True Soldier Gentlemen

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  Wickham found the pace set by General Wellesley gruelling and knew that his poor mare was getting tired. He was now annoyed that Fitzwilliam had not taken him back to the beach when he went. Instead he was to stay and so be ready to report more fully to Sir Harry when he landed. After ordering the brigades to march to the left, Wellesley had gone gingerly down the forward slope of the ridge to check on the positions around the village. Once off the hard going, he set off at a canter, and was soon through the cluster of whitewashed houses around the village church and among the olive groves and dry-stone enclosures of the hill beyond it. Everything had seemed in order with the two brigades posted there. A third formation provided support behind the village. Then Wellesley had sped off along the track behind the eastern ridges. He had personally taken the brigade commanders and shown them where he wished them to form to protect the left. That done, and the first battalions already moving into place, thetaff had hastened back to Vimeiro itself.

  It was now mid-morning, and sporadic gunfire announced that the French were in contact with the army’s outlying pickets. Wickham lagged behind as the general and his staff rode back down the valley. His mare was struggling, its sides flecked with a foam of sweat. No one seemed concerned. As yet there had been no more sign of Fitzwilliam, let alone of General Burrard. Damn Fitzwilliam. He knew what a staff officer’s duties meant and could at least have loaned him another horse. Wellesley and his senior staff had already changed mounts once today, while the junior aides were all mounted on expensive and well-cared-for thoroughbreds. As a mere captain of a line regiment, who was starved of funds by the jealousy of others, he had not been able to afford anything better, and anyway the only horses for sale were those whose owners had died in the first battle.

  Wickham lost sight of the main group when they went through the narrow streets of the village. He must have made a wrong turn, for he came out along a dirt track between two low houses with sloping, red-tiled roofs. The church, surrounded by a high-walled graveyard, was to his right. He kept going, thinking that he could cut over in that direction and catch up. His mare could now manage not much more than a brisk walk and he did not want to tire her even more by going back. It was the longest he had spent in the saddle for many weeks, and although he had enjoyed it, he could also feel aches beginning to develop.

  The track swung round towards the churchyard and Wickham followed it. The firing had become heavier. He tried to spot the general and his staff, but it was hard to see much as the hillside rising up in front of the village was covered in vineyards. There were soldiers from the 43rd Foot in the churchyard, knocking loopholes in the walls. They were a light infantry regiment, and reckoned – not least by themselves – as one of the finest battalions in the army. They had white facings and every man wore shoulder wings and had a green plume on his shako, while their badges were shaped liked hunting horns. The men looked fit and confident, their officers brimming with swagger. Wickham had wanted to join one of the light infantry regiments, but had been thwarted by the refusal of his ‘friends’ to aid him in purchasing such an expensive commission. He hailed a captain supervising the work.

  ‘Mornin’. Getting warm, I fancy.’

  ‘Deuced warm. Though not as warm as the reception we’ll give Johnny Crapaud if he comes this way.’ The captain had a long, horse-like face, his thin lips drawn back to reveal teeth stained heavily from smoking. ‘Any orders for us?’

  ‘No, I am looking for Sir Arthur’s staff.’ Wickham enjoyed the implication that he was on first-name terms with the general. ‘Have you seen them?’

  The captain shook his head. ‘I’d try up the hill. The firing is getting heavier and I suspect he’s the sort of man to stay close. Good luck to you!’

  ‘And good hunting to you too,’ said Wickham, walking his weary horse onwards. There was a strange noise now over the firing. An odd sort of rumbling, followed by rhythmic shouting. He could not catch the words, but it was unlike anything he had ever heard before. He threaded his way slowly through the gardens and rows of vines on the slope. It was still hard to see anything, although now and again he glimpsed lines of redcoats. A green-jacketed rifleman from the 60th Rifles limped past him, his left leg clumsily bandaged. Wickham asked the man what was happening, but the man just shook his head. Most of the 60th were Germans – belying their official name of the Royal American Regiment and many of these spoke little or no English. In truth Wickham sometimes struggled with the accents of some of his own soldiers in the 106th.

