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

by Martin McDowell

  “He’s going to try us first!”

  This was confirmed by the sight of the Riflemen filing back from the wooded hills of the ridge that was now occupied by the French. However, little musket fire was exchanged, for they were not being pursued. The green clad Riflemen had withdrawn out of range, then reformed and waited, unmolested. Plainly Junot was arranging his men and the telescopes on the ridge were employed again to observe the next significant development, that being two substantial bodies of troops and cavalry moving off, in Division strength, to try the British left on the high, steep, ridge behind Vimeiro. However, it was plain that the largest French force had been placed before Vimeiro ridge to make their main assault. Within the Colour Party, there was the greatest contrast in the level of agitation, or lack of it, amongst its members. Deakin leant casually on the muzzle of his musket, hands draped one over the other, but in marked contrast, Rushby and Neape craned their necks as if that would help them see what was happening over the ridgeline, twenty yards before them. Rushby had only Deakin that he could consult to any effect.

  “Sergeant. What do you think is happening?”

  Deakin took a deep breath, ready to indulge, as he knew he must.

  “Well, Sir, I cannot give you the detail, but I’d say the French have arrived and our Officers is ‘olding us back here, out of sight, so’s to keep them guessin’, them bein’ the French. Sir.”

  Deakin studied the face of his Ensign and saw that the deep concern remained.

  “Always a good idea, Sir, I’d say, to keep your enemy in the dark, as it were.”

  Deakin shifted his eyes to The Colour that Rushby was leaning on.

  “But I’d say that it was time to get the covers off , Sirs.”

  Rushby looked even more concerned, as did Neape, this simple act would confirm that soon things would become very serious. Both nodded and pulled off the leather cover and Rushby’s was stuffed into Deakin’s haversack, beside the bag of hard biscuit and dried fish.

  “I’d just keep ‘em rolled; for now, Sirs.”

  Both Ensigns nodded and did no more, allowing both Colours to remain wound around their flagstaffs, for their minds were elsewhere, occupied by the growing sounds of conflict coming from beyond the maddeningly blank, brown, top of the ridge, but six yards before them. These were the sounds of skirmishing, at first distant sounds, but as the minutes passed, growing louder. Carr, Drake and Shakeshaft thought it right to remain below the ridge with their men, but Carravoy and D’Villiers joined many other Officers atop the ridge. From there they saw a sight that did nothing to boost their already meagre confidence, nor in any way diminish the nagging fear growing within each. The two looked in awe at a full Napoleonic attack, in fact two, one on the far right, but the other, disturbingly, aiming straight for them. It was a column, 30 men broad; Carravoy counted them through his telescope, and its depth appeared half as many again, about 45 men. They were already ascending the slope, sharpshooter Tirailleurs skirmishing in front, three horse artillery guns each side, and cavalry behind. It wasn’t hard to discern their intentions; that the artillery would unlimber at effective range, and blow a hole through the British line, through which the column would drive. But first, to open the assault, the Tirailleurs would soften up that part of the British line, picking off Officers and individual men. Both Grenadier Officers could look at nothing but the column, for even at long range the front rank had their bayonets “en guard” with the black of their high spats below the all white uniform emphasising their onward march. Their height was emphasised by the over large French shako.

  Carr, meanwhile, had changed his mind and was now atop the ridge. He saw the column and gauged its threat. He had seen one before and knew what they must do to defeat it, but his attention and admiration was fixed on the Riflemen below in the valley. The French Tirailleurs were making no progress against them at all. The Greenjackets were holding the range at 150 yards, a very difficult range for a French musket, but perfect for a Baker rifle. They were working in threes, one man always loaded, whilst the other two were either beginning a reload or completing one. Any Frenchman who was seen taking aim at the three was shot, and any that attempted to close the range was similarly dealt with. It was only when the front of the column closed up to the stalled Tirailleurs that the Riflemen withdrew, to open the range back to 150. In fact, now, with the column advanced yet closer, the horse artillery had come within rifle range and both men and horses were being brought down to wholly hamper the progress of the supporting field guns. Carr saw three, so mauled by the fire from the Bakers that they were forced to stop and those remaining were now suffering severely. However, the main threat, the column, independently and of its own momentum, came on. He judged the time right to now return to his men.

  Carravoy and D’Villiers had eyes only for the column and details emerged to be seen as the distance lessened, the Regimental Eagle above a crossbar with horsehair tails suspended from the ends. And as the distance lessened, so grew the sounds of the drums, for inside the column were drummers, beating the rhythm of the advance, driving the column on. Ameshurst arrived beside them, took one look and gave his judgment, not on the sight before them, rather on what to do next.

  “Right. I think it’s time for a word with my lads.”

  With that he left, leaving the two either exchanging glances between them that questioned their long term futures, or staring down the slope in mesmerised examination of the column. Ellis Broughton’s six guns opening fire to their right jolted them back to reality and they left the ridge to stand before their men, not waiting to see the result of the shrapnel, that now forgotten. The explosion of the six guns gave Deakin warning that soon they would be in action, time for The Colours.

