‘Not murdered, Williams,’ Hatch drawled as he passed on the beach. ‘Those Spaniards should hire some of my rogues. Brandt here would kill anyone or anything for a couple of dollars, wouldn’t you, Brandt?’
A corporal with the innocent eyes of a child and the face of a brigand nodded. ‘One dollar, if it is a friend,’ he grunted in a thick accent. Williams could not tell whether he was German or Swiss – nor indeed whether the offer was to kill a friend or show generosity to one.
‘Take your riflemen and extend as pickets to the left of the Eighty-ninth,’ Williams said, not bothering to engage for there was so much to do. ‘Major Grant is up there, and will show you where to take post.’
As Hatch and his riflemen strolled away – there was no impression of urgency about their movements – Williams wondered whether the scarred lieutenant had really hoped that he would come to harm, or had simply thought that assuming his name was amusing. Hatch noticed him watching, said something to the corporal, who spun round and dropped to one knee. Brandt raised his rifle, aiming at Williams, and held it there for a moment until Hatch patted him on the back. Half a dozen other chasseurs had stopped to watch, but all now moved off up the beach, laughing.
‘Cheerful rogues, though I cannot say I am easy around them. They look ready for any mischief.’ Harding had arrived to join him. ‘Any sign of the French?’
‘Not a whisker,’ Williams said, and that seemed strange. Sohail Castle was only a couple of miles away on the far side of a line of low, sandy hills. Yet they had seen no one – no civilian, and certainly no enemy soldier. He had been surprised at how easily the guerrilleros had moved across the country without detection, but it was hard to believe that the arrival of some one and a half thousand infantry could go unnoticed. ‘But that does not mean much save that they are half-decent soldiers. I suspect riders are carrying the news to Malaga and the other bigger posts even as we speak.’
By ten o’clock the three infantry regiments were formed up on the beach and Lord Turney issued a simple system of orders by bugle call – advance, halt, re-form and charge. Williams was again impressed by the general’s talent for getting things done. Issuing orders directly in English, Spanish, German, Polish, Italian and goodness knows what else was bound to be cumbersome. The general took the brigade through some simple manoeuvres along the sand using the trumpet calls and just a few basic orders. It worked well, at least as well as could be expected at such short notice, and even Hanley was impressed.
‘Seems so much simpler than our usual system,’ his friend said.
‘Quite, although I dare say it might be more difficult if you wanted one battalion to charge and another to re-form.’
Hanley took this in as if it were a great piece of wisdom. He had arrived soon after the landing, bringing with him a number of partisans, none of whom Williams recognised.
‘No, you have not met any of these. El Blanco has promised to come and so have several other leaders.’ Hanley had not shaved for a day, perhaps two, and his always thick hair had sprouted into a heavy stubble. Lord Turney was not impressed.
‘You look like a damned gypsy,’ he said. ‘And who are these gentlemen?’
Hanley made introductions and passed on pledges of support from other leaders.
‘Not here, then?’ Lord Turney did not sound surprised, but he did bother to switch to Spanish and praise the men Hanley had with him. ‘Courage such as yours will drive the French for ever from your homeland,’ he said, and was greeted with a cheer.
When they finally moved off, two companies of the chasseurs formed a skirmish line, supported by the rest of the five hundred men from their corps acting as supports. Lord Turney rode at the head of the 2/89th, although most of his staff walked. There were a few dozen mules with powder and provisions and then the Toledo Regiment as rearguard. A quick inspection of the coast road along this stretch had revealed that it was unfit for the cannon.
‘Won’t do, my lord,’ Harding said after looking at the heavily rutted dirt track. ‘Might be fine if we had them on field carriages, but we could strain all day with these and not move them half a mile.’ The two twelve-pounders were on naval carriages, low off the ground and with four small wheels, while the howitzer was on a low base like a mortar, and needed a cart to move it.
With nothing else for it, the guns were re-embarked and would be carried round the headland and brought ashore again if necessary once the landing place was secure.
