True Soldier Gentlemen (Napoleonic War 1)

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  A formation of redcoats marched in step directly in front of the 106th. They were in company strength, an officer with his sword held high marching on their right.

  ‘Bloody fools must be lost,’ said Moss. ‘They’re going the wrong way.’

  The scattered group of redcoats now raised their muskets upside down in the air and began to shout.

  ‘Suisse! Suisse!’ They were nearest to Headley, who began to walk towards them. He looked baffled. The formed company kept moving towards the 106th and then halted on command.

  ‘Where are you going?’ yelled Moss. ‘Who is in charge?’

  The red-coated soldiers raised their muskets to their shoulders, the men looking as if they turned to the right. There was a series of clicks as musket locks were pulled back.

  ‘What the devil . . .’ Moss was stunned. ‘We’re English, you damned fools.’

  The officer’s sword swept down. ‘Tirez!’ The red-coated soldiers from one of Napoleon’s Swiss regiments pulled the triggers of their muskets. Flints sparked and set off the powder in the pans which flared and ignited the main charge. The noand the flame and the bursts of smoke were almost simultaneous as the volley thundered out at the 106th.

  It was difficult to fire down a slope. Men instinctively aimed too high and most of the bullets sailed above the heads of the 106th. Hanley felt the King’s Colour being plucked at by the musket balls. One shot was true, and struck George Moss squarely in the forehead, flinging his head back as the lead ball drove deep into his brain. He was dead before he hit the ground, an expression of intense surprise on his face.

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  oye noted the colonel’s death without any great emotion. It was simply too sudden.

  ‘106th, present!’ he yelled. The men brought their muskets up to their shoulders.

  ‘Make ready!’ Flints were pulled back till they clicked into place. The men had fixed bayonets, which would not help their aim or reloading, but Toye wanted only one quick volley from them. The Swiss company paused as they reloaded. It was almost as if everyone took a deep breath. The scattered group who had inverted their muskets in an effort to surrender milled about, and then started to run back into cover.

  ‘Fire!’ The 106th’s own volley was a little ragged, but much better aimed. Firing up a slope tended to be more accurate. Dense smoke blotted the enemy from view, but Toye was beside the main formation and could see men dropping all along the front rank of the Swiss line.

  ‘Charge!’ he yelled. ‘Let them hear you coming, boys!’ Toye was already running, his weariness forgotten and his bent sword held out in front of him. The 106th cheered and charged after their major, rushing through the smoke towards the Swiss. The latter had still not loaded. One man raised his musket anyway, clicked back the hammer and let it fall on an empty pan. Others tried to keep loading, but most started to edge backwards. One of the wounded men from the front rank was screaming in pain. When the 106th were ten yards away the Swiss wavered and then fled. Their officer grabbed a man and tried to hold him back, but when the soldier shook him free the officer joined in the flight as well.

  Four Swiss were left on the ground, one of them dead. Toye halted on their position, his men too weary to chase the enemy any farther.

  ‘Well done, lads,’ he said. He turned to look back down the slope. A dozen or so more men from the 106th were making their way out of the gully. Then he spotted Moss’s body, his limbs splayed out in an unnatural position.

  ‘Sergeant Keene, detail four men to carry the colonel back down the hill.’

  More movement made Toye look to the spur on the left behind them. A line of men in dun-covered shakos and long buff coats was coming over it towards them. The French infantry were three deep and a short distance behind them was another company. They were scarcely a hundred yards away.

  ‘Company, about turn!’ Toye shouted as loudly as he could. The response was hesitant, the order a surprise, but after a moment the men turned around. ‘Reload!’

  The sergeants and ensigns as well as the entire colour party were now in front of the formation. There was some added confusion as they tried to push their way through. Hanley and Derryck turned and stood with the colours in what was now the front rank. The sergeants stood in the second rank to cover them. The wind had picked up as they had gone higher and the two flags streamed out behin them. Around them the men scrabbled to reload, some taking the skin off their knuckles as they plied ramrods too close to a fixed bayonet. It was a race, and the French were bound to win.