  The rumbling noise and the chanting were coming closer. Then cannon boomed out their deep-throated challenge. A few moments later there was a sound like rolling thunder as a battalion volley echoed down the slope. Then there were three cheers – three distinct and very British cheers, which turned into wild cries. Wickham could see nothing, but the chanting had stopped. He came through the gate of a vineyard and could at last see clear up the slope. A line of redcoats was surging up towards the crest of the hill. Their formation was ragged as they rushed forward through a thinning cloud of smoke. In the centre their colours fluttered with the motion. A Union flag, and another with a red cross on a black field. That meant black facings so it must be the ‘dirty half-hundred’, or the 50th Foot to give them their formal title. The dye from the black cuffs on their jackets tended to run in the rain, making the men’s hands, and anything they touched, black.

  Staring more closely, Wickham noticed huddled lumps looking like bags of old clothes dotted across the slope. Most were in a drab light brown, but there were a few in red. A group of horsemen rode after the redcoats as they vanished over the crest. From over to the right came more volleys and another great surge of cheering. It took some time for Wickham to get even halfway up the slope. By then the redcoats of the 50th were coming back over the hill, chivvied back into place by their sergeants. The line started to re-form. Wounded men limped back or were carried by bandsmen to where the surgeons waited with their saws sharpened and ready. The group of staff officers also reappeared. Wickham recognised General Fane from the time when the 106th had formed part of his command. Lawson, the brigade major, gave him a warm welcome.

  ‘Wickham, old man, what are you doing here? Thought your lot were miles away dozing in the sunshine.’

  ‘Oh no, I do my loafing on the staff these days,’ replied Wickham with a grin. ‘Looking for Sir Arthur at the moment, in fact.’

  ‘Saw him ten minutes ago before the attack. Prettiest thing you ever saw, by the way. Two big battalions of them came up the slope and ran into us. Hollering like furies they were, but we gave them a shot and then the cold steel and they didn’t fancy that at all. Imagine they’ll be back, though. If you want General Wellesley I would head over that way, towards Anstruther’s brigade. By the sound of things they have been welcoming our friends as well. Quickest way is straight along the top of the hill. Might be a bit lively, though!’

  Wickham now felt obliged to ride along the hilltop. Had Lawson not added that final comment he would have headed down the slope, but now he was committed and his reputation would suffer if he appeared even slightly cautious. Damn the man, he thought.

  *

  ‘Form here. Sergeant, you’re right marker. First Company that way!’ Delaborde pointed to where another sergeant stood holding the company’s pennant. ‘Well done, the Eighty-Sixth. We nearly had ’em. One more push and we’ll drive them back to the sea. Make ’em swim back to England!’ He rode among the survivors of the beaten attack and tried to re-form the two battalions of the regiment. Junot had flung them forward against the high ground in front of the village without anything more than a cursory reconnaissance. A couple of battalions from Loison’s division had gone in at almost the same time, but there had been no real co-ordination. Even the guns that had advanced with them had been an afterthought They had driven off the English skirmishers, but then come over the crest to meet formed lines of redcoats waiting in ambush. It had been a bloody shambles and they had been chased back the way they cam
e, losing a couple of hundred men for nothing.

  Junot was a fool, but at least now he seemed to be learning some sense. A battery had deployed and was firing steadily at the hill. It might not kill many English, but it would keep the heads of their light infantry down and, better than that, would encourage his own lads. He and Loison would re-form their four battalions, but this time fresh troops would lead the attack. These were their best, the grenadier companies taken from every battalion in the Army of Portugal and formed into elite units. The men were big and confident. Yet even now the fool was taking half-measures. He had two grenadier regiments in the reserve, but was letting only one attack. The other would wait to exploit the advantage. Delaborde returned to silently cursing his cretin of a commander, but now there was work to do.

