True Soldier Gentlemen (Napoleonic War 1)

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  ‘To me, Twentieth, to me!’ Taylor called. If he could break this little formed body then the French morale must be shattered. Morrison was with him and four troopers headed over to join the group. There was also a corporal, King of C Troop, his helmet gone and his cheek flapping from the cut of a blade, but still looking determined. That was good. ‘Come on, boys, let’s finish them! Follow me!’

  The seven horsemen formed a rough line, with Taylor ahead and in the centre. They yelled as they pushed their horses forward, using their last energy in a gallop to carry them over the short distance to the little cluster of Frenchmen. The elderly lieutenant halted his men, and got his front rank kneeling with the butts of their muskets pressed into the ground and the points held up to spear into the horses’ chests if they should dare to come close. There were just four men in the front rank and only three with loaded muskets standing behind them, but the lieutenant waited until the British were no more than ten yards away when he bellowed at them to fire.

  It was a small volley and Taylor could see they had left it too late, and then a ball punched into his chest and struck the heart and his eyes faded and then he knew nothing. Involuntarily his arm pulled on the reins and his horse swung to the left, colliding with Morrison’s grey. The horse of one of the troopers was hit and collapsed, throwing him high and far over its neck to strike the ground with a sickening thump. The che was stopped in its tracks, as horses barged into each other or swung away. Taylor was dead and the French lieutenant leaned out to shoot the cavalryman on the ground with his pistol. Corporal King sheathed his sabre and pulled out his carbine. He looked grim, but since his cheek was slashed his expression was not clear. One Frenchman fired a musket at him and the ball passed close to his shoulder, but he did not flinch. He checked that there was powder in the carbine’s pan, and raised it to his shoulder. Firing from horseback was always chancy, but he took deliberate aim.

  The ball nicked the French lieutenant high on his left arm, spinning him round. The man staggered, but then straightened up and raised a defiant fist at the British cavalryman. King was disappointed not to have killed the man, but had at least shown him that you did not shoot helpless men. Then he heard the trumpets sounding and saw a line of French Dragoons coming across the plain, the sun glittering off their brass helmets and the blades of their swords. They were formed and fresh, and the British were scattered and weary. It was time to go. King looked for the other troopers, but could see only Morrison. ‘Come on, lad,’ he said, his voice distorted by his wound, and the pair headed back the way they had come, moving as fast as their blown horses could carry them. Behind them, the French horsemen hunted down anyone who fled too slowly.

  Wickham and the other staff watched the 20th return from their charge. More escaped than he had expected, for they had watched the French reserve cavalry approach. Wickham thought he heard Wellesley mutter under his breath, ‘Gallant, but unwise.’

  It was a different regiment of French Dragoons which charged down against the flank of the 82nd and 71st as the redcoats milled around the captured French guns. They began the charge a little too soon, for their colonel scented an opportunity. Unformed infantry were helpless against cavalry and he did not want to give the English a chance to rally and re-form. Yet the slope was rocky and uneven and this slowed his men as they came down it. The French infantry columns were farther back and not so quick off the mark.

  Officers shouted warnings, and one captain of the 82nd tried to organise his company and any other men he could find into a line facing the oncoming cavalry. He and his sergeants tugged at men and forced them into line. Some men from both regiments were going back. Colonel Pack of the 71st knew that the difference between steadiness and panic was as narrow as the blade of a knife. It would not take much for both regiments to collapse into rout. He also knew that there was no point fighting from a hopeless position and that sometimes it was right to retreat. One of the French columns halted and the leading two companies brought their muskets up to their shoulders. It was long range, but half a dozen of his own men fell, their feather bonnets rolling in the dust. The French Dragoons were getting closer.

  Pack turned and saw salvation. A battalion was marching towards them and was now only some five hundred yards away. They were in four ranks and looked solid enough, with a red cross on a white field as their Regimental colour. The 106th, then, but he did not much care who they were, only that they had come upon a wish. He smiled and then raised his voice over the chaos. ‘Back! Back! Rally back!’ He rode among the milling Highlanders, shouting and pointing them back. His officers copied and so did those of the 82nd. The bulk of the men were soon running back towards the 106th. The captured French guns were abandoned.

