Close to the Colours (105th Foot. The Prince of Wales Own Wessex Regimen Book 2)

by Martin McDowell

  “Colonel, I hear that in the 105th ye’ve been practicing some kind of fancy firing drill? Wellesley expects the French to attack in column and I’d say he’s correct. It’s their usual way of going about their business, so do we hear.”

  Lacey cleared his throat and searched for words to best explain what could prove difficult.

  “Not too fancy, Sir, we still have half Company volleys, the front ranks of the centre two companies firing together to start us off, Three and Five in our case, and then the volleys commencing outwards along the line. What’s different is that we don’t wait until the end Companies of the front rank give their volleys before the second rank commences. The second ranks of Three and Five give theirs as soon as the smoke clears. By then any dead or disabled at the front of the column have fallen over and those marching behind should, er, not be left to walk forward unmolested, for however short a time. That’s how we see it, Sir.”

  He looked at Fane.

  “I hope that’s clear, Sir, and I hope you approve?”

  Fane took another serious nip from the flask.

  “Oh, aye, Colonel, I approve. Anything that sends bullets into a French column at a rapid rate has my approval. Let’s hope we send in enough! Eh?”

  With that he toasted the pair with his flask, took another nip and walked to his horse, the mare held steady and waiting patiently in the charge of Fane’s own mounted aide-de-camp. Lacey and O’Hare contented themselves by staring out at the shimmering hills, baking in the heat, and viewing the distant road, dancing snakelike in the thermals, up which the French must come.

  Further right still, with the Grenadiers at the far right end of the 105th, Carravoy and D’Villiers were sitting down on the reverse slope, their backs to the same distant hills. They looked with some distaste, Carravoy more so, at Ameshurst walking amongst his men, sharing jokes and comments, relieving the tension. Whatever he was asked by them Ameshurst tried to answer and this his men appreciated, always thanking him and parting with a smile. However, in truth Carravoy and D’Villiers paid little attention, the minds of each were far too preoccupied with the forthcoming battle, one that evidently was going to be set piece and serious. The societal rules that both had been brought up to adhere to, required some neutral conversation, about one’s tailor, or hunter, or whether to chose a phaeton or a cabriolet as one’s next sporting carriage, but no such topic occurred to either, bar the one that was barred, the one whose very mention would betray the fear and anxiety that dwelt within each. They were not alone; all along the ridge Officers gathered to act out the required blasé insouciance, yet all, frequently, sent glances in the supposed direction of the oncoming enemy. Finally, D’Villiers did find something which was sufficiently neutral.

  “Shall we take a bit of a wander, up over there? See what those gunners are up to?”

  It was Carravoy raising himself from the ground that gave D’Villiers all the affirmative answer he needed and the two strolled over to the battery of six guns positioned between themselves and the next battalion along the ridge. The battery Captain saw them coming and walked forward to greet them and shake hands.

  “Morning. Ellis Broughton, Royal Artillery.”

  Neither Carravoy nor D’Villiers were certain if that was a double-barrelled name or not, but they introduced themselves and began to study the six guns, now at close proximity, which was new to them both. Carravoy took the initiative.

  “Mind if we take a look?”

  The Captain became even more cheerful, plainly eager to accommodate anyone showing any level of interest in his six charges.

  “Why no, of course, allow me.”

  They walked behind the line of guns, each with its blank, threatening muzzle, and saw the preparations of the gunners, if preparation it genuinely was, for all had been thoroughly prepared for a long time. They had been given the task of carefully examining the bags of powder stored in the ammunition caissons, six “boxes on wheels” placed down the back slope, each behind its own gun. Each bag was taken out and examined for leaks, then carefully replaced. The expressions on the gunners' faces showed that they knew this to be an utterly pointless task, which they had been set merely to keep them occupied. Then Ellis Broughton seemed to have a good idea.

  “Have you seen these?”

  He pointed to a box of what looked like normal cannonballs. Carravoy and D’Villiers looked querulously at him, then turned to follow the direction of his arm.

  “They are called shrapnel, invented by a chap of the same name. It’s filled with musket balls! We call it a shell, because it has a hollow inside, like the shells you find at the seaside.”

