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

by Martin McDowell

  However, despite the lack of martial order over the ridge, the army was guarded against a surprise French attack. Far down the hill pickets had been posted, far in advance of Elvina, such that both French and British had been in easy sight of each other, but a truce had been established and held throughout the night, even to the point, in some cases, of an exchange of spirits and tobacco. Captain Charles Carravoy was at that moment in Elvina, watching Ameshurst return from visiting his Grenadier pickets far down the slope.

  “Anything?”

  Ameshurst shook his head.

  “Nothing! And theirs have gone back up the hill.”

  Carravoy’s mouth set in a grim line. Maintaining pickets had caused a very disturbed night for all in his Company and the thought of breakfast did nothing to cheer his sullen mood

  “Right. It’s dawn. Bring them back to here.”

  ‘Here’ were the outskirts of lower Elvina, that side presented to the French, and through the night his men had made use of the empty houses and newly built walls to gain what sleep they could. As Ameshurst climbed a barricade, Carravoy asked his final question.

  “Any sounds?”

  Ameshurst shook his head.

  “None. They’re all assembled would be my guess, that being an educated one, I would hope.”

  “Right. Leave Ridgway in charge and get some food.”

  With that, he left Ameshurst and began his climb back to the summit of the ridge, but Ameshurst did not follow. Instead he checked first that his men had lit their own messfires and he himself led a party of his Grenadiers back up to their lines, to ensure that all received their rations, even ordering extra, when it was plain that there would be a large surplus left over. Only then did he return to the messfire now being used for cooking by his own servant and, once sat at his ease, he was one of the few that noticed Moore riding forward with his staff to view the French in the now full daylight. Whilst drinking his coffee and eating his bread and bacon he watched his Commanding Officer study the French and then ride over to the left. Ameshurst then poured himself some more coffee; he was determined on a good breakfast. That done, he personally checked his brace of pistols then strolled over to the lines of the 15th Hussars to persuade the armourer to put an edge on his sabre.

  Within half an hour, drums were beating and all Regiments were assembling in their battle positions, the 105th again directly above Elvin and again with the 4th on their right and the 42nd to their left. With this, Carr led his men further down to again garrison the village, thus relieving Carravoy’s Grenadiers, who now ascended the ridge to take their place on the far right of the 105th’s line. Prior to their departure down to the village, the three Light Company Officers had gravely shook hands with Lacey and O’Hare, all done with expressions of ‘Good luck’ ringing out all around.

  With all in place there was nothing to do but wait, but Carr, choosing to be the last one walking down, made a final check of the farmhouse that was to be their final refuge in Elvina. He was content; the door facing back to the British was utterly blocked by a pile of stone and the porch at the front was well defended by the ground floor windows being now reduced to firing slits. A heavy table and a heavier chest could reinforce the door when needed and both were ready to hand, with the required firing slits through the wood of both doors. The porch would be a ‘killing zone’ for anyone attempting its door. Satisfied he descended to the lowest extremity of the village, down to the wall built by Davey and his helpers, and there he rested his arms on the top and studied events across the valley. He had a good view of the French lines, he was at the same height as they and, it being January, there were no leaves on any of the trees to impair his view, all seeming to stand trapped, helpless, and sorrowful, waiting for the cannon fire that would blow them apart. Most of the opposite slope was covered in blue uniforms, but there was little movement, bar the odd horseman galloping across in both directions. It was now well into the morning and he knew that if the French were going to attack and use all the day, then by now they should be advancing up the slope. He turned to his men behind; they did not include Drake but they did include Byford.

  “What’s the French for breakfast?”

  “Petit déjeuner, Sir.”

  Carr returned to his studying of the French lines.

  “Hmmm, not so petit it would seem. M’sieu is having a good feed. Perhaps he feels this affair can be settled easily in the remains of the day, post “un grand petit déjeuner”. Well ……”

  He turned to his men.

  “……. we’ll see.

  His judgment proved correct. All through the morning Moore’s army stood out on the bare hillside. The wind blew but at least there was no rain and many who could see them turned to look longingly at their evacuation transports now filling the harbour. The six Officers of the Light Companies of the 4th and the 105th naturally gravitated together, this after numerous inspections of their various preparations and of their men manning them. By mid-morning Moore’s men had been standing their positions for over three hours and so he allowed a hot drink and biscuits to be ferried forward by whomever could be spared. O’Hare took himself over to the right, beyond even the formed up 4th, to look into the valley of the Monelos and there he saw Paget’s rearguard “Reserve Division” actually filing back into the city. He pointed this out to the Junior Major of the 4th, still in his place for battle.

  “Has he decided to evacuate? Paget’s filing back.”

  The reply was a long shake of the Major’s head and a long shrug of his shoulders. He was as bemused as anyone at the failure of the French to attack and what Moore should now do.

  O’Hare returned in time to see the distribution of the rum ration, which brought cheer to everyone and the clanking of the rum orderly eventually lumbering down their own alleyway did much to brighten up the state of Davey, Miles, Pike, Saunders, Bailey and Byford. As the Orderly doled out the fearsome spirit, thumb noticeably well out of the measuring cup, he and Miles shared their usual litany.