  The captain of the 82nd gave his ragged line the order to fire when the French Dragoons were still more than a hundred paces away. A single horse fell, but it and ued the charge just a little and might give them a bit more time.

  ‘Back!’ he yelled. ‘Get back!’ and set off at a run towards the supporting battalion. The men ran, packs and pouches banging with the motion. The little valley was filled with some eighteen hundred redcoats running back towards the formed battalion. Both colonels sent their adjutants and other officers riding on ahead to form the men when they came level with the 106th. The French Voltigeurs ran forward in pursuit, stopping sometimes to fire at the retreating British. A few redcoats fell. The dragoons spread out into a loose mass as they chased, but the ground was difficult and their horses ill fed after six months in this benighted country. Some managed to catch up with the slower fugitives. The long swords stabbed or slashed down. Redcoats screamed as the steel took them.

  Looking over Dobson’s shoulders, Williams could see the little figures falling as the horsemen swept among them. The 106th marched on, but the pace seemed so slow and there was nothing they could do to save those men. The volunteer tried not to think about it, and then suddenly an image of Truscott instructing him in manoeuvres using the wooden blocks leaped into his mind. Looking back, it now all seemed so childishly simple in practice, and devilishly difficult in reality. Williams was glad he was not making such decisions today. He glanced to his left and could just glimpse MacAndrews, riding in front of the colour party. The major looked impassive, staring straight forward as if he did not have a care in the world. Reassured, the volunteer smiled, and looked back to his front. The enemy now seemed very close.

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  MacAndrews was in fact very happy, even if he did not show it. His battalion was in the right place at t

  he right time. Had they been farther forward their own flank would have been turned by the French and they would have been in no position to resist. Had they come more slowly then they would have been too far behind to help the 71st and the 82nd. Coming in four-deep line had made the difference, for they had marched a little faster, and he had to admit that the brigadier’s instincts had been right on that.

  He ordered the 106th to halt. The Highlanders were rallying and re-forming on their left and the 82nd on their right. The artillery were still far behind, but they now had three strong battalions to face the French assault. The enemy seemed to have realised that their victory would not now be so easy. They had halted and their dragoons were pulling back to reorganise, ready to support the infantry attack. General Brenier put three of his four battalions in his first line. The fourth was behind the centre battalion as a reserve. All were in attack column on a two-company frontage. Officers and NCOs shouted and chivvied the men into position on both sides. After ten minutes the French were ready.

  ‘En avant!’ called General Brenier. ‘Marche!’ The drums began to beat and the French infantry marched forward, the tails of their long coats flapping. They went at one hundred and twenty paces a minute, the drummers marking the time. One, two-three, one, two-three, on and on in the quick rhythm that would carry the attack on to and through the enemy. The soldiers began to shout as they came, bawling out ‘Vive l’empereur’ whenever the drummers paused
between each sequence. Over four thousand voices echoed down the valley. ‘Vive l’empereur!’

  The rhythm of the beating drums hammered at the waiting British. Williams found himself counting silently along with the beats. He evetes the thed the French chant. Private Murphy began muttering aloud in time with the rhythm.

  ‘Old trows-ers! Old trows-ers!’

  Dobson joined in, and then more men on either side as the nonsensical phrase spread throughout the battalion.

  ‘Old trows-ers! Old trows-ers!’

  Williams laughed and joined in.

  ‘Old trows-ers! Old trows-ers!’ The chant was loud now, the men of the 106th bellowing out the words as if to challenge the French.

  MacAndrews grinned as he listened to them. He looked to either side and saw that the other battalions had now re-formed and were ready. General Nightingall and his staff were on a low knoll just behind the 106th, and as MacAndrews watched the general waved his cocked hat forwards.

