‘Forward march!’ called Pringle. He strode ahead, keeping his gaze fixed on the enemy, not wanting to let the men see that he doubted whether or not they would follow him. Sergeant Rodriguez was haranguing them. A shot snapped past not too far above his head, and there was a thud and a moan as someone was hit.
Then the French were going back. Pringle was surprised, but the French were skirmishers and did not want to let formed troops get too close. They did it well, and under control, working in pairs like Williams and his men. One man helped another to the rear, and a third voltigeur was stretched in the grass, unmoving, and Billy suspected that one of the redcoats must have hit him because he doubted any of the shots fired by the company had struck home.
Someone fired from behind him, and Pringle turned and swore as he saw that the company had halted again. Men skinned their knuckles as they went through the loading drill with bayonets fixed. Rodriguez was trying to drag men forward, and Dolosa was screaming at them to move, but they would not.
‘Come on, my brave lads!’ The voice was shrill as Leyne ran past Pringle waving his sword. ‘Come on to glory!’
‘Viva el rey Fernando!’ Dolosa set off after him. The rough company line rippled as some men shuffled a few paces forward.
‘French on our left!’ That was Williams, shouting a warning, and when Pringle looked he saw a formed company appearing from a fold in the ground. The men had tall red plumes and red epaulettes and that marked them as grenadiers.
‘Back!’ Billy shouted. Going forward now would only help the grenadiers to get behind them.
‘On, my lads, follow me!’ Leyne was still yelling, and then he staggered as a ball broke his right arm above the elbow. He dropped his slim sword, but kept running at the voltigeurs and urging the men on. A few of the recruits were charging now, but in the back rank others responded to Pringle’s command and turned and ran.
Leyne was shot again, this time in the stomach, and his shouts turned into a long-drawn-out shriek as he slumped to his knees, his one good hand pressed over this second wound. Dolosa was beside him, and then he too stumbled and fell, blood bright just above the top of his left boot.
The company collapsed. All the recruits were now running, streaming back towards the gap in the hedge.
‘En avant!’ a man on horseback sent the grenadiers into a sudden screaming charge. The man had a white cloak and a silver helmet shaped like the ones dragoons wore, and that seemed strange for the commander of infantry.
‘Back, Bills! Get back!’ screamed Billy. Williams fired, as did Rose, and then all four redcoats were running.
One of the Spanish corporals ran forward to rescue Dolosa and somehow he inspired a recruit to go with him. Pringle called to Rodriguez, pointing at the gap. ‘We need to hold there!’ Whether or not he understood all the words, the man was experienced enough to guess the sense. ‘Bills, stop at the hedge!’ Pringle added.
The horseman had spurred forward, and now hacked down once, the heavy blade wielded with practised strength so that it cut through the corporal’s bicorne hat and skull. The recruit stopped, frozen in horror, and was still staring blankly when the Frenchman freed his blade, and turned his horse back. The recruit died from a thrust through the collar of his jacket. Grenadiers were running around them now. Dolosa staggered to his feet, screaming insults at the enemy, and sliced with his sword to nick the arm of the first grenadier to reach him. For a moment the French soldiers fell back a couple of steps. Then one brought his musket up and shot the Spanish lieutenant in the head.
One of the recruits lost a boot in the mud. He ran on awkwardly for a few paces and then slipped and fell. By the time he had pushed himself up a grenadier with the single gold stripe of a sergeant on the sleeve of his jacket was on him. The young soldier raised his hands. The sergeant ignored him and jabbed precisely with his bayonet, the point sliding between the man’s ribs to pierce his heart.
Two more recruits tried to surrender, and Pringle watched as one was shot and the other bayoneted. He had not seen warfare quite as brutal as this, for the French and British generally treated each other with great respect. The grenadiers did not look wild, in a state when even mild men might kill without hesitation. Instead they seemed to slaughter the helpless men almost casually. Billy felt that he was no longer in a war he knew, and that thought was chilling. Leyne was stretched on the ground, not moving, but Pringle had not seen anyone deliver a death blow so hoped that they would allow the poor young Irishman the chance to surrender.
Williams and Rose stood behind the kneeling Dobson and Murphy as Billy jogged through the gap in the hedge. Once he was past, the two kneeling men fired.
‘Back to the garden!’ Billy pointed to show Williams where he meant, and then turned to see Rodriguez and the remaining corporal standing just behind the hedge. He gestured and they came forward to cover the gap. The French were forming up again, the helmeted horseman urging them into the attack.
Pringle glanced back and saw that Williams and his men were in the arched gateway of the walled garden. He gave them enough time to reload before giving the order.
‘Fire!’
The two Spaniards took careful aim and then fired.