  He raised one up and both could see, albeit circumspectly, the difference between it and common solid shot. Fastened to the side that had been facing down in the box, presumably for safety, was a wooden disc with a hole in the centre. Ellis Broughton pointed to it, accompanied by a very enthusiastic description.

  “This is a fuse hole. Before we fire one of these, we insert a timing fuse. Very short, so that it explodes somewhere along its trajectory, but before it reaches its target, that’s very important. Then the musket balls, a whole cloud of them, carry on to the target with the same velocity that the shell had. Very nasty for them but good for us; with these we can do them a lot of no-good way before they get anywhere near.”

  He paused and screwed up his face, conveying an element of doubt.

  “At least, that’s the theory and today, if we do fight today; is the first time we’ll have used it in anger.”

  He shifted his jaw to one side, closed one eye and looked at the sky with the other.

  “Well not quite. We fired it at some Dutch a while back and they quickly surrendered! We have great hopes for it and the trials have been good.”

  D’Villiers and Carravoy leaned forward to take a good look, but not handle. D’Villiers continued the questioning.

  “You mean this thing goes, “bang”, in the middle of them?”

  “Well, that would be sort of good, or above their heads, but just before would be better, giving the musket balls a chance to spread, you see.”

  Carravoy took up the point, equally curious.

  “So, who sets the fuse?”

  “Me, that’s my job, to get the length right.”

  “And you light the fuse, before putting this “shell thing”, in the barrel?”

  Broughton looked shocked.

  “Oh no! Oh my word no! When we fire the gun, the explosion inside the barrel ignites the fuse, or it should, as it goes on its way off to Johnny. The wooden disc faces the gunpowder in the barrel, so’s the fuse gets the explosion.”

  He twirled the shell above his head.

  “All quite simple, really.”

  It was D’Villiers mind that had moved to technical considerations.

  “What’s the shortest? I mean, when can you no longer use it, because the range is now too short?”

  Broughton nodded, at the posing of a sensible question at last.

  “Well, the shortest we’ve managed is 300 yards. After that, well, it’s canister. Or case, as some say.”

  He pointed to another box, just back from the gun, containing shiny tubes of metal, each about seven inches long. Both had heard of canister, but its precise design was unknown and D’Villiers proved to be the more ignorant of the two.

  “What’s in those?”

  “More musket balls, packed in sawdust. It’s like a shotgun cartridge, only much bigger. The case splits on firing and the balls spread out. But that’s only much use under 300 yards.”

  He then pointed to another box.

  “Between the two we could use that.”

  He allowed time for his audience to shift their attention.

  “Grapeshot. Same kind of thing as canister, but with larger balls.”

  With that Broughton adopted a look both cheerful and quizzical, his mouth smiling, but his eyebrows raised, as if to enquire if there were any more questions. None came, for both Carravoy
and D’Villiers, as infantrymen, had realised that French gunners could apply the same to themselves, so Ellis Broughton continued himself.

  “So, there you are! We’ll be doing the Frogs a lot a damage, way before they get to you!”

  He allowed the encouraging words to sink in.

  “Then it’s your turn to take a crack.”

  Both Officers nodded, encouraged but not convinced. Carravoy was the most sceptical.

  “Well, here’s hoping, for all our sakes.”

  They shook hands and returned to their men, to find Ameshurst sat alone, looking for the French. They walked past him, saying nothing, then on, to the centre of their Company. It was D’Villiers, him holding inside the most anxiety concerning the future, that the conversation with Ellis Broughton had had the most impact on.

  “Well, seems we have a trick up our sleeve! Perhaps this job won’t be so hard, after all!”

  Carravoy nodded, but said nothing, which in turn, did nothing to reassure the worried warrior D’Villiers.

  The afternoon wore on into evening. Wellesley and his Staff rode along the front and a Major detached himself from the group and approached Lacey, him stood with O’Hare before the Colour Party.

  “Sir. The General says to tell you that the French will arrive tomorrow. So, for now, allow the men their meal, but you are to remain in position throughout the night. Stand to before dawn. Sir. The Rifles will stand picket.”

