‘Charge!’ and he turned the order into a long, guttural yell of defiance. The men were shouting too. Another horse barged him as he ran through the thinning cloud of smoke, but there was only blood on the saddle and no sign of a rider. Beside him, the kilted Highlander from the 79th drove his bayonet into the chest of the trumpeter as he knelt on the ground. Other chasseurs lay dead or moaning, and Williams trod on a man’s hand because he did not see it and nearly tripped, but then fell against the chest of another horse. He was on the chasseur’s left side, and the man struggled to control his frightened mount and cut down. Without thinking Williams rammed the pistol into the rider’s stomach and pulled the trigger. A fountain of blood jetted from the man’s lower back and sprayed across the rolled blanket behind his saddle.
Williams ran on. There were a dozen chasseurs still mounted, but the charge had been broken and the men milled, so that the redcoats ran in between them, stabbing with their bayonets. Jowers died when a French cavalryman cut down, beating aside his musket and carving a long sliver from the wood, before the man whipped the tip of his blade up to lunge into the sergeant’s throat. The Frenchman fell when Cooke slammed the sponge against him, and when the man landed on the ground the big artilleryman reversed the broken pole and drove the jagged end through the chasseur’s body. Williams had not realised that the gunners had come with them, and it was too late to do anything about that.
He sliced at the head of a horse, missing it, but making the animal swerve to the side so that the rider’s blade missed and only clipped his shoulder wing. He threw the empty pistol at the man’s face, and the distracted Frenchman was run through the body by the slim bayonet of a man in the yellow cuffs of the 26th. The Frenchman gasped as the wind was knocked from him.
Williams ran on. The Highlander was ahead of him and he watched the man slam the butt of his musket into the forehead of a voltigeur. He shouted a warning as another Frenchman slid past his guard, but the bayonet jabbed into the Scotsman’s stomach. Williams slashed with his sword, cutting open the voltigeur’s face before the man could withdraw his blade. The light infantryman reeled back, hands pressed to his long wound, so Williams lunged at his companion as the man staggered to recover from the Highlander’s blow. Mulligan appeared from nowhere, the bayonet on his musket bent and bloodied, and the big man knocked the wounded Frenchman down with one hand.
The enemy were going back. The few chasseurs still mounted were already flowing back across the bridge, with the voltigeurs mingled among them. Men slipped on fresh blood or tripped on corpses as they fled, and some were not fast enough and fell to the hungry bayonets of the redcoats, but they were going back.
‘Form on me!’ Williams needed the men in some sort of order, needed them formed, and had to stop any fool from chasing the enemy to their side of the river.
‘Rally!’ Mulligan’s voice boomed across the valley and more men responded. Between them, they shook the survivors into a rough line halfway between the bridge and the fold in the ground.
A redcoat grunted as a ball fired by one of the skirmishers smashed through his ribs. He sighed as he slid to the ground. Williams’ line was very exposed. The remaining riflemen and redcoats on the hill were firing, but more of the voltigeurs were recovering and going to reinforce the skirmish line.
Dalmas saw the moment and raised his sword high. He led, more than two horse lengths ahead of his company of cuirassiers, and they were all big men on tall and heavy horses. He drove the horse on, heading straight for the heap of dead and dying animals, and as he came close he felt that incredible surge of power as his big horse clenched and then extended its muscles, soaring over the barrier. Its hoofs landed, skidded just a little in the slick blood and recovered, and now that he had shown his men how to do it Dalmas was sure they would follow.
‘Front rank kneel!’ Williams gestured at the men to go down and form a hedge of bayonet points when he saw the cuirassier ride straight at the bridge. No one was loaded, and his hope that the bridge would be impassable was quickly dashed.