  When they were fifty yards away the first French company halted. The second had wheeled to its left and was moving to extend the line. The new arrivals from the 106th ran up the slope to join Toye’s men.

  The leading French company fired with a sound like heavy cloth ripping. There were dull thumps as balls struck home. Hanley’s cocked hat was jerked off his head. Beside him a redcoat was hit on the cheek and knocked backwards. Another man screamed as he was struck in the stomach. Two men were dead and six wounded. The sergeants dragged the wounded back and pitched the bodies of the dead forward. Normally a line would close formation to the centre, but this one was too small so the men from the rear rank were simply urged forward to fill the places of the casualties.

  Toye wondered about charging. The French company that had fired now fixed bayonets and began to walk forward. The second company halted and made ready. Toye could see some of his men loaded and hoped for the best.

  ‘Present!’ he yelled. ‘Aim low, boys, aim low!’ Perhaps two-thirds of the 106th were loaded. Some of the other men pulled back the hammers of their muskets anyway.

  ‘Fire!’ Hanley flinched as a musket went off just inches from his left ear. For a moment he was stunned, unable to hear. Smoke billowed around them, and then the wind took it and blew it back in their faces. Hanley coughed, the stink of burnt powder in his throat. Although ill prepared, it was a good volley. Four men dropped in the leading French company and their officer reeled backwards, dropping his sword as he was struck in the shoulder.

  Then the second French company fired. Hanley felt a hammer blow to the very top of his chest and was knocked backwards. Then he saw nothing. The King’s Colour dropped from his hands, the dust staining the big Union flag. Captain Headley’s left arm was broken and hung lifelessly, but for the moment he was in shock and felt no pain. A sergeant from his light company was hit in the thigh and lay on the ground, trying to tie his sash into a tourniquet. As he worked he cheered the men on. Other wounded just moaned.

  The French charged with a great cry of ‘Vive l’empereur!’ Behind the 106th the Swiss reappeared and fired a ragged volley into their rear. Toye was struck in the side. A sergeant was hit in the back of the skull and dropped on to Hanley. Half a dozen more men were down. The British soldiers turned in confusion. Men spread out and were facing in every direction as the yelling French infantrymen came towards them, the tales of their coats flapping, the points of their long bayonets reaching forward hungrily.

  A Frenchman who looked no more than a fresh-faced boy drove his bayonet deep into the stomach of a redcoat who was trying to load his musket. The man gasped as the wind was knocked out of him, then began to scream as the young French conscript struggled to free his blade. Beside him a long-moustached veteran neatly dispatched another redcoat with an economical thrust, giving his musket a slight twist to free the blade. A corporal of the 106th had only just finished loading his musket and shot the veteran at point-blank range, blowing off the back of the man’s head in a spray of blood and brains. He jabbed at the conscript,who ducked, but was then himself stabbed through the thigh by another Frenchman. He tried to spin round and thrust at his opponent in spite of the hot agony of his wound, but another French bayonet took him in the throat. Most of the redcoats did little toefend themselves, stunned by the ferocity of the attack and knowing that it was hopeless. They dropped muskets and raised their arms or held them butt upwards in the air, just as the Swiss had done. />
  At first it did not stop the French. Bayonets lunged forward. Men screamed as the points slid into their flesh. Toye was shouting, wishing that he knew some French and trying to attract the attention of an officer. Faced with death anyway, some of the redcoats grabbed muskets again or struggled with the French soldiers.

  A group of Frenchmen led by an officer had gone straight at the colour party. A sergeant had picked up the King’s Colour and lowered it to point the heavy and ornate spearhead at the approaching enemy. It was a clumsy weapon with a blunt blade, but he snarled as he slashed the air with it. The French officer stopped, took careful aim with his pistol and shot the sergeant in the chest. A moment later he thrust his sword left-handed at Derryck, who was struggling to hold the standard in one hand and draw his own sword with the other. The youngster hissed with pain, but did not cry out. As he fumbled with his sword, a sergeant stabbed his half pike over his shoulder at the officer’s face. The Frenchman went backwards, flailing for balance, but avoiding the wickedly sharp point. A French soldier tried to stab Derryck, but managed only to graze his arm. The ensign freed his blade and cut clumsily at the man, wincing with the pain from his arm. The Frenchman parried the blow, raising his musket high. He clubbed the butt down on the young officer’s face, smashing his nose and knocking Derryck down. The sergeant’s half-pike took the Frenchman in the eye. He screamed and clutched at the blade, but before the sergeant could free it the French officer dropped into a lunge and opened his throat. Blood jetted in a fountain over the falling colour and the dying sergeant himself.