‘Won’t matter,’ Lord Turney announced, flicking his whip to knock a fly off the side of his bay’s head. ‘I doubt that we’ll need them at all, but even if we do we can bring them ashore easily enough. Get them back on board Topaze and ask Captain Hope to bring the squadron up the coast as soon as he is able. Gunboats to lead, as arranged, so that they can support us.’
So they advanced, Williams walking with the general’s staff until he was needed, while Hanley took the partisans forward as scouts. The road was narrow, in truth little different from the sandy ground on either side, and as the sun rose to its height men sweated as they toiled up and down the rolling hills, the wind blowing sand into their eyes. The chasseurs straggled, and when Lord Turney saw parties of them leaving formation to rove inland he sent Mullins and Williams to chase them back.
‘Lord Turney wants every man with his company at all times,’ Williams told Hatch.
‘There are calls of nature,’ the lieutenant said, looking at Williams as if he were fussing over nothing. ‘Would you have us defecate in the path of the brigade? I expect some of these lads would if it gives you pleasure.’
‘Do that and you can clean it up, Lieutenant,’ Mullins shouted, having jogged up beside them. ‘Keep them together.’ He raised his voice. ‘Stay together, d’you hear! No stragglers and no one off foraging. You’re wearing blue and the locals won’t know you’re not with the French any more! Understand?’
The nearest chasseurs nodded, faces blank.
‘Doubt it will do much good,’ Mullins said to Williams as they walked back. ‘But we must do our best to stop them molesting the peasants. Don’t trust the buggers not to desert, but we have them with us and need them, so must make the best of it.’
At two o’clock in the afternoon they passed the tower of the old windmill and came over the last rise. Sohail Castle was beneath them, and there were men in blue jackets on its walls. For the first time they saw the enemy. The squadron were following, but none of the big ships had yet come round the headland. Only the gunboats were nearing the shore, and for the moment they waited out of range of any guns in the castle. Williams saw that each of the heavy boats – their shape was much like a cutter – had taken down its mast, ready to close in under oars. They were small vessels, low in the water and, apart from a sloped ‘dog-house’ where the officer could rest, there was no shelter and little space for provisions. He did not envy the men who had sailed them along the coast from Cadiz. Edward Pringle had told him that all sailors hated serving on such small craft unless they could go ashore at the end of each day.
Ten minutes later Williams, Mullins and a captain from the Toledo Regiment crossed the valley and walked up the rise towards the south wall of the castle. A private from the 89th carried a white flag. On the hill behind them, the brigade had spread out to show their numbers. If reports were right and there was no more than a company in the castle, then the Polish infantry were outnumbered ten to one.
Mullins made a long speech in French, but Williams paid little attention to the platitudes, intended to flatter the enemy so that they would not feel it dishonourable to surrender. Putting himself in their position, he could see no reason to give in. From up close the walls were dauntingly high and looked in very good condition. Near the corners he saw the barrels of two tiny cannon – two- or three-pounders perhaps, but still nasty little brutes to have firing canister at men running into the attack. From where they stood he could not see the heavier pieces, mounted in a shallow bastion projecting from the east wall and looking
out to sea. For all their numbers the attackers had no ladders, nor any material to make some, which meant that they must knock a hole in the wall, and at the moment their only guns were afloat, facing the wall hardest to reach for attacking infantry.
Mullins finished with a flourish. ‘Therefore, in the hope of avoiding needless waste of life, we call upon you, as brave men to other brave men, to yield this fort and surrender. What is your answer?’
Several men looked down on them from the battlements. One, an officer from his cocked hat and epaulettes, had thick black side whiskers and a moustache drooping down past his chin. He had listened with evident impatience to the long appeal.
‘Venez le prendre,’ he called down in gruff dismissal and then turned away. The other defenders remained in sight, watching.
Mullins sighed. ‘He said “Come and take it.” ’
‘I know,’ Williams said, and it was obvious that the Spanish officer had also understood and showed no sign of surprise. ‘We might as well go, then, before we outstay our welcome.’