‘Now, get back!’ yelled Pringle, and he waited for the two men to go before following. The smoke from their shots thinned enough for him to see that a grenadier was down. Shots came back in reply, shaking the hedge as they struck.
The French did not follow, and that was just as well because with only Williams and the five NCOs Pringle doubted that they could have held them off long enough to escape.
That evening Pringle remained angry with himself for the failure, and even more bitter at the confused and ill-thought-out orders behind the attack. The main sally had failed, and now he had discovered that the company from the Majorca Regiment had been ordered to a different task at the last minute, but that no one had informed the major who gave him his orders.
His men – and they were his even if they still seemed strangers and he could not claim to know them and their moods in the same way that he knew his own grenadiers – had broken and fled. Most had run as far back as the convent and then waited there, and once again they had looked like schoolboys, this time caught out in some misdemeanour. One source of relief was that none of them had dropped his musket, and that suggested that the panic was not total.
Yet when they had marched back into the town, people they passed had cheered them and shouted out ‘Viva los ingleses!’ They seemed happy that the garrison was striking at the enemy, and happier still that the British were here.
Pringle wondered how long the mood would last. Josepha dozed beside him, and as he shifted to get more comfortable he tried his best not to wake her. Personally he doubted that the British army would be willing to take too great a risk to save Ciudad Rodrigo. He had never before experienced a siege, and was none too enthusiastic about the prospect. It was hard to lose men, and he suspected that the day’s casualties would not be the last.
Even more he worried about Josepha. Pringle had not known that she had gone to Ciudad Rodrigo to stay with the widowed cousin of her mother, a lady who appeared to have generous views on the freedom allowed to young people. Civilians were not safe in a siege. Indeed, they were probably not safe from the French almost anywhere in Spain, but when a city fell it was worse. Soldiers forced to fight their way over or through the walls of a fortress were apt to run wild. Pringle already wondered whether he would be able to protect her when the time came.
Yet worse than that was the realisation of Josepha’s desperation. They had met when he led a training march through Fuentes de Oñoro and he had accepted her family’s hospitality. He had returned at every opportunity, for the girl’s mother was dead, her father almost always absent and her enthusiasm was so great. She had spoken of her betrothal, but so dismissively that he had not felt worried. Now the fellow was here, and a bloodthirsty leader of partisans no doubt unlikely to take too kindly to a rival.
&nbs
p; That mattered less than the words she had spoken before she had drifted off. Josepha had talked of marriage and going to England, and there had been such desperation in her voice. Pringle had not realised that she was looking for such a thing, and then wondered whether that was because at first his Spanish had been limited. Had he given her some hope of that without meaning to do so? That would be unfortunate, because she was a sweet-natured girl of immense kindness. The truth was that in the last months he had once or twice thought of marriage, but not with this pretty child. Instead he found himself thinking of Miss Anne Williams more and more often. His life seemed to be becoming much more serious.
Billy Pringle was worried, and for the first time since returning to Spain he really wanted to be so drunk that the world and his cares faded away for a few hours. He wished MacAndrews or someone else was here, for then he would not be senior and could indulge himself. Instead, he stared up through the high window at the silhouette of the castle’s tower and simply worried.
15
The ball hit the old stone battlements and flicked up a little puff of dust as it flattened. A moment later a second bullet punched yet another hole in the hat held on a stick above the parapet by one of the recruits. Corporal Rose grinned at him, and the lad was by now confident enough to smile back. Pringle was pleased, for he felt the men were beginning to get used to being under fire.
Shots had so far come in groups of four, and so Rose waited for two more to strike the wall and then bobbed up in the embrasure. He took a moment to aim and steady himself and then fired down into the field beyond the glacis. As he ducked back behind the battlements he exchanged his musket for one freshly loaded. Pringle had six of the company up on the wall assisting Rose. Five loaded and the other raised the hat on a stick to give the French sharpshooters a target. Rose was probably the best shot in the company and so he was given this job, while the others drilled the remainder of the recruits. Pringle wanted to avoid another shambles like the last sortie.
Day by day, the French were drawing an ever tighter ring around the town. Before dawn, pairs of their voltigeurs crept forward to within musket range of the wall. Some had scraped pits for cover, while others used garden walls or fallen trees. Throughout the day they sniped at the defenders, shooting especially at the embrasures they knew contained guns. Not many gunners had been hit so far. Inevitably almost all were struck in the head or shoulders since the rest of them was protected by the parapet, and so the wounds were bad or fatal.
The chances of Rose hitting any of the concealed Frenchmen was slight, and Pringle kept wishing that they had one of the 95th with them to use his more accurate, rifled musket. He was more concerned with making his men feel valuable, and giving obvious purpose to practising loading.