  “Best unfurl now, Sirs. ‘Twon’t be long now.”

  Both Rushby and Neape obediently shook out the folds, but retained the poles resting on the ground, giving cause for Deakin to say more.

  “Best to get them up high, now, Sirs. Give the lads a sight, as it were, let’s ‘em know what they’m part of, so to speak. Gives a lift to the spirits when they sees the Old Bits of Rag go up.”

  Both Ensigns looked at Deakin, more to comprehend his attempt at stirring words, but then both poles were raised to sit in their holders and the cloth of each gently blew out, just enough to catch the eye of the Companies closest, and Deakin was right. Jaws tightened and hands took a better grip on the warm wood of their muskets. A bugle blew, which Deakin recognised as “recall”. Recall for whom was quickly revealed as the Riflemen came back over the ridge to form up on the ends of the 105th. Lacey and O’Hare were the only Officers remaining in view atop the ridge and Fane joined them, his horse restless from the cannon fire.

  “They’re all yours, now, Lacey. You’ve got my Rifles on your flanks, but ‘tis you as is needed to stop them. This’ll need good timing, so wait for my word.”

  He studied the column himself for a moment.

  “Seems our guns are doin’ them a bit of no good, that at least.”

  The three saw shrapnel shells exploding before and above the oncoming column, causing a trail of white clad fallen bodies to mark its passage, but the oncoming march, through the smoke of the shrapnel, only added to the drama and the impression of an inexorable advance. The column had begun to shout, loudly, loud enough to be heard between the cannonfire. Lacey and O’Hare listened, long enough to make out the words, before they would have to descend the slope to their men, who could now hear well enough themselves.

  “Vive l’Empereur! Vive l’Empereur! Vive l’Empereur.”

  The drums, if anything grew louder.

  “How many would you estimate, Sir.”

  Fane took another look.

  “Fifteen hundred would be ma guess, Lacey.”

  Fane looked again.

  “Two minutes, Lacey, and I’ll be sendin' ya down.”

  Lacey nodded and returned to his men to stand and face the Colour Party. Formed in their long, two deep line, barely ha
lf his men could hear, the guns to their right were firing for all they were worth, but he said it anyway.

  “Men! There’s a French column coming our way. They think that they are going to go through us, like we were no more than a bunch of pitchfork peasants. They’re shouting and beating drums like they expect that’s all that’s needed; to make us cut and run.”

  He paused to take a deep breath, then to continue. All that could hear were listening, all that could not hear were watching their Colonel, with sword drawn, stood before his men.

  “I know that’s not true and you know that’s not true. I think we should teach these cheeky beggars, now coming up, that we don’t run at the beat of a few drums and a bit of bawling; that we are the One Oh Five and we’ve seen off the likes of them way before now!”

  There were cheers in response, which began in the centre than ran down the line. Even though many did not hear, a good shout and cheer eased their nerves, but plenty who were near and had heard, shouted agreement.

  “Right with you, Sir.”

  “Take us on then, Sir.”

  Lacey responded.

  “Load!”

  The whole battalion rapidly, but carefully, went through the process of loading, carefully, to ensure no misfires in the first volley. Within 20 seconds, the whole line was stood with muskets against their right shoulders.”

  “Lock on!”

  Lacey saw the faces of the second rank appear between those of the first, as the rear shifted slightly to the right, all as set and grim as his own. He looked around to Fane, still on the ridge, who nodded, then Lacey turned to stand with his back to his men and took another deep breath.

  “The One Hundred and Fifth will advance.”

  As the first foot was lifted and fell to earth, all along the line friends and comrades wished each other well and good luck, bar Captain Heaviside, who spoke to all.

  “I am as strong this day as I was in the day that Moses sent me. Joshua, 14, verse 11.”

  Within the ranks canteens were let fall after a last drink to wet mouths suddenly very dry. A deep breath was sucked in to steady a beating pulse and palms now sticky with sweat took a better grip on the polished wood of their weapon. The 105th, holding their line, took the few steps up to the top of the ridge to take their first sight of the oncoming column. French Officers could be seen cavorting at the front, waving their swords, in confidence supreme, because, until now, they had seen nothing of any concern that stood in their path. To them it appeared as though they had but to march on, through and over.

  Neape nearly collapsed, suddenly his knees would not work and he sagged back against Sergeant Hill, close behind him. He could not stop himself from mumbling.

  “They’re coming straight for us, here, in the centre.”

  Hill placed his left hand between Neape’s shoulder blades and straightened him.

  “That’s their trick, Sir, to make us lads in the centre turn and run.”

  Hill paused, thinking of more comforting words,

  “Just take a look down the line, Sir, both ways. Steady as a wall! Us and the lads off to the flanks will see this lot away. Johnny don’t know what he’s in for.”

