noise, shouts and screaming, made worse by the sights that went with it, men with dreadful wounds, limping back or dragging themselves to relative safety. Lacey turned to Deakin.
“Sergeant, run over to Mr. O’Hare, on the right. He’s behind the skirmish line. Tell him to advance.”
Deakin saluted and ran off. He found O’Hare standing facing his front behind the Grenadiers and not at all confident about what was about to happen, but he turned when Deakin arrived.
“Sir. The Colonel says advance, Sir.”
O’Hare nodded.
“Captain Carravoy! Forward, if you please?”
Carravoy, his head spinning from the mayhem all about, pushed his left foot forward, followed by the right and kept going. His men followed, then O’Hare walked forward himself, the signal for the six Companies to begin their own advance.
The Grenadiers on the skirmishing line’s right, with Carravoy in the lead, advanced steadily on. They crossed a small ditch, full of stagnant
water, but now stained red. He was grateful for the smoke, but his fear grew as the ground rose in front of him, they were now ascending the slope. The smoke was so thick that he could not see if they were heading for one of the ravines or one of the impossible cliffs that lay between. He could only lead his men on and hope and wait, hope to meet a possible way up and wait for the time when the defenders would see him and his men and choose them as their target. On his right was a Regiment whose name he did not know, but he saw groups of men, several with superficial wounds but still in the fight, being gathered up by whoever was there, Officer or NCO, to again renew the assault. With their Officer or NCO in the lead, he saw them lean into the steep gradient and push their way upward, through the difficult scrub and bush.
That before Carravoy thickened and he had to use both arms to push the branches and trailing brambles aside. Finally it became too thick and he was brought to a halt. He found that he had trodden on something soft, to look down to see that it was a red-coated body, so he shifted his feet to only stand on another. Stuck fast in the bush he was unable to move, until he felt a huge shove against his back so that he was pushed through. Two of his Grenadiers had put their shoulders against him and levered him onward. He turned in anger, but was met by two expectant faces, both equally as wide-eyed, dirty and scratched as his own.
“Right with you, Sir. As you order!”
The rebuke died in his throat. Carravoy gripped his sword and swallowed hard, which helped with both his fear and his anger at being manhandled by his own men, both of D’Villiers’ Company. He scrambled further up, brambles and gorse clinging to his legs now already labouring with the slope impossible to walk upright upon. The smoke cleared, just enough for him to see that they were almost at the top, but the crest was thick with blue shapes. The Grenadiers behind him immediately levelled their muskets either side of him and fired, the smoke obscuring all. What must have been a musket ball stung his jaw in its passing, before dislodging an epaulette, which remained hanging by a few threads. He crouched a little lower as one of his followers collapsed in a heap.
On the left, Carr had led his men right up to the final rock face, an advance giving both dismay and revulsion as they passed over the many wounded of the 45th. However, as standing orders dictated, his Officers and NCO’s forbade any man to stop to answer the pitiful pleading of those still able to speak, from amongst the bodies now thick over the final yards. He was nominally leading his men, but this in theory only, for they were going no-where, stuck fast merely yards below the crest, but a distance too far. The French seemed to making good use of some kind of stone bulwark, which was serving as a kind of parapet, but at least they had to lean over to find a target from amongst his men, making them targets themselves for his accurate rifles. He had linked with Fane’s Riflemen who were attacking from the left and some 45th Lights and others from their Line Companies. All mingled amongst his own men, who were working well in their files, maintaining the sequence of the lead man firing, then being replaced by one from behind; but there could be no advance. The leading man could only step back and down to give his replacement the room he needed. Thus his men were circling to climb, fire, and then fall back. Carr looked around for ideas but found none. He sheathed his sword, picked up a discarded musket, pillaged a handful of cartridges from the box of a dead 45th and began firing. For the moment they could hold, but either the French fell back, or soon they would be forced to do so themselves and it would not be too long.
Carr did not know it, but he had lost one Officer. Shakeshaft was unconscious, sprawled on the ground, feet uppermost. He had gained the bulwark only to be thrust back by a shove from a musket butt, to tumble back and hit his head. Ellis had checked for life and found a pulse, but could do no more. He was now in command of the section; he could not see Captain Carr and so he decided to join with the nearest file, this being Davey, Pike and Miles, the four then sending accurate shots into the blue ranks above them, but they never seemed to be thinning, always there was another to take their place.
Tom Miles was growing angrier; firstly at the “God-awful” situation they were in and, secondly, at having to “file in” and co-operate with Sergeant Ellis, him endlessly making some needless comment.
“I’ve bloody had enough of this!”