  Lacey nodded to the Aide de Camp, then to O’Hare. Within two minutes, what had been said, and completely overheard, had been passed on and out to both ends of the line. The rations were sent for and the men allowed to gather wood. Soon could be heard the pop of gunpowder being fired in the flash pan of many muskets for the burning powder to then be tipped over the dry kindling, which all soldiers kept a supply of in their packs. Soon after that, could be seen many cheery fires, all across the back slope, along the full length of the ridge. As the three, Pike, Miles and Davey, sat finishing their meal beside Byford, Saunders and Fearnley, some speculation was voiced about the following day, but the reply was mostly, “No way of telling!” Joe Pike turned to Tom Miles.

  “What will they do with us, Tom? We’re Lights, could be anything!”

  Tom Miles smiled in the dying light of the cooking fire.

  “You just answered your own question, boy. Could be anything!”

  ***

  Most were awake before dawn and the NCO’s had little work to do in rousing the army. The fires, by now already lit and kindled, gave light to those who passed through and around, needing to do but little to persuade the men to prepare for the battle that all now accepted as inevitable. Breakfast was done before the sun departed the horizon, after which Sergeant Fearnley moved amongst Shakeshaft’s section checking that all was in progress. A “horse of a different colour” to Ellis, Fearnley was content to trust those whom he knew he could, and to spend more time with those more suspect. He had few enemies, thus to Miles and Davey there came but a brief word.

  “All set, Tom? John?’

  A brief raising of a hand was the only reply he needed.

  “You’ll look over Joe?”

  This time came a nod and George Fearnley moved on.

  Some of Fane’s Rifles from the 60th and 95th, held in reserve on Vimeiro Ridge for those that had remained far out in the woods and valley floor to the South, were the first to rise and walk over the ridge top to disappear down the far side. Keeping themselves apart, they had made their campfires at the closest point to their picket position and so had but a little distance to walk to resume their watch places of the previous day. Binns followed a group through the line of the 105th Grenadiers, carrying bread and a cup of tea for his two Grenadier Officers. He brought ill tidings.

  “Benito has absconded, Sirs.”

  Both looked up, startled, and waited for more, so Binns continued.

  “Gone, Sirs, with the mule and everything on it.”

  The reply came in unison.

  “Everything?’

  “Yes. Sirs, tent, bed and spare blankets. He kept on saying “Oh franchez nah oh poday ser bateedo” I know it exactly, Sirs, he said it so often. I think it means the French cannot be beat.”

  Both were on their feet, clenching and unclenching fists, both stamping the ground in their anger, but it was Carravoy who spoke.

  “Where did you hire him?”

  “Leiria, Sir.”

  Carravoy now pounded his right fist into his left hand.

  “Damn him! If we ever return there, I will seek him out and personally shoot the damnable villain myself. Damn him! Damn him!”

  Binns nodded.

  “Yes Sir. Lucky you carry your personal effects yourself, Sir, and before this day’s out, I fancy there will be more than a few spare blankets. Hopefully more French that ours, Sir.”

  Binns did not wait for a reply, he knew that anything that came would not be pleasant, so he beetled off to see to his own affairs and found all intact. He had left nothing in the charge of the local peasant Benito. His trust in such did not rise above his bootstrap, an opinion now thoroughly confirmed, but he soon mollified himself. Would he stay if his own armies had been annihilated time and time again?

  Orders came that all battalions were to remain behind the ridge, but Officers could please themselves if they took themselves forward to examine the distance for the approaching French, and several did. However, they were disappointed, just as they had been on the previous day, staring again through the telescopes at the empty hills and the emptier road. The heat grew and many of the men arranged their blankets on their bayonets and sat within that meagre shade, sipping their precious water and not saying much, save Joe Pike, growing more animated by the minute.

  “Will they come, Tom? We all heard the Officer, but perhaps they won’t.”

  Miles was chewing on a biscuit, so Davey answered, whilst chewing a straw.

  “The rumour’s that Johnny’s on his way. Best get your mind around that.”

  “Why’re we kept back here?”

  Davey looked at Miles.

  “One for you, Mr. Experience!”

  Miles looked angrily at both.

  “How do I know? Seems to me that soon enough, when they comes, if they comes, we’ll be over that ridge and wavin’ halloo to our Frog friends, and kickin’ off for a real set piece.”

  He paused and waved a dirty finger for emphasis.