The company followed, as they had followed Dalmas in many a bloody charge. They went fast, and the men in the front rank were already rising in their stirrups when Groombridge lowered the portfire and set off the quill in the touch-hole of the old twelve-pounder. It was loaded with grape this time, and the heavy balls struck the front rank of the enemy just as they jumped. Inch-and-a-half balls drove through armour, creating a jagged hole, and then spun through and split the back of the cuirass open like the petals of some ghastly flower. Two of the three riders in the front rank died instantly. All three horses were killed at the same moment as the heavy projectiles smashed into them. They tumbled forward, flopping and sliding instead of landing. The third rider did not get even a scratch, but was thrown from his dead mount, and his helmet struck hard against the base of the parapet, snapping his head back and breaking his neck. Behind them, the other cuirassiers stopped, horses unwilling to go over the chaos on the narrow bridge.
‘God bless the artillery,’ said Mulligan.
Dalmas reined in short of the line. There was no one behind him and he could see the rear rank of the British infantry reloading.
‘Merde,’ he said, and turned his horse, urging it into a trot. Williams went to follow, but stopped when a volley of some half a dozen shots came from the far bank. His hat was plucked from his head again, and this time there was a fierce sting as the ball grazed the side of his skull just above the ear. Mulligan was thrown backwards by another shot.
‘Back to cover!’ yelled Williams, gesturing to the men, even though his head throbbed with pain. The dead horses covered the bridge, except at one place on the left where only one animal was jammed against the parapet. Dalmas saw it and sent his horse at that point. He knew his aim had to be precise, for too far one way and the horse would refuse or fall among the still-thrashing legs of the dying horses. Too far the other way and it would smash into or over the wall of the bridge. The horse was only trotting, but the power was there and his line was true as it surged high and over, landing firmly on the roadway. The satisfaction was brief, for he knew that the attack had failed and that his time had run out.
Corporal Mulligan was dead, the hole above the bridge of his nose seeming too tiny to have hurt such an enormous man. Jowers was dead along with three more and at least a dozen wounded. Williams put the remaining man from the 71st in charge of his ad hoc platoon, simply because the man looked experienced. The light infantryman from the 52nd replaced Jowers.
‘Get back and reload the gun,’ he told the unemotional Cooke. ‘They may come again.’ If they did, Williams did not know how he would stop them. More than half of the ammunition for their muskets was gone. He lay for a moment on the snow and breathed heavily, looking up at the sky. He would have to ask Mr Groombridge what time it was.
25
‘Good gracious, it’s Miss MacAndrews, is it not?’ Colonel Graham’s tone suggested a happy coincidence on the street of some market town. ‘I am most delighted to see you. Your mother expressed considerable concern about your welfare.’ He was beaming with genuine pleasure.
Jane looked up, still pressing a pad of cloth down over the wounded man’s stomach. He kept bleeding, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. They had no bandages, so were cutting and tearing up the cleanest of the clothes taken from the dead. The room was crowded with moaning men, the wounded from this morning’s fight added to the sick. There were fewer of those now. The frostbitten soldier had died, as had MacDonald. The grey-haired Highlander’s coughing had grown worse during the night, and then he began to cough up blood and had simply died. The bodies were outside, laid out in a row beside the wall. She and the women did their best to care for those still alive, as well as looking after the children. The less badly wounded or sick men tried to help the worse off, and she was amazed at the patience of them all.
For all the ghastly sights and smells of the makeshift hospital, Miss MacAndrews’ manners formed a reply before
any conscious thought. ‘Good day to you, Colonel Graham.’ Her memory for names was excellent, even though the meeting with the elderly officer seemed an age or more in the past. ‘I trust that you are well?’
‘I am in robust health, I am pleased to say, but all the happier to come into the presence of such beauty.’ Jane’s dress was heavily stained with blood, and there were dabs of red on her face where she had unconsciously brushed it with bloodstained hands. Graham thought that she looked exhausted, and yet the smile that greeted him was so wide and warm that it genuinely lifted his already buoyant spirits. ‘But I am forgetting my manners. Good day to you other ladies.’ The colonel went so far as to raise his cocked hat to the soldiers’ wives. He was standing in the doorway, and now he turned to call to someone behind him. ‘Send for Mr Murray!’