  ‘That’s it. Three ranks here. Come on, boys, that was just to warm us up. We’ll show those English vermin how real soldiers fight. Hey, Lucien, is that you? Glad you’re still with us.’ He waved an arm in greeting to a veteran whose long moustache was streaked with grey. ‘Just like Marengo. Looked bad early on, but we hammered those Austrian bastards by the end of the day. Remember the wagons crammed with food we captured. And those women we caught. Ha, you remember, you old rogue. You too, Jacques! How can they resist men like us! The Emperor may not be here, but you know how he rewards the brave. The Cross of the Legion of Honour to the first man to break their lines!’

  34

  The 106th sat in line and waited. They were on the long gentle slope where the valley curve

  d round to the north. The Light Company had gone forward along with the 82nd’s Light Company and the detachment from the 60th Rifles which had been added to the brigade two days before. The men were still a little uncertain about the soldiers in green jackets and red facings, most of whom were foreign and looked grim. MacAndrews thought they were excellent soldiers, although in his case he remembered the fine Hessian riflemen from America. For the last few days it had been bothering him that he could not remember the name of the captain with the glass eye whom he had come to know well. The man used to take out the eye and wear a patch in battle in case he lost it. Damn it, he wished he could think of the name. Must be in his sixties by now at the very least.

  Waiting was always one of the hardest parts. However dreadful the situation was once the fighting began, you had little time to think, and anyway bigger problems to occupy you. Waiting meant that the mind wandered, or still worse became empty and made a man sluggish. MacAndrews needed to set an example. He took a gentle stroll along the front of the battalion, exchanging a few words with each of the company officers. Brotherton went with him, but the two men said little. It was important to exude confidence and look relaxed. What was said hardly mattered, and he lacked Moss’s talent for dramatic speeches. What was that slogan of his – always ready and always steady. The words weren’t bad, but it seemed so false.

  MacAndrews liked walking. When the action began he would mount, for the small difference in height for a man on horseback allowed him to see a good deal more. For the moment he was happier on foot. He nodded to Pringle when he reached the far right of the line. Brotherton chattered away to the lieutenant with some nonsense about cricket.

  ‘Hello, lads, good luck. I know I can count on you.’ MacAndrews’ voice was gruff when he spoke to the men of his old company. All sorts of thoughts came into his head of other things he could say – advice about aiming low and keeping in formation. They did not need it. They were well trained and if they were not ready now then nothing would change that. To say more risked babbling away and making everyone nervous. Better to appear unruffled, even cold. He was not there to make people like him.

  MacAndrews wandered back along the line towards the colours in the centre. He looked up the slope at the rear of the 82nd. They were in the front line with the 106th three hundred yards behind them in reserve. To the left was Major General Ferguson’s brigade, with the 71st Highlanders next to the 82nd and beyond them the 36th with pale green facings and the 40th with buff. These were supported by Brigadier General Bowes’ brigade in reserve level with the 106th. The 6th Foot with yellow facings were closest to them and the 32nd Foot, nominally from Cornwall and with white facings, were on their left. All seven battalions were sitting on the parched grass. Three guns were deployed on each flank of the first line and the gunners busied themselves with the tasks that gunners always seemed to have to perform. As usual there was much shouting, and the noise drifted across the otherwise silent air.

  ‘Feeling homesick, sir?’ asked Brotherton, for by chance the major was looking at the Highlanders. In truth MacAndrews was pleased to be next to the Scottish regiment. They were not quite his old 71st, for that regiment had been disbanded after the American War when as usual Britain had rushed to cut the expenses of its army. This was a new corps, but they had already made a name for themselves, and there was something familiar about the faces he saw underneath the dark-feathered bonnets. The regiment had been involved in the South American debacle and their uniforms had suffered as a result. Only the pipers still wore kilts, for material had been short, and the rest were clad in tartan trousers. The men looked fit and ready, and everyone spoke highly of Lieutenant Colonel Pack, who commanded them. Yet he did not know the regiment and nothing could bring back the one he remembered, or indeed his own youth.