  “But I’ll say one thing! I do hope that us walkin’ over that hill and standin’ out on that slope is delayed until the very, very last minute. I do not fancy standin’ out there in full view of them Frogs, like them with the tassels on their hats, them backed up by that Frog artillery.”

  He terminated his tirade with a ferocious nod of his head, then returned to his biscuit. Pike remained silent and Davey re-checked the lock on his Baker rifle. Meanwhile, Fane had again found Lacey and O’Hare.

  “They’re on their way. Aboot midnight, the Dragoons heard them crossing a bridge. That means wheels and that means artillery, lots of it.”

  Lacey nodded and O’Hare raised his glass again to his eye. He studied the view for the briefest moment, lowered it, and then spoke.

  “I do believe they’re here, Sir.”

  He handed the glass to Fane and pointed.

  “There, Sir. In line with the road, a cloud of dust.

  Fane took the glass and adjusted it for his own eyesight. He spoke whilst he moved the glass slightly from side to side.

  “Aye, that’s them, right enough. Seems M’sieu Junot has arrived with his full Corps, or near enough as makes no difference.”

  He studied some more.

  “And not in blue! Some kind of white, a summer uniform would be my guess.”

  A pause.

  “And ah’d say that’s the man. Junot!”

  He handed back the telescope and this time he pointed.

  “There, on that knoll to your right front. Arrived just this instant!”

  He fis
hed for his own watch and failed.

  “What time do you have, Lacey?”

  Lacey’s huge hunter came out from one pull, hauled up by its chain.

  “9.22. Sir.”

  O’Hare had taken the glass and then trained it in the direction indicated. What swam into view through the heat haze was a collection of Officers, very obviously French Staff from the gorgeous design of their uniforms. One was advanced just slightly and in the centre. O’Hare handed the glass to Lacey, who was doing his best to see with only shaded eyes. Lacey took the glass and focused it quickly. He held it for but a minute, before lowering it.

  “Gone!”

  Fane looked puzzled.

  “So measly a glance! Ah well. What’s the difference?”

  His face grew serious.

  “Now. Strict orders from Wellesley, your men are to remain on the reverse slope, until called forward. By me. You can stand where you like, whilst ye wait, but your men stay back, out of harms way! If they see ye, their artillery and skirmishers will be on ye in two shakes. Like flies on a dung pile! Ye’re tae stay back, until the time. Ye follow?”

  He nodded to both for emphasis and received two in reply, plus Lacey’s reassurance.

  “Yes, Sir. That has been made very clear.”

  Fane nodded agreeably.

  “Right. Not long now, so let’s get the men some rum.”

  The order was given to form their firing line and, within the hour, the rum arrived, but almost all, because of the heat, watered it down, doubly so for Joe Pike; Davey knowing his incapacity for strong drink. Miles, however, did drink his neat and made a fierce examination of the whereabouts of the thumb of the orderly dolling out the measure. The digit was well back on the handle and all received full measure. The good wishes, spoken by the Orderly, were acknowledged by all.

  “Good luck, boys. Come the finish, eh?”

  “Come the finish, mate. Right enough.”

  Whilst the men sipped their strong spirit, all Officers were on the ridge top, telescopes extended out to study the oncoming French, these in three large divisions, spread across the wide river valley that led up from the South, a river being sometimes fed by the parched ditch at the foot of the valley before them. Now bayonets and shako plates sparkled through the dust confirming that this was indeed the enemy, in all his puissant strength. Time passed and the French came on, their Divisions easing over to their own right, revealing to all that they were attacking the British left, ignoring the troops that Wellesley had placed over on the steep hills of his right. The same telescopes watched as the British Regiments Wellesley had placed there, now quit their positions as ordered by him and hurried back to ascend the second, much higher, ridge behind Vimeiro. Wellesley was reacting to the French move, but the telescopes soon returned to the French deploying before them. Little was spoken, the only answer to the central question, ‘who were they going to attack’, could only come from the French, shown by where they halted and deployed. The answer came, when what appeared to be the main body of the French could be seen arranging itself on the ridgeline directly opposite that of Vimeiro ridge. The telescopes were snapped shut and Lacey spoke what was expressed in various versions all along the ridge.