When his turn came, he fired, but did not come down to be replaced. Instead he scrambled up, using the butt of his musket as a lever. He reached the stone bulwark, knocked aside a bayonet, smashed the butt of his rifle upwards into the moustache of the Frenchman who was wielding it, then swung his weapon sideways into the arm of another. He then flung his rifle at the nearest Frenchman, drew his sword bayonet and stabbed another, but he was then kicked to the ground himself. Struggling to get up, he found that he could not, a bayonet had gone through his shako, pinning it to the ground, also some Redcoat was standing on top of him. He ripped away the chinstrap to look up and see the distorted face of the Frenchman who had made the bayonet thrust at his head whilst he was on the ground, the face in agony and shock with Ellis’ bayonet sideways through his neck. Ellis’ thrust had altered the French bayonet’s aim just enough, however, just for good measure Miles punched the dying face, before finding his own Baker and reloading.
Many British were coming up from below into what now proved to be a shallow trench and they gained several yards of it but could go no further, neither forward nor right nor left, The French were fighting desperately to hold back the British assault at this end of their line. The Redcoats in the trench began an intense rate of fire into the French before them, their muzzles but yards apart, yet the French gave no ground. Carr had seen the small gain and hauled himself up, using a gorse bush growing from the edge. His hand came away covered in blood, but this claimed his attention for barely a second. The situation of the men in the trench was utterly desperate, already there was no room to stand, but on dead bodies only, both red and blue. He seized the bush again and swung back out over the edge to see more Redcoats now gathering there. He shouted down to the powder blackened, sweat stained, faces.
“Re-load, then fix bayonets.”
Looking down at his men, he waited unbearable seconds until all stood there were at the make ready, an agonising time, for he could hear the conflict behind him continuing with appalling ferocity, French curses mingling with English insults, both barely heard between the continuous blasts of musketry. He threw his own musket into the trench and drew his sword.
“I want you up, stood on the edge and ready for a volley. Then charge, with me.”
He looked along the upturned faces.
“Now, up!”
They all scrambled up, some being pushed by others, some using projecting rocks and bushes, some pulling up those behind them by seizing the bayonet socket around the muzzle of the proffered musket, but all got there and immediately came to the present.
“Fire!”
All fired as one. The effect was lost in the smoke, but Carr didn’t wait for it clear.
“Charge, boys, charge! Hurrah for 45th, hurrah for the One-Oh-Five!”
Carr’s men and those already in the trench all sprang forward, screaming at the top of their lungs. The French gave way and those staying to fight were quickly despatched with butt, boot, or bayonet and soon they were through the smoke, but the sight that awaited them gave Carr no choice.
“Form to receive cavalry.”
Forming a square where they now stood was obviously ridiculous, on the broken ground, but his men understood immediately what was needed. They instinctively grouped closer together, those at the front extending their bayonets. They were being charged by French cavalry.
Carrovoy was equally stalled, not so much by the French as by his own state of indecision. Himself and D’Villiers’ section of Grenadiers, were at the mouth of a small ravine and, from what he could see through the smoke, it was thoroughly occupied by French infantry, all loading and firing from a solid line. Should he advance or be content to hold what they had? He was one sid
e of the ravine, D’Villiers on the other, and they were both supervising pairs of Grenadiers who emerged from cover to fire and retire, to be replaced by the next pair. Carravoy was content that they were causing casualties, but their task was to capture the top and the dead from his own command were building because the French above had learned to wait for the two pairs to appear.
Both Carravoy and D’Villiers were concentrating ahead, up the ravine, and so did not see what now arrived behind them; their first realisation of new events came to their ears through the smoke.
“Come on, lads! We’re Grenadiers! We belong to the One-Oh-Five!”
Lieutenant Ameshurst, on the left of the Grenadiers, when confronted by a sheer cliff, had led his men off to the right, and found the ravine. Not noticing Carravoy, nor D’Villiers, he had seen Grenadiers of his own Regiment grouped around apparently leaderless and so now he was encouraging those of D’Villiers to join them. Stood before his men, sword in hand, he formed them into a solid line across the opening.
“Present! Show them who’s at the door, boys.”
The muskets were all raised to aim up into the ravine.
“Fire!”
The volley crashed out and all sprang forward. Without any orders from D’Villiers, all his Grenadiers followed upwards and Carravoy and D’Villiers had little option but to follow themselves. Ameshurst and his men were fighting their way up, he leading a knot of men that seemed to be acting as his personal bodyguard. Any Frenchman who aimed at him was shot by a Grenadier ready loaded and prepared for such and anyone who attacked him with sword, butt, or bayonet, found themselves assaulted and despatched by at least two. With his Sergeant at his shoulder, Ameshurst reached the top to find himself in a shallow valley, with a track that led onward from the ravine, deeper into the hill. Serious resistance seemed to have ended, for the French were now streaming in disorder right to left across his front in their tens and hundreds. The British assault on the right must have broken through and, on that flank, the French were in full retreat, but too many were moving for one section of Grenadiers to stop and capture.
Close to the Colours (105th Foot. The Prince of Wales Own Wessex Regimen Book 2) Page 8