Jane’s thoughts came slowly. For hours they had worked, doing what they could and somehow hoping that this little would be enough. ‘Has rescue come?’ The words were awkward, but they were the best she could frame. Jacob began to cry and the girl tried to tie the bandage in place on the wounded man so that she could tend to the infant.
‘Reckon he’s hungry,’ said Rose. ‘Greedy little beggar,’ she added.
Graham raised his voice a little to be heard. ‘Well, I am not sure that rescue is quite the right word. I am positive that your young Mr Williams will deny that he was in any such need. But, yes, we are here as reinforcement.’ He moved to let the surgeon come through the door. Murray blinked as he came into the gloomy room, and then gasped as his eyes adapted.
‘Work to do,’ he said to his two assistants.
Major Colborne of Sir John Moore’s staff stared at Williams and did his best to stifle a smile. In his pocket he had the ensign’s message to the general, carried by the German hussar. The words of the conclusion stuck in his mind.
It appears to me that it would be of utility to the army if we were to deny this crossing to the French. The bridge is narrow and offers us some chance of repulsing attacks even by a moderately stronger enemy force. At this moment, we have only heard reports of cavalry – a scouting force of one or two squadrons. No doubt should they secure the bridge, the enemy would be able to summon more troops to exploit the success. I have the equivalent of a company, although composed of men from many distinct corps, and two cannon.
Therefore, I am resolved to stay here and hold for as long as possible, trusting that this decision by a junior officer will not be considered too presumptuous.
I am, Sir, you most humble and obedient servant
H. Williams, Ensign, 106th Regiment
For an ensign to take such a decision was indeed presumptuous, however much he might make claims of humility. It also made perfect military sense.
Sir John immediately recognised the danger. If the French were able to outflank his position at Lugo in any strength, then not only would fighting a battle be impossible, but even retreat would be made more difficult. It meant that there was no longer much point delaying the withdrawal, but first he needed to ensure that this threat was blocked. The message had been written twenty-four hours ago, and there was no assurance that this ensign and his little force had not already been brushed aside.
His thoughts turned naturally to the brigade just arrived from Corunna, whose men were far fresher than the rest of the army.
‘Who are your best marchers, General Leith?’ he had asked its commander.
‘The Fifty-first, Sir John.’ The reply did not surprise Moore. They were a good corps and there was talk of training them as light infantry according to the system he had helped to develop at Shorncliffe Camp. Colborne was immediately given command of one wing of the battalion, and told to march at best speed to the bridge. With him went engineers and powder to destroy it if feasible. Now that he had arrived after marching through the night, that looked unlikely. The French had not attacked again, but the voltigeurs were still extended as skirmishers and fired at even the most fleeting target. The cavalry waited farther back, but were unlikely to watch passively if Colborne sent a company or two across the river.
Colborne listened to Williams’ formal report, as the ensign stood to attention in his ill-fitting jacket and thoroughly disreputable cap. A lot of men would have blustered and boasted. This young officer looked tired, and seemed almost embarrassed by what he had done. He kept praising his men, and particularly Mr Groombridge, and the dead sergeant and corporal. Colborne suspected that he might get a clearer account from the quartermaster sergeant at a later point. Williams appeared to doubt each of the decisions he had made, suggesting that a different plan might have cost fewer lives.
Both men turned as one of the guns boomed.
‘Mr Groombridge fires every five or ten minutes just to keep them honest,’ explained Williams, far more animated when he spoke of someone else’s action. ‘He is a good man, sir.’
‘Excellent, by the sound of it,’ agreed Colborne. He finally abandoned any thought of destroying the bridge. They would retreat. There was no sign that the enemy had enough strength to trouble five companies of steady infantry.
‘Cheer up, Mr Williams – you won!’ he said suddenly, clapping the ensign on the shoulder. ‘And it was a first-rate piece of soldiering.’ Williams looked at his feet, and muttered something incomprehensible.
