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

by Martin McDowell

  “Withdraw. Fall back!”

  Shots could be heard from the 95th, but too few to be effective, for the French were masked by the galloping 15th. The only option was to reach the bridge and get to safety. Drake saw all of his men away, then took to his heels himself.

  It was a run of several hundred yards and soon Carr’s men were mixed with the 95th and all soon overtaken by the 15th on their horses. There was an unreal period of time, after the 15th had passed them, a time filled with fear and terror, for them, the running infantry, all knowing that the next horses they heard would be carrying French cavalry. Some men had already been knocked to the floor by the 15th, but Ellis was on his feet, running with Saunders and Byford. Davey, Pike and Miles, were just ahead, with some Riflemen before and after. The bridge was 200 yards in front and, when Ellis looked behind, the French were less that, and mounted. On top, the French cavalry who were heading straight for the bridge had already overtaken them. Despite his laboured breath, he managed an order, to take them off on a wide tangent.

  “Go right. The river! Get to the river!”

  They ran on, then the horse came up beside him and, incongruously, he noticed that the cavalryman had filthy boots, then came what he knew was coming, the swish of the heavy sabre from above. Ellis held his rifle horizontal and took the blow just before the trigger guard, then he thrust the barrel between the rear legs of the horse. The horse staggered but did not fall, but Ellis had bought seconds, which brought him nearer to the river, but then he stopped. It was of no avail; himself, Byford and Saunders were cut off, themselves and three Riflemen, because before them had appeared at least half a dozen horsemen. Between the horses legs he saw Davey, Miles and Pike leap into the river, but himself and those with him were now lost. The nearest cavalryman pointed his sabre at the six, all now grouped together.

  “Se rendre, maintenant.”

  Ellis did not need a translation.

  “Drop your rifles. Lay them down.”

  The other five followed his example and their weapons now lay in the snow. The cavalryman must have been of some rank, for he pointed to three of his comrades and then he led the others off to the bridge, leaving the disarmed infantrymen guarded on three sides and awaiting their fate.

  At the bridge, Henry Carr was seething with anger, at an intensity unusual even for him. Men would be lost because of a mismanaged shambles; someone had miscalculated badly. Close to the bridge he screamed at his own men to form a firing line and soon a Rifles Officer copied his example and some Riflemen joined on, wherever they could. All immediately stood at the “make ready”. Carr saw French cavalry above the heads of the last of the retreating 95th and 105th, which was good enough for him.

  “Present!”

  The rifles came level.

  “Fire!”

  About 40 weapons barked out and Carr saw several French cavalry go down, before smoke obscured his view.

  “Back! Fall back!”

  The bridge was now but yards behind them and they had bought time for the last retreating British. He joined his men for the final sprint, expecting to be overtaken, but no horse came. Over the bridge he sank to his knees, supported by his sword, and looked around at the chaotic melee of his own men and the 95th, but he had no time for rest. A Major was yelling at the mass of fugitives.

  “Clear the road! Either side.”

  Some stood in confusion at the vague order.

  “Move, damn you. Move! Any side.”

  The urgency was justified. The French cavalry commander had come through the defile with two Regiments, one had scattered in its pursuing the British advanced guard, but the second was about to charge the bridge. They were already formed up, four abreast, 300 yards away from it. Deakin looked from his vantage point. He knew what was about to happen, but he spoke softly.

  “Damn all damnable Officers and their damn ache for glory.”

  The 105th were stood squarely upon the road, in a column two Companies wide, three men deep. The remaining Companies supported behind. Deakin heard the Battery Commander dispassionately begin his orders, from just yards in front, with three guns just each side of the road.

  “Stand by.”