‘Yes, that would never do,’ Mullins replied. ‘It would be so terribly ill bred.’
When they climbed back up the hill the general did not display the slightest trace of disappointment. Nor did he appear to be in any great hurry. Officers were summoned from each of the three battalions, but it was a good half-hour before they arrived and Lord Turney was ready to issue orders. In the meantime he had shared a light lunch with his staff, and was dabbing his lips with a napkin as he spoke to Major Grant, and the commanders of the other corps.
‘Well, those fellows think they can hold us off. It will still be an hour or more before the bigger ships arrive and can bombard the castle, but the gunboats are ready and will surely suffice.
‘Tell the chasseurs to advance and engage the enemy on the wall. The Eighty-ninth to remain in line and support from the hillside. Toledo Regiment to wait in reserve. If the enemy waver, then we will press harder until they crack.’
Williams was unsure how men could press harder against high walls, but his thoughts were interrupted when an oddly high-pitched boom rumbled across the valley, followed an instant later by another. There was smoke shrouding the bastion on the east wall, and Williams just glimpsed the second ball throw up a fountain of water very near one of the gunboats. The boats must have begun to row inshore when they saw the flag of truce returning, and were now in clear sight of the castle.
‘Impudent fellows,’ Lord Turney said. ‘We must ensure they soon regret what they have started.’
As if in answer one of the gunboats disappeared from sight as the big eighteen-pounder in its bow belched fire and smoke. Williams wondered whether Captain Hall was in that boat because it acted as a signal and the other gunboats all fired. Balls ploughed up earth near the foot of the castle wall and he saw one strike against the stone.
The general wanted to supervise the action from close by, not least because this was a situation stretching his four simple signals. In spite of his enthusiasm he kept his horse at a walk, leaning back in the saddle as he let it find its own best path down the slope. His staff followed behind.
The fort’s heavy guns did not fire again, and as they went down the slope there was a steady thumping as the gunboats flung ball after ball at the east wall. Yet compared to artillery on land, their firing was slow. Then Williams remembered the cramped fight on the French gunboat at Las Arenas, and realised that it must be difficult to ram and load a gun in such a craft, even with the rails allowing it to slide back when it recoiled. Nor was the boat so steady a platform as land. When they did fire, he again saw only one hit on the wall itself, though another ball skimmed across the rampart and caused several of the defenders to throw themselves down behind the parapet.
‘Do you think this will work, Bills?’ Hanley asked, ever ready to rely on his friend’s military judgement over his own.
‘If we’re lucky, or the French are fools.’
They hurried on, and watched as the chasseurs extended in skirmish line and moved up the slope towards the castle. Half of each company remained in two ranks some fifty yards back as supports, and the 89th were a long musket shot behind them. Lord Turney rode boldly some distance in advance of the redcoats. The blue-coated chasseurs worked in pairs, as good skirmishers should, and in Williams’ opinion they did it well, not bunching up, and making as much use of the scrubby cover as they could. They closed to around one hundred yards and began to fire at the defenders behind the parapet.
Only then did the Poles reply. The two little cannon barked out first, and one burst of canister peppered the sand around a bush and left a chasseur screaming because his kneecap was smashed. Then a ragged volley of musketry hammered down from the wall, flicking up more lumps of earth and making the chasseurs dive for cover. Williams did not see anyone fall.
‘Poor devil,’ Hanley muttered.
The general mistook the voice. ‘One cannot make an omelette, Mr Williams,’ he said in quick reproof, not bothering to finish the quotation. ‘You will understand that if you see a bit more service.’
Was that insult or ignorance of his record? Unlike the general, Williams had not served for decades, it was true, but Vimeiro, Corunna and Talavera were surely enough to count as considerable experience. He could scarcely act the schoolboy and plead that it was not he who had spoken.
Mullins darted him a sympathetic glance, and Hanley patted him on the arm apologetically.
