“Lacey!”
Lacey knew what he meant.
“Cease fire!”
A pause.
“Fix bayonets!”
The firing ceased from the centre as the order was relayed out to the flanks by the Company Officers. The smoke cleared to reveal the scene before them, but this time it was that of a charnel house. The front rank of the column was now several yards further back, not because the French had retreated, but because the front ranks of the column had all been downed by the continuous, half company volleys. There were so few ranks now remaining at the front that the Drummerboys in the centre and the Farriers guarding the Eagle could now be viewed through the one or two ranks still standing, all now shocked and badly shaken. Between them, the ground was covered with dead, dying, and writhing wounded, the whole made more sanguine by the contrast between the white uniforms and the blood of the many wounds.
Lacey waited but three seconds.
“Level bayonets.”
All came down to the horizontal, a menacing and ominous line of bright steel. Lacey took himself five paces forward to stand beyond The Colours, but Redcoats were still falling; the French column was not entirely beaten, some were firing still. Lacey drew his sword and held it up high.
“The 105th will advance.”
He set the pace, slow, purposeful and determined. His men followed, stepping over their own casualties to close the short space between them and the remains of the column, soon reaching the French casualties caused by their musketry. The long, majestic overlapping line, the leveled bayonets, the stern advance, was too much for the badly mauled French. They broke and ran, long before any bayonets were used, but then Lacey held up his sword, forbidding his men to follow. However, not the Riflemen, they, all trained for individual action, ran forward with their Officers, first, to continue picking off individual Frenchmen and, second and most important, to capture the six guns. With the guns quickly secured, their own pursuit ended, then the Riflemen made use of any horses remaining and triumphantly pulled the guns back and through the British line, pulling on the harness themselves to speed their progress.
Tom Miles was less than pleased at the order that came next. It took him away, from what was for him, the main point of the whole affair.
“About face! Retire!”
The whole line, turned around and marched back over the ridge top, leaving the camp followers, who had come up behind them, to tend the wounded and help those who could be moved back to the Surgeons.
“No bloody chance of a bit of plunder. Not stuck back yer again!”
Ellis had overheard.
“Looks like your pack and boots will have to wait a while longer, Miles.”
Miles was incensed enough to ignore the difference in their ranks.
“An’ don’t tell me you won’t be aimin’ for a bit of French kit. Nor a drop of brandy, neither.
Ellis for once took no umbrage, he was, as were the others, elated at the ease of their victory; a full French column defeated and dispatched in no more than five minutes. Relief and exhilaration ran through the thoughts of all. So also for Lacey and O’Hare, stood atop the ridge amongst their own dead and wounded, but very satisfied to see that the other column that had also assaulted the ridge further over to their right, had been similarly dealt with and was now but a rabble, streaming back to the French side of the valley. They were enjoying the view when no less than General Wellesley himself rode up, accompanied this time by merely three Staff only. Lacey and O’Hare sprang to the attention, but Wellesley was as jubilant as themselves.
“Lacey! O’Hare! Damn fine job! Damn fine! They couldn’t stick it, not here against you, nor over in front of Anstruther. Your one battalion saw off two of theirs! Damn fine work! My word, yes, deuced fine work!”
He paused but to draw breath, as elated as anyone.
“That’s the answer, you see. Us to hold back on a reverse slope, then come at them, at just the right moment. It makes for a very nasty surprise, you see. For them, but not for us!”
He looked across the valley at the disappearing masses.
“Ha!”
Then his eyes were drawn to the movement of Fane joining them, mounted with more Staff than Wellesley.
“Fane! Well done! Well done indeed. Now. Hold your men in place and ready.”
He looked again across the valley.
“M’sieu isn’t done yet. He has plenty left in him, back over there, and he’ll try again, be certain.”
He wheeled his horse away, this action corresponding with his last words.
“Hold here. This isn’t yet done.”
Back amongst the 105th the men were drinking water and receiving fresh cartridges, at the same time making gaps in their ranks to allow the dead and wounded to be dragged back off the ridge to clear the way for any required advance. Anyone not needed in the firing line was now attending to this task, orderlies and transport waggoners having joined the camp followers, including Bridie, Mary and Nelly Nicholls, but Mary went straight over to the Light Company, where she could check on Joe. Much to the amusement of his fellow Lights, she clamped him tight around the neck for almost a minute, before moving on to help with the wounded, some now mercifully unconscious, others too much awake, screaming at the pain from their wounds. However, few of those remaining in the firing line, paid much attention, even to those screaming from hideous wounds. They were too busy cleaning muskets and checking flints.
Out before the Colour Company, Chaplain’s Assistant Sedgwicke was stood with Prudoe, both saying the Last Rites over those allowed to die before being dragged back over the ridge. Still remaining in their ranks, Halfway and Deakin greeted Sedgwicke like a long lost comrade, a familiarity that still oddly rankled with the ex-Cleric, but even more so with the more elevated Battalion Chaplain Prudoe.
“Look Toby, ‘tis Parson. Hello old Parson!”
Deakin had noticed something missing with Sedgwicke, who, never being that efficient a soldier, had forgotten his canteen, but Deakin was ready to put that right.