  The French cantered up to 100 yards, to then spring into a gallop to force the bridge. Deakin could barely bring himself to look. As the first ranks closed together to meet the bridge, the cannon fired. The round shot ploughed through the whole column, their sickening passage being marked by the arms, legs and bodies of both men and horses being flung into the air. Whilst the guns rapidly reloaded, the following ranks of horsemen actually managed to cross the bridge, to be halted by the company volleys by ranks of Deakin’s own Regiment, supported by both battalions positioned along the banks. The brave cavalry could get no further and within half a minute the once proud Regiment of Horse was a bloody wreck, with men and wounded horses staggering away from the butchers block that was the road and the bridge, some horses pitifully trying to escape with but three legs. Another discharge from the guns wreaked yet more havoc but it mercifully ended the affair, this being signalled by the sound of a French recall.

  For Ellis, Saunders, Byford and the three Riflemen, nothing had changed. They still stood under guard, their weapons still at their feet. One of their escorts kept his eyes fixed upon them, but the other two were watching events at the bridge. However, Ellis was studying the riverbank and he saw what he hoped, a faint shade of red through the frost covered reeds. He spoke softly to his fellow prisoners.

  “Stay alert!”

  His nearest cavalryman, looked sharply at him, on hearing the words, and lowered his sabre to point at Ellis, but he raised his hands in surrender and shook his head. The cavalryman was not appeased and continued to stare at Ellis.

  Davey and Pike were hauling Miles up onto the bank, Davey keeping low, as his ex-poacher’s instinct told him, and pushing down Pike if he threatened to get too high. He peered through the reeds to assess the scene and then spoke softly to his two companions.

  “Get loaded.”

  A faint reply came back from Miles.

  “Already am.”

  However, Joe Pike was rapidly going through the motions. Davey ground his teeth with impatience, for the French withdrawal was beginning, but Pike soon joined them, gently pushing his weapon through the reeds. Davey gave his orders.

  “I’ll take the far one, Joe, the nearest, Tom, him as is left.”

  All three took careful aim, but Pike and Miles waited for Davey to fire. He did and they, also, carefully pulled the triggers. Davey’s cavalryman made off with but half a head, Pike’s toppled backwards, dead, on top of the prisoners, whilst Miles’ fell wounded from the saddle, to be dragged some yards by his horse, his foot caught in the stirrup. Wasting no time on any of them, Ellis picked up his rifle, which was quickly copied by the others and they began running, with no sound, to the river. The three there had reloaded as the escapees leapt over the reeds to descend immediately to the deepest part of the streambed. The telltale smoke had thankfully drifted away. There were other targets but Davey thought it foolish to reveal where they were, cavalry were all around, so instead they silently viewed events as best they could through their cover. Ellis joined him.

  “Can we get back to the lads?”

  “That I doubt. Take a look.”

  They were on a bend of the river, which gave them some view of the bridge on the French side and it was a scene of heavy skirmishing. French Dragoons had come up and were disputing the issue across the river using their short carbines, more were arriving and, what was worse, heading straight for them, presumably to try to cross the river. Ellis did look, but briefly, to see that Davey was right. He looked behind, hoping to leave the river on the British side and circle back left, but, as chance would have it, behind was a steep river cliff; to climb it would take too long and the Dragoons would have them like flies on a wall. He took but one look.

  “We’re off, up stream.”

  Crouching low, the nine splashed
off through the freezing water, heading away from the fighting.

  Back between the guns, the 105th were placed too far back to become involved in the skirmishing between the Dragoons and the British, but it was plain that the French were making no headway against the 52nd and the 95th holding the British bank. Suddenly, there came the sound of loud cheering from the Rifles as one man ran back to their ranks, having taken himself right up to the river bank, but Deakin paid it no more attention. He stood watching the skirmishing between the two sides, eventually being required to stand as observer for over an hour, but then came more developments. General Moore himself arrived to sit his horse behind the guns to the right and view for himself what the French were about to attempt. They were massing for an infantry attack across the bridge and over the bloody remains of their own cavalry, some still struggling in agony. Deakin groaned and cursed again. He looked at his two Ensigns, who looked as horrified as he felt and it was not long before they heard the same sounds that they had heard at Vimeiro, the rhythmic drums and the fervent shouts of “Vive l’Empereur!” Again the Battery Commander calmly gave his orders.