  ‘It will be good to hear the pipes again,’ he said after a moment.

  ‘Just like Savannah?’ said Brotherton happily.

  ‘Have I told you about that one?’

  ‘I may just have heard it! Anyway, today we don’t want them to know we are waiting.’ The pipers were silent. So were the parties of bandsmen that had followed their regiments, but were today without their instruments and ready to carry the wounded.

  General Solignac was surprised to see the English soldiers. There must have been close to one thousand of them in a thick swarm of skirmishers near the top of the ridge ahead of him. He stared intently through his telescope. There were some men in green and he guessed these were light infantrymen of some sort – perhaps armed with rifles.

  ‘Do the English use rifles, Pierre?’ he asked one of his ADCs, who was always studying books about the armies of the world. It was strange how easy it was to buy copies of the drill manuals of other nations. Not that the tedious detail contained in them was much use.

  ‘Yes, General. They have formed a special corps.’ Pierre was not actually sure about this, but had a vague memory and had long since learned that it was always better to sound positive.

  Solignac grunted. ‘Not to worry. They are slow to load and a man who likes to do his killing at a distance tends to be shy when anyone gets close. Push to the bayonet and they’ll run.’

  The sight of the enemy soldiers was such a big surprise because Solignac’s brigade was supposed to be in reserve, sent to support General Brenier’s brigade in its attack on the English left flank. Yet there was no sign of Brenier and they had heard no shooting so he could not have already come into contact with the enemy.

  ‘Should we wait, sir?’ asked the chef de battalion of the 12th Light Infantry. Solignac had already marked him down as a cautious man.

  ‘The Emperor does not reward hesitation.’

  ‘But General Brenier?’

  ‘Is nowhere to be seen.’ Daft sod was probably lost, thought Solignac. ‘The enemy are in sight and we have three excellent battalions of the finest soldiers in the world.’ Actually he knew they were all third battalions, who until recently would have remained at their depots, but Solignac wanted his commanders to feel confident.

  ‘There may be supports.’ The cautious light infantryman voiced another doubt. How had the damned man ever got promoted this far!

  ‘Then they are badly deployed, which means these English don’t know what they are about.’ Solignac was dismissive, but resisted the temptation to show his scorn for the man. ‘We will drive up that hill and then get down into the valley the other side. After that the way is op
en to come in behind their entire army. Gentlemen,’ he looked at each of the three battalion commanders in turn, ‘back to your regiments. I want you in column of attack. The Twelfth on the right, the Fifteenth in the centre and the Fifty-Eighth on the left and back about a hundred yards. Keep deployment intervals.’ That meant there would be enough space between the columns for each one to form into line if necessary. The columns had a two-company front, with each company in three ranks. The Voltigeur Company – the battalion’s specialist skirmishers – would deploy forward, so there would be three rows each of a pair of companies and a seventh company in reserve behind that. Attack columns moved fast and sent a succession of waves against the enemy. The disadvantage was that only a minority of the men could fire, hence the need to be able to deploy into line if they came up against strong opposition. ‘Come, gentlemen, let’s show these English that they should have stayed in their ships. I want to attack in fifteen minutes.’ Actually he expected the preparations to take nearer twenty-five minutes, but there was never any harm in giving them a sense of urgency. ‘Move!’

  General Brenier was still more than a mile and half away. He had been ahead of Solignac until they reached a steep gully near a cluster of farm buildings. There was no bridge, and the track simply went down one steep bank and up the far side. The ADC who first reported it was gloomy and Brenier could see why. The men and horses could get across, but they would need to dig at the bank and make a path for his four cannon. That would take too long, so instead he looped around, following another branch of the trackway which went farther north.