“Parson, thee’ce need a drop of water? Here, take a swallow.”
Sedgwicke suddenly realized that he did have a severe thirst, but refused.
“I thank you, but you’ll need it. I’ll take a drink from the canteen of one of the dead. I’m sure there will be no objection. But I do thank you again.”
Deakin nodded and smiled. All in the ranks had some level of affection for the hopeless soldier Sedgwicke, but they respected his learning and his attention to his duties, this now being fully occupied to comfort the dying and wounded. As Sedgwicke went back up to the ridge, Deakin looked at his Ensigns, both as elated as schoolboys and still stood holding The Colours aloft and erect, hands just beneath the cloth. Deakin smiled at their trancelike happiness and attended to cleaning his own musket. Then the order came to sit and rest.
Accompanied by Brigadier Fane, Lacey and O’Hare stood on the ridgetop, it now cleared of casualties, and all three were watching the French position beyond. The sounds of battle had now died away completely, to be replaced by the groans of the wounded and dying from the French column, whom no-one attended to, neither did they pay any attention to the odd French soldier who managed to rise and begin his painful journey, to hobble or stagger back to his own side. All three were waiting for Wellesley’s prediction to come true and between them little was said, in fact, Fane’s eventual observation was amongst the first words spoken, after some fifteen minutes.
“Here it comes.”
He used the singular, when, in fact, there were two, but the column far on the left was already disappearing down the slope to its right, to another part of the battlefield, this being the valley much beyond the 105th’s left which contained the main road into Vimeiro. This was, in addition, much beyond and below the track that could be seen at the head of their own valley spread in front of them. The three telescopes came up as one to examine their new opponents, but it was Fane who pronounced judgment.
&n
bsp; “Grenadiers!”
Lacey and O’Hare lowered their instruments to look at him, waiting for more, but when none came they raised their telescopes again. The uniforms were certainly different from those of the first columns; it was now genuine French blue, with red epaulettes, and large shakoes also much decorated with red. This uniform was evidently being worn by tall men, therefore Lacey and O’Hare had no cause to disagree with Fane’s pronouncement. Junot was sending forward his elite assault troops and the size of the two columns indicated that he was using all the Grenadiers he had. They were supported, some way back, by what seemed to the British to be probably the rallied wrecks of the two previous attacks, evidenced by their white uniforms.
Telescopes were not required to answer the next question which each asked, silently, of themselves. “Who would they be opposite?” The specifics were unknown, but it would not be the 105th. The Grenadier column was aiming for the centre of the British line on the ridge, a point somewhere beyond the battery of guns to their right. Lacey spoke aloud the thoughts of each.
“That’s murder, damn murder. He’s sending one column against a line that’s just beaten two! Even supported, they are out front and exposed. Murder!”
Fane nodded sagely.
“Aye, ye may be right, but dinne’ forget yon that’s just gone off to the left, down to the main road, I’d say. He’s holding us here with yon column, knowing it’ll get beat, but hoping t’other will get in behind. Keep it in your minds, ye may need to re-deploy!”
The three Officers looked at the oncoming column, a variety of emotions competing within them. The magnificent sight of the lone column, the best soldiers of the best army in Europe, coming on against hopeless odds. Sorrow, admiration and relief ran across the minds of all, relief that a victory, at least on their ground, was all but assured.
Even as they watched, the column was being mauled, not by any Riflemen, but by shrapnel. At least half of the explosions from the new device were exploding perfectly above and before the column. The British artillery, with none of their own skirmishers out front to hinder their field of fire was firing at the best rate they could manage. The French column continued advancing, leaving a trail of dead and wounded on the trodden grass behind. The one point in their favour was that they were bringing forward eight guns, four each side, these with progress unhindered, for there were no Riflemen out to oppose them.
Fane stood evidently pondering.
“This has to be done quick. If nae man has any thoughts to this I have. There’ll be doings to our left and behind, more serious than anythin’ we’ll be getting’ from these poor beggars.”
He spoke as though thinking out loud, then turned to Lacey.
“Get yours up and ready to move against their flank. I’ll send down my Rifles to deal wi’ the guns on this side. You close up to the column and see them awa’. It’ll no take long, then we’ll see what comes next. As I say, be mindful that ye may need to face left. Or even behind ye!”
With those final dire words, Fane mounted his horse and rode to the guns adjacent to the 105th, still assailing the column with bursts of shrapnel. Lacey looked at O’Hare and they walked back to their men, who stood up at the sight of both coming into view from over the ridge. Lacey sent a runner each side to gather his Captains and when they arrived he spoke differently to those from each wing.
“Right wing Companies, there is another French column approaching, alone, heading for the centre of the ridge, over to our right. Use your judgment, you may need to swing down against them, as our left wing will be, but I see you stood almost in their path and opposed to their right front.”
He looked at Carravoy.
“You’re leading our far right, I expect your Grenadiers to close right up to their front. Muzzle to muzzle! This needs doing quickly!”
He fixed Carravoy with a direct and unequivocal stare to add emphasis to what he had ordered.
“Now go! See to your men.”