‘When were you commissioned?’ asked the staff officer.
‘In August. I served as a volunteer from the start of the year.’
That helped to explain some of his reticence. The man clearly lacked the funds or connections to begin his career as an officer. That could leave a fellow with a sense of inadequacy, as if he did not quite deserve his rank. The date was also significant. Colborne had not landed until after the battles in Portugal, but the 106th had played a full part in both, and no doubt Williams had earned his commission through courage. His conduct in the last few days also suggested a considerable talent beyond mere bravery.
‘You have done well, sir, truly well, and I am sure that the general will feel the same.’ Graham was even more effusive in his praise as they marched back to the army. Williams marched with his remaining men, alongside their wagon, which was stripped of everything else so that it could carry the wounded and the women. Three of the injured were in no state to move, and they were left behind in the house in the confident expectation that the French would give whatever aid they possessed. The guns were abandoned, in spite of a brief protest from Groombridge.
‘The Spanish army has already left forty or more cannon beside the road, and I do not believe them capable of employing these usefully,’ said Colborne. Groombridge drove a spike into each touch-hole, and took the time to cut off the head so that it would be more difficult to pull it out. The old artilleryman then mounted his mule with the rearguard of the 51st and Colborne took the opportunity to quiz him about the recent action.
When it was clear that the French were not going to press the pursuit, Graham rode back to the wagon, but found Miss MacAndrews asleep, and so instead rode alongside Williams. The ensign had been offered the use of a horse, but stubbornly insisted on marching with the men. He was carrying the musket of one of the redcoats, who was struggling to keep up. Cooke, the big artilleryman, had no fewer than three firelocks strung over his shoulders as well as another man’s pack, and was strolling along as if they weighed nothing at all.
‘Splendid, Mr Williams, absolutely splendid.’ Colonel Graham’s delight appeared wholly sincere, and in spite of his age, he dismounted to walk beside the young officer. His appreciation was not restricted to the ensign. ‘You have all given the damned French a taste of British pluck! I do so wish I had been there. Sir John will be most pleased with your conduct.’
After half a mile the colonel grew restless. Colborne had caught up to check that they were coping with the rigours of the march. ‘Eh, John, what say you we ride up to that ridge and take a look. See if the Frogs are following close?’ Colborne nodded. ‘Don’t wait for an old man like me,’ said the colonel. ‘I’l
l catch up as best I can.’ In less than a minute he was streaming ahead of the younger man, riding with all the abandoned enthusiasm of the hunting field.
It was dark by the time the column reached camp. At first, no one appeared to notice Williams and his men as they trudged the last few hundred yards. The camp was bustling, as the army’s baggage train began to move out.
Jane woke from her deep sleep just as they arrived. For the moment, she felt refreshed, and for a reason she could not fully explain did not want to ride in the wagon. She eased herself carefully over the tail of the cart, not worrying when she landed in a puddle and splashed yet more mud on to the hem of her stained dress. Then she insisted that Rose hand her down Jacob. The baby stirred for a moment, and it was somehow pleasant for the girl to hush him back to comfortable silence.
She waited for Williams to reach her, as he marched at the rear of his men. He returned her smile.
‘Thank you, for doing so much,’ he said softly.
Williams’ men crossed a bigger track, but he and Jane had to wait as three ox-drawn carts piled high with powder barrels passed. Their ungreased axles squealed in protest. Near by a mule started braying and set off a dozen more. Williams found the sheer noise overwhelming after the comparative peace of their march back from the bridge.
The last of the carts passed, its driver mercilessly prodding the team with his goad, and there were Major MacAndrews and his wife standing and looking at them.
Jane could see that there were tears in her mother’s eyes, and knew that her own were glassy. Esther MacAndrews ran to her daughter and kissed her. Neither of them could find words to say.
Her father waited for what seemed a long time. He was not a man who readily betrayed his emotions in public.
Beat the Drums Slowly (Napoleonic War 2) Page 28