  “Load grape. Double! Stand by with case!”

  Deakin watched the artillerymen run back to their caissons to obey and then return with the canvas bags of heavy grape shot and the steel cylinders of case shot. Each gun received a double charge of grape shot, these being heavy balls, each over an inch diameter, then all stood ready, this signalled by the arms of the six Gun Captains raised in the air. By this time the French column was at the throat of the bridge, but the 52nd and the 95th were waiting for the cannon to fire. When it did come, it came as a single blast, to rip the column apart at the first discharge, then they added their fire. The column maintained the attack for barely seconds before breaking and running from the hopeless task. Bickering continued across the river when Voltiguers came up, but the fighting died with the daylight and Moore ordered a withdrawal. When they formed up, prior to marching away, the Light Company of the 105th called their Roll, Sergeant Fearnley in the place of Ellis. Carr counted the names not answered, 11 in all, and took himself elsewhere, deeply angry once more.

  As they marched away the news passed through the ranks of the whole Reserve Division, the Rifleman that they had seen running back had shot a French General, the one in command, or so many hoped. The Rifleman’s name was Tom Plunkett and he was now the toast of the Division. Deakin sniffed and clenched his jaw, picturing in his mind what that same French General had ordered his men to do. He thought again to himself, a very consoling thought, “No bastard Officer ever more deserved a hole through his head, and that’s a fact!”

  ***

  Meanwhile, as the Reserve Division was leaving Cacabelos in the growing dusk, Chaplain Prudoe was leading the followers into the outskirts of Villafranca and there was a deep apprehension growing within him, from two sources. Firstly, the troubling expectation of continued life within the donkey he was riding, the wheezing that was emitting from the frozen muzzle of the beast made him fearful that each breath would be the last, but secondly and mostly, what he could see and hear from Villafranca. As at Bembribre, it sounded and looked as though the town were in the centre of a battlefield; it was on fire and the sounds of shouting and shots were all too clear above the crackling of the flames. Instinctively, his fear caused his hands to tug the reins and the donkey immediately stopped. Beside him was Sedgwicke and, just behind, were his wife, Bridie, Nelly and Mary, she still on their mule. Prudoe felt obliged to exercise his position of leadership.

  “Private! We cannot take the women and children into there.”

  However, his powers of command were immediately exhausted. Sedgwicke waited for more but none came; instead Prudoe was alternating worried looks both down at Sedgwicke then at the burning skyline of Villafranque. Finally, something occurred to him.

  “Private. Whatever is happening in there, you can blend in, mingle, as it were. Take yourself forward and take a look to, ….er.”

  He trawled his mind for the correct military terms.

  “…… assess the possibilities.”

  Sedgwicke looked at him aghast at what he was being asked to do, but an order was an order. He saluted, re-set his packpack and marched forward, with some deep apprehension of his own. The first humans he encountered were a group of citizens fleeing into the fields, some with wounds on their heads and arms. The next was a staggering soldier, with a mess kettle full of rum, who invited him to take a drink. When Sedgwicke politely declined, the soldier took a swing at him, but missed, mostly from poor aim and partly because Sedgwicke had time to dodge the course of the obvious “haymaker”. The soldier then overbalanced, both himself and the rum then spreading across the frozen snow.

  Soon he could feel the heat from the burning buildings, but the amount of conflagration was not as bad as he first feared. What did fill him with horror were the sights on the main square and road. Most obvious were what had been, columns of infantry, now almost in chaos, with men running from the ranks into buildings, being chased by Officers with drawn swords and actually striking at them. Next were the scores of drunken soldiers, staggering down the road or lying in total stupor, yet still managing to drink from their canteens and other forms of receptacle. Amongst them were some dead civilians. A minor detail was a soldier, slumped forward, held by his bonds around a post, obviously lately shot. Sedgwicke stood for a full minute, for such a length of time was required for his eyes to convince his mind that he was not looking upon some illusion, nor was he asleep and gripped by some nightmare. He was looking at a riot, a near mutiny, but somehow Sedgwicke brought himself back to reality. The fugitives from the ranks were running into and out of three particular buildings, there were fires made of barrels in the road, incongruously supervised and guarded by the Provosts, and the great majority of the town was still standing, not ablaze, but certainly wrecked and ransacked. He turned and retraced his steps, more rapidly than he had entered, noting that the first drunk had disappeared.