As the five Captains of the right wing ran off, Lacey turned to his Captains of the left.
“As you heard, you swing down and round to come upon their flank. Make the whole column feel your fire. Their guns will be taken care of. Now go!”
To add emphasis to his words, Riflemen were already disappearing over the crest to tackle to French field guns on their side. Lacey then looked to his centre.
“Set The Colours.”
Without looking to ensure that his order was being carried out, Lacey turned his back, and drew his sword.
“Load”
He counted the twenty seconds.
“Shoulder arms”.
He felt as, much as heard, the heavy muskets moving to right shoulders, then walked forward, his movement giving the order for his men to follow, again a long line, two deep. As before, men took a last swallow, but not with the deep trepidation of the time previous; the ease with which the French had been dismissed had not been lost on them. Another such triumph was eagerly anticipated and perhaps, as lay uppermost in the thoughts of such as Tom Miles, this time some plunder. The line crested the ridge and advanced on, over the casualties of the first French column, some endeavouring to crawl away, expecting a bayonet as a “coup de grace”, but few, if any, of the 105th looked down at the desperate faces of the wounded, nor the blank faces of the dead. All looked to examine their next opponents.
Carravoy, on the right, was best placed to see a sight which greatly reassured him. The whole British line, as far as he could see, was advancing down, conforming with his own battalion. Despite all four of their supporting field guns having been brought to a halt by the Riflemen, the French Grenadiers were, with the utmost courage, still advancing up, but it was not long before they were also brought to a halt. The Battalion immediately against their front, now at a range below 100 yards, opened fire with a two rank volley; front then rear. The front ranks of the Grenadiers fell as if cut by a scythe, but the following ranks came on, their shouts undiminished, their drums defiant as ever. Whoever the British battalion was immediately in the French path, this battalion advanced further down the slope for another volley at murderous range, but the effect was lost in the smoke of the Grenadiers themselves returning fire, sparse as it may be.
Carravoy’s Grenadiers, acting as a pivot for the whole 105th to swing right, were the first to come into effective range. He held out his sword horizontal.
“Halt! Make ready.”
A pause. Carravoy was thoroughly controlling his men. He felt fully assured.
“Lock on.”
If any French Grenadier was able to look across at the new arrivals, the precision of the arms drill displayed would have done little to lift their spirits.
“Front rank. Present.”
The muskets came down.
“Fire!”
The muskets roared out, but Carravoy did not wait for the smoke to clear. The range was too low.
“Rear rank. Present.”
As one the muskets were levelled.
“Fire!”
Again the crash and the smoke thickened further. Carravoy, now very calm, a feeling born of confidence in the outcome, continued to work his men, front ranks and rear rank. To his left the other Companies formed on the end of his Company and added their weight of fire to that of his Grenadiers hitting the French column. Thus, it was not long before, through the smoke, they could see the large black and red shakoes falling back down the slope. They had stood up to the dreadful musket assault for less than three minute, and they had had enough. Down on the 105th left, Carr’s Light Company barely had time for one volley, before the French before them began to fall back, not quite in panic, but in no kind of controlled retreat. The French infantry in support, following on behind, had not even got up to effective range, before they fell back again at the sight of the elite Grenadier’s own failure before them and the appalling sound of the continuous volleys .
However, Carr did not order ceasefire. As long as there were French within musket shot, a fleeing
mob though they may be, he would order no ceasefire. The second volley had just been delivered when he heard a horse gallop up behind him and he turned to see his Brigade Commander, Brigadier Fane. Carr had no chance to salute before Fane was addressing him.
“Name?”
“Carr, Sir. Light Company.”
“Carr, get your men back and over to the road. Back there. Beyond yon track.”
He gestured with his thumb, back over his shoulder.
“Ye know where I mean?”
“Yes Sir. The main road in the valley.”
“Aye, the same. The other column has got into the village, but are being held at the Church. Get over with your Lights and get onto their flank. My Rifles are on their way. Quick aboot it now!”
Carr took one look behind him, which confirmed what Fane had said. The Riflemen, having dealt with the Grenadier’s field guns as effectively as previously, were scurrying up the slope to the head of the valley, the best runners already crossing the track there. He called for his “Commanders”.
“Drake, Shakeshaft, Ellis, Fearnley. Get the men turned around and following those Riflemen back there.”
A quick wave of his hand indicated the disappearing green uniforms. As the four ran off to their respective sections, Carr took charge of those nearest using the top of his voice, above the continuous musketry.
“About turn!”
When he saw their faces, he gave his final order, before running himself to obey those of Fane.
“Follow me! Load as you go.”
Miles was at first distraught, then incensed, when he heard the order from Ellis. In front of him was a pile of the most flamboyant soldiers in any army, Grenadiers, always to be relied on to have gold rings and earrings, besides the usual wine, brandy, and other useful provender. And Officers with much silver on their uniforms!
“What’s we got to do now? Ain’t we done enough, done our share?”
Ellis was in no mood to argue. He had fully understood the urgency in Carr’s voice and had seen the running Riflemen for himself.
Close to the Colours (105th Foot. The Prince of Wales Own Wessex Regimen Book 2) Page 14