  “Good luck to you and the lads then Tom. Come the finish, eh?”

  “Come the finish, mate. God look over us all!”

  The Officers of the Elvina garrison were all leaning against a front wall, enjoying a more prolonged period of weak sunshine. Little was said beyond the usual “off topic” subjects of tailors, boot makers, types of saddle, sword makers, gun makers and breeds of horse, but even these stock topics did not exercise their minds for too long as they all studied the French lines opposite. Carr said little, but spent most of the time with his telescope pressed to one eye or the other, changing, for the eyepiece made each eye hot and uncomfortable from perpetual use. He had been incessantly studying the happenings at the French battery opposite and it was his first words, which opened the battle.

  “Here we go!”

  He had seen the French gunners apply the lintstocks to the vents of their guns and a second later they heard the harsh drone of the balls overhead, then the reports of the guns. He looked at his watch.

  “Fifteen minutes past Noon. They’ve decided to skip lunch!”

  ***

  Up at the main line, Ensign Rushby was on his third sketch, having handed the King’s Colour to Deakin, when the cannonballs arrived, taking out a file from somewhere over on the right. There was a brief scream and then silence. They had heard other balls passing overhead and what happened with them was unknown but the 105th had suffered their first casualties. Without a word Deakin pulled the leather case off The Colour.

  Lacey had felt horribly exposed on the slope all morning and now he felt doubly so. He turned and shouted, urgently.

  “Lie down! Lie down!”

  The men behind him, the Second Company, immediately obeyed and this spread all along the line. Rushby and Neape, responsible for The Colours and knowing that they should never touch the ground, draped them over themselves and their Colour Sergeants and so, that done, whilst prone on the cold wet earth, Rushby gave himself the chance to re-gather his sketch
es and stuff them and his pencil inside his tunic. Then another volley from the French guns hissed over, seemingly but inches above. The six Officers in Elvina had immediately run to their stations, Carr and Drake to Davey’s wall, where Carr calculated the height of the balls passing above, or at least made a judgement of such from their sound. He again pressed his telescope to his eye.

  “M’sieu’s got this wrong. He should be softening us up down here, not the lines above, and that’s going to take some time, a lot more than he’s giving himself. Look, he’s sending his infantry against us, but his cannonade above.”

  He passed the glass to Drake, who quickly refocused to see what he estimated to be at least 600 Light troops, probably both Voltiguers and Tirailleurs in the bottom of the valley, with two dense columns descending the French slope behind. He handed back the glass.

  “That’s a lot, softening up or not!”

  Carr nodded. He knew that two Light Companies, his and that of the 4th, amounted to not much more than 140 men. Heavy odds against.

  “Right. Get around your men, you and Richard. Set sights for 200 yards. Officers first. I’ll try for a better look from somewhere.”

  As Carr ran back up the alley, Drake turned to the six behind him.

  “You heard that?”

  Several “Sirs” came back as an answer.

  “The wall’s all yours.”

  The six came forward as Drake disappeared into the house next to them. Within a minute rifle barrels were appearing through the slits of what remained of its windows. Davey stood beside Miles and neither much liked the way the French were extending their line off to both sides, to try to enter the village from the sides and outflank the defenders at the front, but their job was what was before them and soon it began. Carr had ordered white marker posts to be hammered into the ground at 50 yard intervals coming back from 200 yards and, as the first were engulfed by the oncoming French skirmishers, all along their front the rifles barked their defiance, causing French Officers and men to spin or slump to the ground. As the range reduced, the French casualties became even more severe from their accurate fire, such that the remaining Officers halted their men and bade them return fire from a kneeling position. Musket balls began to smack against the stonework and there was a yelp from inside the house to their left, but at 100 yards, the rifles were exacting an even heavier toll, even on their kneeling assailants.

  Carr’s mind was elsewhere, that being what was happening before the Lights of the 4th, over to his right. Here, faced with only inaccurate musket fire, the assaulting French were making better progress, progress that he did not like, for it was, after all, over 300 against 70 odd. Looking over from a vantage point not too exposed, he saw that the French were but 50 yards from the 4th’s position and massing for an assault, which was all too likely to succeed and then cut off him and his men. It was too soon for heroic ‘last stands’. He turned to see the Bugler he had been given, the Regiment’s Private Bates.

  “Sound fall back.”

  As the notes sounded out, echoing around the narrow spaces, Carr took one last look to his own front. His opponents were stopped, all kneeling or even lying down to return fire. He left his position to run back and up through the village and there see Drake’s section piling into the farmhouse, whilst Shakeshaft’s continued on up to one of the stonewalls. Carr chose the farmhouse and was the last in, then he ran around each floor, checking that the table and chest now barricaded the door and that all else was in place. He took in the sight of his men, all stood ready at a firing position, then he found Ellis.

  “Casualties?”

  “Two Sir, but just wounded. They’m still in the fight.”

  Carr then took himself to an upper window and waited. Close by, Davey looked over at Pike.

  “You all right?”

  Pike nodded.

  “Yes John.”

  Davey gave him a stern look.