  He immediately reported to Prudoe, who spoke first, his face plainly showing the fear he deeply felt.

  “Is it safe?”

  Before Sedgwicke could answer Nelly Nicholls piped up from just behind Prudoe.

  “Ah now, Parson, darlin’. Are you thinkin’ that we can all go in, and get behind some walls, and under a roof, even, perhaps?”

  Sedgwicke was in a quandary as to who to answer first, a woman or his Officer, but he found an answer to fit both.

  “I think it is safe to go in, yes, but only some way. At the centre is taking place, what I can only describe as a mutiny, but it seems confined to there.”

  He took a breath to look at both faces.

  “I think it may be possible to gain some provisions. I think I identified some buildings that may be acting as stores for such.”

  Prudoe was disappointed. He was hoping for information that would enable him to order “no further”, but Sedgwicke gave him no choice regarding advancing, but he did have a choice regarding who would be first.

  “Sedgwicke. Lead us on, as far in as you think prudent.”

  The good Sedgwicke saluted, then walked on, the whole column of followers tailing behind. In his head he made calculations of how many houses would be needed to shelter them all and he used that to determine when they should halt, rather than the maximum safe penetration of the town. Now satisfied, he turned to Prudoe.

  “I think here, Sir.”

  Prudoe dismounted, saying nothing, but the followers needed no orders, they immediately dispersed into the houses on either side. Soon there were shouts and insults as drunks were hauled to the doors by groups of women and ejected into the road. Bridie and Nelly Nicholls, having completed their required casting out, soon had all in order in the room of a decent house, a room with a fireplace. Mary’s mule was brought inside and given a straw mattress to chew on. Nelly took herself over to Bridie.

  “Did Parson not say, that there could be provisions further on in?”
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  Bridie nodded, but Nelly continued.

  “Sure, but we have to try.”

  Bridie nodded again, then spoke.

  “It could be dangerous.”

  She paused.

  “Not could be. Surely is!”

  Nelly nodded.

  “Right, but I’ve an idea.”

  She turned to their children.

  “Youse! Set up the rest. Me and Auntie Bridie are out to see what we can find.”

  Soon they were advancing into the town. Both were wearing red jackets pulled from drunken soldiers to make them less conspicuous, two haversacks around the shoulders of each and a stout chair leg held besides their skirts. Instinct told them to keep to the sides of buildings and soon they were at the scene that had so disturbed Sedgwicke. With stern gaze and wholly unshaken, Nelly Nicholls assessed what she could see. Nearest was a fire, tended and guarded by Provosts. They were bringing out barrels to feed it, whilst beyond, there still pertained a scene of riot and mayhem. Nelly waved Bridie to follow and they approached the Provosts, who, noticing first the red jackets, levelled their muskets at them, then their faces turned to puzzlement as they noticed that all else was female. Nelly spoke first.

  “Good day to you, Sirs. We’ve just got in and we’re from the Hundred and Fifth. We was wonderin’ if there was any chance of a bit of provender from anywhere around this place. We’ve children and such to feed and was hopin’ for something to help us keep our bodies and Souls together, God willing of course.”

  The nearest Provost was typical of the type, surly and scowling, dislike and suspicion of all others not such as himself always his first reaction.

  “Moore’s orders are that all stores are to be destroyed! All of it. Nothin’ to be left for the French.”

  However, their Sergeant was of a more sympathetic nature and had some admiration for two women who had ventured into such mayhem. He spoke with a London accent.

  “Hold up! Hold up! I don’t see the harm. There’s good grub in them barrels what’s burnin’ off to waste. Ordered to be burnt an’ not given out, like.”