  He was the last redcoat to resist. The others were dead or wounded or trying to surrender. The Frenchmen herded them into a group. Several more of the 106th were stabbed in the process. Toye grabbed a man who had just bayoneted an already wounded soldier and was promptly stabbed himself, the blade going deep into his leg. Still he shouted protests. Only the arrival of a mounted officer – his long blue coat covered in lace and his cocked hat plumed, so evidently a man of rank and probably a general – rode up and yelled at the soldiers to stop. They obeyed, a little sullenly in some cases. Two French officers held up the 106th’s colours to the general for his inspection. Toye found the sight utterly humiliating.

  Other Frenchmen walked among the dead and wounded, stripping both of any valuables. Derryck coughed when a man began to rifle his pockets. The ensign sat up. Had the general not been there, the French soldier would have been tempted to finish the boy off. Instead he helped him up. Derryck staggered over to the other prisoners. A sergeant, his head roughly bandaged, went out to help him. One of the French soldiers barred his way until an officer barked an order.

  ‘Bad business,’ said Headley, who had come to sit beside Toye.

  ‘Damned bad,’ was all the major could think of saying in reply. ‘They must have been on the spurs behind us. You couldn’t see a thing down in that ravine.’ There was a fresh burst of heavy firing from somewhere down the slope. ‘The rest of the battalion?’

  ‘Probably,’ agreed Headley. ‘They’re taking their damned time, though.’

  The firing was coming nearer, and this prompted a flurry of activity among the French. The prisoners were urged to their feet and ushered back. Altogether there were five officers and more than twenty men, of whomk obut six were wounded, some several times and mostly with bayonets. They helped each other to limp up the slope. The French gave them a dozen guards as escort, as well as the two officers proudly carrying the captured colours. Derryck was sobbing, far more from his sense of failure than the pain of his injuries, although that was bad enough.

  Williams and Dobson peered over the ledge of the ravine, having taken care to remove their shakos. They were careful, and a gorse bush gave them some cover. None of the French appeared to notice them. The right wing had also broken up as it climbed the gully, men defiling off into the various channels. The Grenadier Company had led, and as Dobson glanced behind him he could see quite a few more men scrambling up the slope to join them at the lip. He gestured at Sergeant Darrowfield for them to come on as quietly as they could. They had climbed up on the left spur above the hollow, where the leading men of the 106th had been overwhelmed. There were bodies clustered on the slope and most were in red jackets.

  Reaching back, Williams carried out the difficult operation of pulling his telescope out of the long case he strapped to the side of his pack. Dobson helped him.

  ‘You ought to change this for something smaller, Pug,’ whispered the veteran. Dobson looked back at the French formations and the activity behind them. ‘Bastards,’ he said bitterly, ‘they’ve got our colours.’

  Williams had focused on the French line, the strong magnification bringing their faces very close. They were no more than a hundred and fifty yards away and through the glass he could see every detail. Now he shifted the heavy telescope to the slope behind them. He moved past a group of Frenchmen and then back on to them. The two French officers laughed as they marched triumphantly up towards the crest carrying the flags of the 106th. A pair of infantrymen marched behind them with muskets formally on their shoulders.

  The colours symbolised the regiment. They were its pride and its honour. Losing them to the enemy, especially while anyone in the battalion still lived and was able to fight, meant utter humiliation and disgrace. Williams felt shame and despair overwhelming him. Then came anger.

  ‘We’ll get them back,’ he said firmly.