  Nervously, Neape obeyed, to look both ways and see the line extending away, long and unbroken, and already the furthest companies were edging forward to close with the flanks of the oncoming column, but Hill had more to say.

  “Just keep The Colours up high and steady, Sir. There’s nothin’ those Crapauds wants to see more than The Colours waverin’. The steadier you are, the more worried they gets to be! So don’t ‘ee let ‘em see it, Sir. Not even think it.”

  Neape slid his right hand higher up the pole.

  The Officers of the 105th, Carr and Heaviside in particular, looked first at their French equivalents, advancing opposite, and immediately saw a marked change. Their antics immediately ceased, plainly brought about by the sudden appearance over the ridge of the long line of red coated British, muskets at “shoulder arms”, as though they were about to parade down some high street. The line was extended by the green uniformed Riflemen, a line that reached beyond their column by a hundred yards each way. All in the line was parade steady, and when it had halted just over the ridge summit, waiting, unmoved, and unintimidated, something more than apprehension arose in every Frenchman who could see what lay ahead. At that point, at a range now down to little more than 70 yards, the British field guns exploded with one murderous volley, using what most veterans identified as grapeshot, the way the heavy balls passed through the whole column. This brought it shuddering to a halt. Lacey recognised the moment and came back to stand just before The Colours.

  “Make ready!”

  Every musket was raised high in the air, the movement spreading outward like a wave.

  “Front rank. Present!”

  The muskets behind him came to the horizontal, to be quickly joined by those further along the line.

  “Fire!”

  The front ranks of the two Companies either side of him fired in unison, to be quickly taken up, in their turn, by the front ranks of the Companies further out along the line. In under ten seconds the whole of the front rank had sent their bullets into the dissolving column. Heaviside, Captain of Number Three in the centre, looked along his Company. The front rank was furiously reloading, the rear rank remaining at the “make ready”. He peered through the thinning smoke and discerned for himself the vague line of black shakoes that marked the front of the column. He shouted above the din, drawing out the words and syllables.

  “Rear rank. Present”

  The muskets of the rear rank came down.

  “Fire!”

  Again the appalling noise and all was again obscured by smoke, but the noise now became incessant, from the half Company volleys running down the firing line, out from the centre.

  The French column had marched up to confront the Colour Company, leaving the Light Company and the Grenadiers looking far over towards the centre to see any kind of target. On the left, Carr, unhappy with his ineffective position, approached the Captain commanding the Riflemen next to him, these even further from the French, more even than his own men. The exchange was absurdly formal, but requirements dictated that it be so.

  “Carr. Hundred and Fifth.”

  “Runiack. Ninety Fifth Rifles. How do you do?”

  “I feel that we should wheel in and close with the side of that column. I’m taking my men forward, will you support?”

  Runiack grinned and nodded.

  “Happy to oblige!”

  However, on the far right, with their Grenadiers, Carravoy and D’Villiers stood in a quandary regarding what they should do. His men were firing obliquely at the column and at long range. To swing across to confront their side of the column would mean breaking the link with the field guns, leaving a hole on their right, a potentially dangerous development, but there were no French in view to exploit it, as yet. He stood in a state of uncertainty, looking at D’Villiers but gaining nothing, for he was transfixed in a state of near shock from the noise and carnage around and before him. Finally, the decision was taken for him. The Riflemen on his side were using their own initiative and running across to close the range, accompanied and without higher orders, by Ameshurst’s Company, them closing up at the trot into two perfect ranks. Ameshurst was out in front and leading his men on. D’Villier’s men also began running behind to catch up, led by their Sergeants. The two Company Officers, Carravoy and D’Villiers had little choice but to add themselves on to the rear of the advance and hope, from there, to exert some influence.

  The British line, with the 105th in the centre, was now curling around the head of the French column. The Riflemen, still skirmishing down the slope, ensured that not one of the French guns supporting the column fired a single shot, then, with all the gunners dead or in retreat, the Riflemen, too, turned their firepower onto the column. For the British within the firing line, it was a place from inside the Gates of Hell; one of incessant no
ise, explosions inches from their faces from muzzles and flint locks, whilst all the while they hastily reloaded, biting open cartridges that filled their mouths with gunpowder. From the cartridge they had to carefully tip some powder into firing pans, close the pan, then the remainder into the half-inch muzzles of their weapons. Finally, to ram down the paper of the cartridge which included the ball, whilst ignoring, but registering, the grunt and scream of a comrade hit by a French musket ball. When reloaded they raised their musket to the vertical “make ready”, the signal to their Officer that they were waiting to add their weight to yet another volley. This madness persisted for mere minutes, but it seemed endless, the cacophony of noise, screaming and the automatic motions of loading, awaiting the order, firing, then re-loading again.

  Fane, still mounted, could see more than most and knew the moment had come, but such was the noise that he could shout but one word.