  “Through this and then home! Right?”

  “Yes John.”

  The replies were flat and vacant, then Davey saw him raise his rifle through the slit and look with evil intent as he sighted on the first French to appear. Davey let it go, they were, after all, in a battle.

  Lacey had seen his own Lights abandon the lower village and he now knew that he had only to wait for what would inevitably come next, but Shakeshaft was running up the slope towards him. Shakeshaft came to the attention, but before he began speaking Lacey stopped him. He was much out of breath.

  “It’s all right, Richard. Take your time and recover yourself.”

  Being young, this soon came about and Shakeshaft reported.

  “The French skirmishers will soon be through the village, Sir, followed by two columns, one either side of it. They will attack around both sides of the village, or so it appears.”

  As more cannonballs droned overhead, Lacey began to think, but first he dismissed Shakeshaft.

  “Thank you, Richard. Now hold your wall to support Captain Carr in the farmhouse.”

  Lacey followed Shakeshaft’s run down to his men to see the first French Light troops emerge from both the central road and the alleyways to be immediately engaged by his own Light Infantry at close range. Suddenly being the subject of sustained musketry, the French emerged no further, but went into cover themselves to return the horribly accurate fire as best they could. Lacey thought further, “Two columns, one each side. One for the 42nd and one for the 4th. We may have to split into two wings, to support against both.”

  He turned to find a messenger.

  “Warn Mr. O’Hare that his wing may have to support the 4th and mine the 42nd.”

  As the soldier ran off came a further thought, ‘We should now stand.’

  “Stand up!”

  His men behind him obeyed and all along the line his men regained their feet and his Colours rose up high, most prominent being the bright green Regimental Colour, bright against the overcast January sky. As brave a sight as the defiant line was, they immediately they began to take casualties from the cannon fire. Lacey endured this for five minutes, then went to the centre.

  “Lower The Colours. They are too much of an aiming point and probably causing us harm. Order arms position.”

  Both Ensigns allowed the shafts to fall until the butt of each met the ground, then Lacey smiled at both Ensigns.

  “Time enough to wave them again in Johnny’s face, eh?”

  Rushby managed a weak grin, whilst what came from Neape would be more at home on a mortuary slab, but Lacey’s attention was drawn away by an eruption of firing on his left, which included the pair of cannon placed there. The 42nd were engaging the column on their side. The wind took away enough smoke for a much relieved Lacey to see that the kilted line was holding. No Scotsman was taking any backward step.

  Carr’s farm was a madhouse of noise, his men loading and firing at their maximum rate. He ran to the side overlooking the ground before the 105th, to see few targets there, but he noticed the smoke from the support firing of Shakeshaft’s section at the stonewalls. He then ran to the front to arrive just in time to hear a comment from Miles, made to no-one in particular, but commenting on the appearance of their French opponents.

  “These Frogs looks as bloody shithouse as we do! Not a bit like they shiny buggers at Vimmy Ro!”

  He noticed Carr the moment he had finished, as he brought his rifle back for a reload.

  “Oh! Beg pardon, Sir.”

  Carr gave him a stern look, whilst Davey chuckled, then Carr took a look outside. The French had gathered themselves for an assault, but it was already faltering, most returning again to cover, leaving many prone on the ground. They were not eager to press forward, perhaps content with having cleared the village, or perhaps knowing of what was coming up behind to support them. Nevertheless, for him and his men, so far, so good.

  “Well done, men. We’re holding. Well done.”

  Miles, now reloaded, had his face close to the firing slit.

  “I hope so, Si
r, but I’m hearin’ them drums and their shout of “Old Trousers”. An’ them with the red seems to have disappeared off, Sir.”

  Above them, Lacey was at present equally satisfied, but in his case apprehension was growing. It was not helped by the return of Bentinck.

  “Lacey! Baird has been wounded. Lost an arm, so it’s said, which makes me now Divisional Commander. And perhaps you, acting Brigadier!”

  He controlled his horse as a cannonball ploughed up the ground to their right.

  “I’m off to see Manningham over on the left and get things sorted out. Hold here.”

  With that he was gone, riding over to arrive behind the 42nd, who were still engaged in a ferocious firefight with their own column. Lacey knew well enough Bentinck’s errand, to see Brigadier Manningham, Commander of the next Brigade towards the centre. He swallowed hard and look around. Nothing was coming out of the village, in fact it was now being re-contested, because he saw his own Grenadiers running down to attack the French on that side, presumably ordered back in by O’Hare. Where the 4th’s Light were, he had no idea, but he looked up at his own men, who were standing their ground, albeit taking casualties, as he could see all too frequently.

  In the line, stood alongside The Colour, Jed Deakin could not bring himself to look round. He had heard the sound of the cannonball, but beside him, where Alf Stiles and Sam Peters had been, there was now an empty space. The men next over closed up to him.

  Carravoy took a careful look through the upstairs window of the house they had just run into, looking both down into the street and also into the windows of the house opposite. There had been next to no resistance so far and he saw nothing now, bar one French head at the window, perhaps dead! He gripped his sword and checked the pistol in his left hand.

  “Come on!”