Charleton fired again, his face already blackened with smoke, and again grunted his satisfaction at the effect on the French. ‘We’re hitting them, boys, and hitting them hard! Keep it up!’
The artillerymen, lined with exhaustion after their long night, did not look up from their task. They had to be better educated than the infantry, and looked on themselves as a breed apart. Now they were proving their professionalism and skill by killing as many of the enemy as they could.
Jack looked again at the Highlanders, the young boys with soft faces and swishing kilts, and wondered that such children should have to fight and die for their country. A snatch of their conversation drifted to him, the whispering Gaelic a reminder of past wars and still-remembered enmities, and then the artillery roared again and he had no time for philosophical musings.
The French continued to advance in lines, less visible now in the heat haze and the dust thrown up by 10,000 marching feet. Their cavalry trotted forward, made a couple of lunges towards the British lines, brandished their sabres and withdrew before making any contact.
‘Are they scared to attack?’ Jack wondered aloud.
Charleton shook his head. ‘These French buggers aren’t scared of anything,’ he said, ‘least of all a few hundred redcoats. No, they’re making sure our lads keep closed up so the Frog artillery has a good target.’ He sucked on his empty pipe. ‘Mind you, if they were to put in a real charge, we would have to form square and then the 1ère Légère and the 42nd Regiment, that’s these Frogs on the right, would have them for breakfast.’ He shook his head again. ‘These are the boys who won the Battle of Marengo – stern veterans.’
There was a staccato patter of drums from the French, just as Charleton fired off another round. ‘Case shot now!’ he yelled, when the cannon rolled back into place. ‘They’re only a couple of hundred yards away and coming at the charge.’
Shuddering, Jack looked ahead. The French seemed unstoppable, thousands of the best troops in Europe, veterans who had seen off Austrians, Prussians and Russians advancing on him and his handful of tired artillerymen. As he watched, they lowered their muskets so the wicked bayonets pointed directly ahead and increased their speed from a fast march to a run.
Charleton fired again, the case shot moving down a score of men in the advancing French line. ‘A hundred yards!’ he roared. ‘Time for only one more round!’
At 100 yards, Jack could make out every detail of the quickly advancing French infantry, from the officers in front, with their moustaches and slender swords, to the bared teeth and glittering bayonets of the charging infantry.
He half turned, preparing to flee, but he could not do so while Charleton and his men did not flinch.
‘Ready!’ The call came from the Light Infantry to Jack’s left. ‘Present!’ Hundreds of British muskets came to the shoulder, hundreds of browned muzzles thrust towards the oncoming French. Nobody hesitated; the untried British waited for the order and the French ran steadily on, roaring.
‘Fire!’
The sound was like nothing Jack had ever imagined: a long, rippling crackle of musketry accompanied by jets of white smoke that rolled forwards and lay across the face of the battlefield. Jack flinched at the sound, but the officer in command, a man named Kempt, calmly gave the next order.
‘Reload!’
Then the other sounds briefly came to Jack, the high-pitched screams and deep groans of the wounded Frenchmen, the defiant shouts, the growls of anger.
‘Present!’
The muskets came back to the scarlet-clad shoulders, and a chance slant of wind cleared a space so that Jack could momentarily see a section of Frenchmen, with bodies lying tangled on the ground and fresh soldiers stepping over them in their resolute charge. There was confusion and anger, and something he had never thought to see – a thin mist of blood floating above the ground, raised from the mutilated bodies, then slowly settling on the writhing wounded and terribly still dead. And then that bland order came a second time.
‘Fire!’
The muskets sounded again, the smoke blessedly obscuring the carnage, and Kempt gave his relentless orders.
‘Fix bayonets!’
Jack could not repress his shudder. Until that moment he’d had no idea what war was about. There was no glory here, only courage and bloodshed and horror and machine-like obedience, which transcended both common sense and fear. He watched, fascinated yet appalled, as the nightmare unfolded, each minute worse than the last, each second presenting some new obscenity to his senses. This was true vileness; this was the sin that ministers and priests and politicians should preach against, not the natural bodily lust of all animals but this calculated mass murder, this prolonged torture of eye and ear and body and mind and soul.