After the first ordered shots, firing became more general, both sides firing as they loaded. The light cannon on the wall were well served and flung bursts of canister not only into the skirmish line, but also the supports. As the general and his staff watched one of the half-companies was struck, the two deep line rippling like a flag in the breeze. By the time NCOs had shouted and pushed the men back into place, two of the chasseurs were crawling back through the long grass and another lay unmoving. Men broke ranks to help the wounded men.
Lord Turney’s tanned face darkened in anger, and he turned back to his staff. ‘You, Mr Williams, stop skulking at the back!’ The general’s voice was harsh. ‘Tell those blackguards that only one man is to help a wounded comrade. The rest stay in the firing line or I’ll have the hides off their backs!’ He was pointing to the men in front and over to the right where half a dozen chasseurs were using a blanket to carry the soldier hit in the knee in the first volley. Another blue-coated soldier followed carrying his own and the man’s firelock.
Williams ran forward, wondering what language the men spoke. It was never pleasant to tell men to leave a comrade, but helping the wounded was an old dodge allowing men to retire to safety – and as often as not not return until the action was over. At this rate half a dozen hits would deplete a company so that it became useless. In the 106th the bandsmen were used to carry back the wounded to the surgeons, but he doubted the regulation of the recently formed chasseurs had advanced so far.
‘Stop!’ he shouted as he ran up to them. ‘You!’ He pointed at one of the men at the head of the party. ‘Just you take him back! The rest of you go back to your company. Understand!’
A cluster of heavy grapeshot struck the ground just beside him, flinging sand high, along with a clump of grass ripped up by the roots. Half the chasseurs let go and flung themselves to the ground. Somehow Williams stopped himself from flinching and simply watched them. The man he had ordered to carry the wounded soldier did not move and for a moment watched the officer, until a sergeant arrived and shouted at them in a guttural language. Williams thought that it might be German, but the dialects often sounded so different that he could not be sure. The soldiers turned and began walking back to the firing line. As they went they unslung their muskets – the one carrying the injured man’s weapon laying it down beside him before he left. The officer helped the remaining chasseur to lift the wounded man and watched as he started off with him.
The sergeant gave the officer a curt nod.
‘Your name?’ Williams asked, trying to make
the word sound how he thought it should in German.
‘Mueller,’ came the reply, so bland that he wondered whether it was assumed. There were streaks of grey in the chasseur’s brown hair, and a lined face which spoke of long years lived in the open. He had the air of a veteran about him, and Williams wondered how many armies the man had served in.
‘Thank you,’ Williams said, and went forward to the nearest formed support.
‘One man only to help a wounded comrade,’ he called to the officer in charge. ‘General’s orders.’
‘Jolly good,’ the captain replied in a voice not suggesting great intelligence. He was taller than Williams, but as thin as a character from a cartoon, with a great bulging Adam’s apple and an unnaturally long neck. ‘Hear that, Sergeant?’
Mueller was there and bellowed at the men.
Lord Turney had not ordered him to do so, but his implied slights stung so bitterly that Williams felt obliged to take his message forward to the skirmish line. He jogged over the tussocks of grass, forcing himself to stay upright, even when he felt the wind of a ball slicing through the air just inches from his face. Here and there a corpse lay in the grass. One of the light guns barked, so close that the noise came almost at the same instant one of the skirmishers was flung back like a rag doll from behind the cover of a low hummock. Half of the man’s face was missing.
Closer to the fighting, Williams could hear the sharper cracks of rifles amid the near-constant crackling of musketry. He spotted an officer, standing in the shelter of a low bank topped by a wizened little tree, leaves and twigs continually plucked off by musket balls.
‘Orders from the general,’ Williams shouted as he came up. ‘Only one man to aid a wounded comrade.’
‘Really? What if he doesn’t want to?’ Hatch drawled, turning so that Williams saw his scarred face. The blue-coated officer stood looking to the side, forcing the other man to stand in front of him, all but his lower legs exposed to fire from the walls. Still smarting at the general’s barbs, Williams could not ignore the challenge and so stood there. A moment later a ball snapped just above his head.
Run Them Ashore Page 18