  ‘Mr Fletcher, prepare to advance.’

  The RSM cleared his throat. ‘Silence in the ranks!’ The chanting stopped. ‘’Talion will advance. Forward march!’

  The three lines of redcoats stepped out towards the oncoming enemy. The French were close now, less than two hundred yards away, so close that the skirmishers on both sides ran back to the flanks. Still the drums beat and the men shouted ‘Vive l’empereur!’ Officers ran ahead of the column, willing their men onwards to crush the thin British line. The British advanced more quietly, and then the pipers of the 71st struck up and the wild, savage music carried over all the other noise.

  MacAndrews was ahead of the colour party, and walked his horse forward without looking behind him. He did not really need it, but the call of the pipes made him draw his basket-hilted sword. For a moment he laughed at the thought that he was still ready to kick off his shoes and run headlong at the enemy like the wildest clansman. Company officers marched at the right of their men.

  ‘Steady, lads, steady,’ said Pringle quietly. Other officers repeated the simple phrase or stayed grimly silent.

  The French were closer now. Pringle could see the faces of the men in the front ranks, watched the mouths open wide as they chanted ‘Vive l’empereur!’ Most of them had moustaches and looked like old veterans. It was hard to believe that anything could stop them. The clean-shaven British looked like mere children by comparison.

  At one hundred yards the French columns stopped for a moment and fired. MacAndrews felt the balls fly past him. There was a low sigh from behind him and out of the corner of his eye he saw a flicker as the King’s Colour fell for a moment. The ensign carrying it was dead, but one of the sergeants picked up the flag and carried it until the next most senior ensign could be summoned from his company. Other men fell. The captain of the 82nd who had organised the line against the cavalry was hit on the kneecap and had to grit his teeth as he tried not to scream. A piper of the 71st was down, shot through both thighs, but he propped himself up against a stone and a moment later was playing again, the music urging the men on as the Highlanders advanced past him.

  The British did not check. Sergeants forced men to close up the gaps and the red bundles of rags were left behind the lines as they moved on. There were two cannon beside the central French battalion and these deployed now. MacAndrews tried not to watch the gunners as they hefted the gun barrels from the travelling to the firing position and flipped the covers over to hold the trunnions in place. They rammed down charges and then balls fixed to their wooden sabots.

  Vive l’empereur!’ ‘Vive l’empereur!’ First one gun fired and then the second a moment later. A ball struck the Grenadier Company of the 106th and decapitated each of the four men in one file. One moment they were whole, and then the heads seemed to disintegrate, spraying blood and brains over the men around them. The bodies stayed upright for an instant, blood gouting from the necks, and then folded down. Sergeant Darrowfield yelled at the men to close up.

  ‘’Talion halt! Present!’ Fletcher’s voice commanded instant obedience, but MacAndrews let his enthusiasm get the better of him and called out the final order himself. ‘Fire!’

  Only the first two ranks fired, for it would have been dangerous for the men behind them. Some three hundred and fifty muskets flamed out and blanketed the front of the 106th in dense smoke. A dozen muskets misfired, although most of the men did not notice. They could not see, but the volley slammed into the front of the central French column and flung men bodily backwards. There were screams and dull thuds as the heavy metal balls struck home. British muskets were larger-calibre than the French and the soft lead balls easily lost shape and smashed bone as they drove deep into flesh. More than twenty men were dead, and twice that number wounded. Some of them would not survive the night. The chanting and drumming had stopped and been replaced by cries and sobs of pain.

  MacAndrews was about to give the order to fix bayonets when he glanced back and noticed that the blades were already screwed on to the tops of the men’s muskets. For the life of him he could not remember giving that order.

  ‘’Talion will advance! Forward march!’

  The 106th went through the smoke of their own volley at a steady pace. On either side of them the Highlanders and 82nd were doing the same. The pipes were still playing, the whining notes making themselves heard over everything else. The British volleys had devastated the fronts of the French columns. The enemy had stopped. Officers yelled and tried to restore order. The left and the central columns started to deploy their rear companies in an effort to form line and return the British fire. It was too late.