‘Oh, thank God that Bethany is not here,’ Jack said out loud, waving his hand to clear away the smoke, for, with all its horrors, there was a terrible fascination in watching the battle unfold.
‘Now is the time to show that you are British soldiers!’ Kempt roared. ‘Charge!’
There was no hesitation as the Light Battalion rose as one man and ran forward to challenge the French. They started slowly but built up to a mad screaming charge, hundreds of red-coated infantry rushing forwards to meet the most formidable soldiers in Europe. For a heart-stopping second, Jack thought that the French would stand and face the British bayonets, but instead they turned, individually and by sections, and ran.
‘They’re running! After them! Show the Froggies the scarlet jackets, boys!’
As the French fled, the British cheered and followed. They thrust forwards, stabbing, jabbing, slashing and butchering the retreating French without a hint of mercy or conscience.
‘So much for the heroes of Marengo!’ Charlton yelled. ‘They’re running like a flock of sheep!’ Waving his hand in the air, he pointed towards the Highland boys. ‘Look over there, though! They’re getting it hot!’
With his left attack in chaos, General Regnier had switched his attention to the centre, where the Highlanders still marched forward, kilts swinging and muskets held in inexperienced hands. Both French artillery pieces were concentrating on the young Highlanders, tossing aside the bold tartan warriors, and then the French Chasseurs charged.
‘Jesus! They’re done! They’re only children – they won’t hold!’ Charleton began to give orders to alter the position of the guns, preparing to retreat if the British centre crumbled beneath the concerted French assault.
‘Not yet! Look at the mad Sawnies! They’re forming square!’
With the artillery fire raking them and young men falling, the Highlanders retained their discipline to form a defensive square, crowding together to present a barricade of bayonets to the advancing cavalry, and then the Swiss battalion fighting for the French marched forward to pour their musketry into the packed Highland ranks.
‘They can’t take much of that,’ the gap-toothed gunner said. ‘They’ll break soon.’
‘They’re not even firing back!’ Charlton said. ‘They’ve lost their nerve! Fire, you Sawney bastards! Fire!’
Jack shook his head as the confusion momentarily cleared from his mind and logic took control. Extending his telescope, he focused on the centre of the battle. ‘See the colours the Swiss are wearing? They’re in claret – it looks like British scarlet through the smoke! The Highlanders think they’re being attacked by their own men!’
‘Could be,’ Charleton allowed. ‘But they’ll be slaughtered.’
‘No, they won’t! Hold this!’ Thinking of nothing except how to help the young Highlanders, Jack thrust his telescope towards Charleton, grabbed a loose artillery horse and kicked forward. The animal was not saddled for riding, and was unaccustomed to having a man astride its back, but Jack wrapped the long hair of its mane around his fists and guided its progress with his feet.
‘Come on, boy,’ he said, swearing as something screamed overhead and his hat spun behind him. ‘Come on!’
He was hardly aware of t
he stray musket balls that whined past him, or of the presence of French cavalry only a few hundred yards away; his only thought was of the Highlanders, and of Sir Alexander’s concerns about the need for victory. He swerved as somebody, British or French he did not know, loomed in front of him, waving a sword. Swearing violently, he kicked his heels harder into the horse’s ribs. There was a group of wounded men with faces taut with pain and an officer on horseback who stared at this cloaked civilian in the midst of a battle, and then he was approaching the Highland square and the bayonets were descending in a deadly hedge.
‘I’m English!’ he yelled, changing his words to ‘I’m British!’ as he remembered the nationality of these young soldiers.
The faces may have been young, but they were a long way from being broken, he realised. The Highlanders were as resolute as any veterans and held their muskets firm. A mounted officer in a tall feather bonnet gave a quiet order and two files opened up, so Jack could enter the square.
‘They’re French!’ he shouted, gesturing to the advancing Swiss, ducking as a cannon ball screamed overhead. Only a few Highlanders turned towards him, as these Gaelic speakers obviously did not comprehend his words. ‘Does nobody here speak English?’
‘These men are French, you say?’ the officer pushed forward his horse. He looked no older than his men – a slender youth in brilliant scarlet, with tartan trews covering his lower half.