  Dobson patted him on the shoulder and gave a grim smile which the volunteer did not see. Williams had moved to look at the little column of prisoners. He spotted Toye and Headley and some ensigns he knew only by sight. Then he noticed Derryck leaning heavily on a sergeant. There was no sign of Hanley. Williams felt a pang at the loss of his friend, but then the emotion fed his cold rage. He turned his glass to look up the slope. There was a patch of woodland behind the French and nearer the crest. Around it were scattered boulders. If they could reach there with only a few dozen men then perhaps they could pin the French until help arrived. Most of it was open slope, but there were a few hollows which would provide some concealment.

  Shouts from the French interrupted him. For a moment he guessed that they had been spotted, perhaps because he had not been careful enough and had let the sun shine off his glass.

  ‘It’s the major,’ said Dobson excitedly. ‘Good old MacAndrews.’

  Williams did not bother with the telescope; instead he looked over to the right and saw a formed body of the 106th marching over the far spur. There were at least a hundred and fifty, moving in two slightly ragged ranks. An officer – Major MacAndrews – marched ahead and to their right, his white hair blowing wildly as he waved his cocked hat in the air>

  French officers shouted orders and began to re-form to face this new threat. Then there were more cries as another group of redcoats appeared from the same part of the gully Moss had followed. These men had yellow facings instead of the 106th’s red and must be from the 9th. Some sixty men formed up so that now the French were threatened from the front and the flank.

  Sergeant Darrowfield crouched down beside Williams. The volunteer pointed up the slope.

  ‘It is only a suggestion, but if we could reach the trees we can come in behind them. Even a handful of skirmishers will help the battalion. More than that, if we move quickly we can take the colours back. Maybe free the prisoners as well. We just need to get as far forward as we can without being spotted.’

  Darrowfield nodded. It made sense.

  ‘Dob and I will go first. We’ve had longest to look at the ground.’

  ‘No you will not,’ snapped a familiar and hated voice. Ensign Redman was panting for breath, but his tone still dripped with contempt. ‘There is no time for your glory hunting, sir. I am in charge and will decide what is best.’

  Darrowfield reported quickly to Redman and explained the plan, having the sense to make it a suggestion, just as Williams had done with him. Redman peered over the bank and saw that the small force from the 9th and M
acAndrews’ men were almost ready to attack. The French had formed in an L-shape with half a company facing the 9th and the rest towards the larger force of the 106th.

  Williams had to acknowledge that Redman was a good enough soldier to see the opportunity, much as he despised the man.

  ‘Yes, that is our duty,’ he said firmly. Then, with a mocking smile, he turned to the volunteer. ‘Mr Williams, I’d be obliged if you would lead us up to the trees. One man will be less conspicuous. If you get there then Dobson and I will follow.’ He looked at Darrowfield. ‘If we make it then you, Sergeant, will bring the other men. No one is to fire unless they start shooting at us. Ready?’ There were nods from the men around. As Williams took off his pack to move more quickly, Redman leaned down and whispered in his ear.

  ‘If you haven’t got the guts for this I can send someone else.’

  Williams said nothing, hiding his rage at this insult. Instead he scrambled up the bank. There were three cheers – three British cheers – and he glanced to his right to see that MacAndrews and the 106th were moving forward. He took a deep breath, pushed up and sprinted forward, making for the first of the little hollows, but when this provoked no shouts or shots, he swerved around the cover. His haversack, pouch, bayonet scabbard and canteen were banging against him as he ran, and he felt his musket’s sling slipping from his shoulder, so he grabbed it and held it across his body. He was breathing hard, his legs aching as he ran up the slope, dodging boulders.

  Still no one seemed to notice the lone figure as he zig-zagged up the hill. There was the sound of a heavy volley, followed almost immediately by another. The French were clearly preoccupied with the main attack. Williams ran on. He came to a boulder at the edge of a little depression and pushed down hard on the stone to leap over the hollow. He was amazed to see two red-coated soldiers look up at him. They seemed even more surprised. One jerked upwards and Williams’ trailing foot caught the man a glancing blow on the forehead. The volunteer’s shako fell from his head, but he could not worry about that.