  ‘Charge!’ screamed MacAndrews, and kicked his heels into the sides of his horse. The 106th cheered and ran forward after him. The other regiments were charging too, the pipes now sounding more ragged as the pipers struggled to keep up. The French cannon fired again, and two canisters burst among the 106th, scything down clumps of redcoats. Private Murphy was nicked on the arm, but hissed a few blasphemies through his teeth and kept going. Shots were fired from the fronts of the French columns, and one of the companies trying to deploy was panicked into firing and sent musket balls into the British and their own comrades alike.

  The columns broke. Men turned to flee, and although the sergeants behind the companies stopped the first ones there were too many and suddenly there was just a flood of fugitives surging to the rear. MacAndrews glimpsed a gilded eagle flying over the disintegrating column and headed towards it, thinking what a fine thing it would be to take such a trophy. He was ahead of his men, and cut down clumsily at a French soldier who looked confused, but still thrust his bayonet up at the Scotsman. MacAndrews’ blow sliced into the soldier’s shako, which stuck absurdly on his blade, and was still heavy enough to knock the man down, even though it did not break the skin. Then there were men around him all trying to surrender and the major realised that the fighting was over.

  illiams sprinted ahead of the other grenadiers towards the French guns. He was not thinking, simply acting, desperate to reach the artillerymen before they could reload and fire or escape. He had barged his way through the formation. Dobson was close behind him, and perhaps others, and he glimpsed Darrowfield coming almost level with him, his half-pike reaching towards the enemy. Then the sergeant stumbled and there was a horrible scream as the head of his pike stuck in the ground and the blunt butt rammed itself through his belly. Williams did not see this, but kept running. Dobson stopped and cradled the dying Darrowfield in his arms. They had known each other a long time, and if not friends were old comrades. Darrowfield sobbed in agony, and blood trickled from his mouth. Bloody daft way to die, thought Dobson.

  Williams ran on. The gunners were frantically swabbing out the gun barrel to extinguish all the burning embers and stop them setting off the next charge prematurely. Men had both the charge and a metal canister ready in their hands. Williams wished now that his musket was loaded, but it was too late to think about that, and so he yelled a challenge at them and forced his
legs to go faster. A gunner in dark blue jacket and matching trousers came at him, swinging a heavy rammer. Williams ducked the blow, and slammed the butt of his musket into the man’s groin. The Frenchman doubled up, and Williams hit him on the head for good measure as he rushed past. The next man had a short sabre, but the volunteer parried the cut with his bayonet, flicked the weapon aside and then jabbed the point into the man’s throat. There was a look of horrified surprise as the gunner dropped his sword and clutched at the gaping wound. He hissed and blood jetted out over his tunic and on to Williams’ hand as the volunteer pulled back the blade.

  A voice was yelling obscenities and Williams dimly realised that it was his own. He was at the gun itself now, and two more Frenchmen came at him. One was an officer, his sword long and expertly held as the man bared his teeth wildly. He lunged at Williams, who only just managed to duck so that the blade sliced through the grenadier’s wing on his right shoulder, cutting through the wool decoration. The sword stuck, and Williams felt his jacket tear as he in turn jabbed at the officer’s face with the butt of his musket. The Frenchman jerked back and received only a glancing blow. At the same moment the gunner swung a heavy trailspike and hit Williams in the body, knocking him sideways. His musket fell from his hands as he landed and rolled on the grass.

  The man was coming for him, the iron club raised once again, as Williams got up to his knees. Most of his right sleeve and a lot of his jacket had been ripped away, and he glimpsed the French officer trying to disentangle the remains from his sword. Half up, Williams sprang towards the gunner, hitting him in the stomach and knocking the man down beneath him. One hand grabbed the Frenchman’s throat and his right fist pummelled the man’s face bloody. The officer had freed his blade and now came towards them.