‘They’re Swiss fighting for the French! Shoot them!’
‘Obliged to you,’ the officer said, and gave a slow, nearly casual smile. ‘My lads will do just that.’ Lifting his voice, he shouted rapid Gaelic to his men. The effect was instantaneous.
Lowering their muskets to the present, the Highlanders thumbed back the hammers with an ominous ripple of sound. Looking at the grim faces, Jack suddenly realised, quite unquestionably, that Bonaparte would never win this war. If these Highland youths were an example of the quality of men in Britain, then no matter how often the Little Corporal defeated Continental armies, he could not conquer Britain. Not unless he killed every man in the four nations.
The nearest soldier, a blond-haired boy with blue eyes, was mouthing a song, the words of which carried clearly to Jack:
Sma bhagus nach robh mi deònach
Chàirich iad an cleòc an rìgh mi.
‘What does that mean?’ Jack asked.
The officer smiled. ‘And whether or not I was willing, they dressed me in the King’s coat,’ he translated, and then his eyes narrowed. ‘Fire!’
The enforced delay had allowed the Swiss to come within twenty yards, and the Highlanders’ first volley did terrible damage. The second followed soon after, with the musketry of the 58th, in close support, adding to the toll.
Claret-coated bodies fell in droves, soldier piled upon Swiss soldier, broken body upon broken body until the ground was a bloody shambles. A shift of wind brought terrible sounds to Jack and he cringed before the cacophony of screaming. No men could withstand such a pounding; the Swiss wavered, then the survivors broke and fled.
The Highland officer doffed his feather bonnet and bowed to Jack from the back of his horse. ‘Alexander Cameron, at your service, sir.’
Jack bowed back. ‘My pleasure, sir.’
‘The 78th will advance,’ a tall colonel on horseback announced, and then repeated the order in Gaelic. The square opened up without any seeming effort and the young soldiers moved on, leaving half-a-dozen men dead on the field and a larger number wounded. Jack started to see that the blond teenager was writhing on the ground, eyes wide with pain as he attempted to push his entrails back inside his body. Even as Jack knelt at his side, the boy’s mouth gaped open and he fell back. In death, he looked around fourteen years old.
Charleton stared as Jack slowly returned. ‘You’re a mad bugger, you are,’ he said, sucking at his pipe. ‘Tarver, eh? There’s a name to remember.’
But the French were not finished yet. Changing the direction of their attack, they concentrated on the British left, with their artillery firing continuously and the cavalry wheeling in support. Jack flinched as a shell exploded within the ranks of the 27th, scattering men to the ground. Somebody cursed, spinning, as a French musket ball smashed into his arm and Charleton muttered, ‘Winged, by God. The Crapauds have sharpshooters in the scrub.’
‘Not for long,’ Jack pointed out, as thin flames licked around the flanks of the 27th. ‘The grass is on fire.’ He shook his head, as the horrors of the day multiplied.
‘The Frenchies are turning the left!’ Charleton was still working his gun, sweating from the effort and the heat in the morning sun. ‘It seems that our general is letting the battle fight itself.’ He grinned, smearing a sleeve over his face. ‘But look at that!’
Part shrouded by smoke and with the French on two sides, the 27th Foot turned their left flank, creating an angled front that poured volleys into infantry, cavalry and Voltigeurs alike.
‘That’s the way, Inniskillings!’ an officer roared, but the French were veterans and held on, until the 20th Foot arrived.
Hardly pausing after their forced march from the beach, the 20th fired a single volley that scattered the cavalry, halted to dress their lines and marched alongside the 27th to face the infantry.
‘Come on, boys!’ Sweat dripped from Charleton, as he worked beside his gunners. ‘Hit them!’ The cannon cracked out, recoiled and was rapidly sponged out and reloaded.
Jack reeled backwards, gasping in exhaustion. He had thought the battle won after the Highlanders repelled the Swiss, but the murder continued. This was what men boasted of, this killing and dying, this discord of hideous sounds, this succession of terrible pictures, of shredded corpses and maimed men, of frightened boys trying to act like unconcerned veterans and tough men turned to infants by agony and fear. This was war, this was the horror that Bonaparte had unleashed upon Europe year after year. This was what poets lauded and romantic authors disguised with elaborate words.
This monstrosity must never reach the shores of Britain.
This carnage must never touch Bethany.
‘Oh, God! Bethany, where are you?’
Bethany!
There was another ripple of musketry and a long, terrible cheer as the entire British army moved forwards.
‘They’re beat,’ Charleton said, spitting tobacco juice onto the ground. ‘The Frenchies are beat!’ He stared at Jack. ‘Sweet Lord in all his glory, but we’ve beat the buggers.’
Jack nodded. He looked over the bloody plain of Maida, with the heaped bodies of the French writhing amidst the wreaths of smoke, and wondered if victory was worth the price. The disembowelled Highlander was lying still, with pink entrails wrapped around his fingers and hopelessness in his glazed eyes. Jack thought, would his mother back in the Hebrides or some quiet Ross-shire glen ever know how he died, or care how his death helped salve the coffers of the Treasury? Or would she would just prefer her Donald home to help herd the cattle to the summer shieling?
He shook his head. He wanted Bethany back. He wanted her to hold him and tell him that it was all right and all wars were horrible and this one was no worse than any other, and then he wanted to go home and let other people live this nightmare. He closed his eyes and knew that the gibbering madness of the fever was waiting just over the horizon of his consciousness. He must remain rational.
Jack jerked awake and looked around. ‘Have I been sleeping?’
‘All night,’ Charlton replied. Then added, ‘We’re going back.’
‘Back?’
‘Back to the beach.’ A grin twisted his mouth. ‘Don’t ask me why. We landed, beat the French for the first time since God knows when and now we’re marching away.’ He shrugged with that cynical fatalism that so many soldiers seemed to possess. ‘I suppose that means we’ll have to do it all again somewhere else.’
Jack nodded. At that moment he did not care if they had to beat the French every day for a month or go back home instead. All he wanted was his own bed and Bethan
y. The French could keep everything else, they could have Calabria and Sicily and Malta and all of Europe, just so long as they left him in peace, and the best of British luck to them.
He looked over the previous day’s battlefield. Working parties had buried the forty-five British and hundreds of French dead, but the grave mounds were still raw and uncounted thousands of flies buzzed around disconcertingly. The troops were in good spirits, chatting happily in Gaelic, German, Corsican French and half-a-dozen British dialects, from the broad accents of Ulster and the rounded lilt of Lowland Scots to the soft burr of Dorset and the familiar tones of Hereford and Shropshire.
‘Come along, Mr Tarver, there’s no sense in dawdling.’
Jack nodded. It seemed callous to leave their dead comrades behind, but the army were unconcerned, marching away with hardly a backward glance. Some Highlander was playing his pipes and the 20th Foot responded with a shockingly obscene song. It was all very normal and very martial, but Jack could not forget that young Highlander and the echoing screams of the dying.
‘Are you all right?’ Charleton asked. ‘You look as queer as Dick’s hatband.’
Jack nodded, stumbling along. His head still held the rattle of Bonaparte’s drums and insanity lay just a nightmare away.
The Bay of St Euphemia was busy with British troops, but the atmosphere was much altered. The tension had gone and the troops were laughing, with the officers allowing liberties that Jack thought detrimental to discipline. He sat on the harsh sand, holding his head, as the army celebrated its victory.
‘27th Foot!’ the Ulster officer shouted, so close to Jack that he cringed. ‘Right, my lads, time for a bathing detail. Pile your arms, take off these uniforms and wash your filthy selves in the sea! Move there, you idle soldiers!’
Without hesitation, the men of the 27th obeyed, copied moments after by the Grenadier Battalion. Jack watched as they placed their muskets in neat little pyramids, stripped naked and dashed into the sea, to frolic like children in the high surf. It was amazing that men who only yesterday had been exchanging volleys with the best troops that Bonaparte could provide were now laughing and splashing each other as if life was only a game. He sighed, suddenly aware of the itching of his own body beneath his sweat-soaked clothing, and thought how pleasant it would be to forget his cares and join the soldiers.
Tarver's Treasure Page 18