His men had not been ordered to take part in any of the sallies launched after the first day. None had gone well, for the French regiments closest to the town were obviously veterans. Sometimes they gave way a little when surprised, but it was never long before they struck back, usually from an unexpected direction and always with ferocious confidence. A day ago Pringle and Williams had watched helplessly from the walls as they saw voltigeurs working their way around both flanks of a strong column from one of the volunteer battalions. Suddenly shot at from the sides and rear, the citizens turned so recently to soldiers had panicked and fled. So had many of the townsfolk lining the battlements, for while the sallies were launched the French skirmishers were too busy to fire at the walls and so it was safe to stand there. Women had screamed and then the two British officers found themselves clinging on to the battlements to stop themselves from being swept away by the stampede. Fighting outside played to all the strengths of the French.
That afternoon Pringle heard the senior engineer officer Brigadier Don Juan de Beletá say as much at a meeting held by the governor. He had found himself summoned to these daily sessions, and was by far the most junior in rank to attend. Sometimes it was just the soldiers who were brought together, but on other days the bishop who held civilian authority and other town worthies were also present. Pringle struggled to follow the rapid Spanish, but noticed that the soldiers usually did their best to speak slowly, or sometimes employed French.
‘It is better than sitting and doing nothing,’ said Herrasti after patiently listening to his subordinate’s observations. ‘Soldiers and civilians alike feel better because we are doing something. They are inspired, too, by your raids, Don Julián.’ The governor gave a slight bow.
El Charro responded with equal courtesy. ‘I’ll ride out again tonight with all my men. Half will strike at their bridges.’
‘What progress have they made?’ asked the senior engineer, particularly interested in his French counterparts. Marshal Ney had set his men to building two bridges across the Agueda. The town’s guns controlled the stone bridge under its walls, and there were no other crossings for a great distance with the water so high.
‘The first is finished,’ Don Julián Sánchez said tonelessly. ‘The second will soon be complete. They are still throwing up redoubts to protect each one.’ That was chilling, because it would give the French much greater access to the far bank and help them to surround Ciudad Rodrigo completely.
‘Everything we have sent down the river at them has not made much difference,’ Beletá explained. His men had floated heavy logs, and even tried a barge set on fire, but the current had not worked well and the French intercepted almost everything. ‘How much damage can you do?’
Don Julián shrugged. ‘Well, we’ll rob them of sleep, and maybe kill one or two we find wandering about, but there is no point flinging my men against ramparts.’ He looked around the table, glancing at each face in turn and lingering. Pringle was not sure whether or not El Charro paused just a little longer when looking at him. It was very strange to be in the same room as Josepha’s betrothed. Pringle was surprised at his small size, but that impression swiftly faded in the face of the guerrilla leader’s controlled force. The others were older men, of higher rank in the regular army, and yet all clearly respected the former sergeant. El Charro knew how to fight, and governor and townsfolk alike felt happier that he was here.
‘While half my men go for the bridges,’ Don Julián continued, ‘I shall take the rest and slip through the French outposts. We shall head for the Salamanca road and see if there are any supply convoys to snap up.’ There were still wide gaps in the French outpost line. Messengers and even large parties could pass through with care.
‘Then may God go with you, for we could dearly do with a victory,’ said the governor. ‘Still, I have received a letter from Lord Wellington assuring me of his support.’ He beamed at Pringle. ‘Gentlemen, we must be careful, but we will continue to raid and harry the enemy as much as possible. The trick will be never to go so far that we cannot readily escape.
‘I cannot say how much we will hurt them, but even the least thing will help. And we can slow them down. Every hour spent standing to arms and facing one of our attacks is an hour they cannot be labouring on the siege works, so let them spend more time floundering in the mud.’ Pringle’s orders to Rose and his party followed the same reasoning, perhaps creating a nuisance, and at least helping to instil some experience into his raw soldiers.
‘The artillery will only fire in support of our sallies or if some magnificent target appears.’ This was the Commandant General in charge of the artillery. ‘We must save powder and shot to smash their batteries when those are built and cannon mounted in them. A little practice now will help our gunners to learn, but we do not want to wear out the guns or their crews so early on.’
Herrasti dealt with a few more minor matters, before asking the bishop to close in prayer. At the end he smiled encouragingly. ‘Well, that is all for today. Thank you, gentlemen.’
As they left, Captain Pringle thought it best to let all the senior men go first, and so was almost the last to leave the room. Don Julián Sánchez was waiting in the corridor, and the little man fell into step besi
de him, holding his helmet under one arm.
‘I believe we have a mutual friend.’ El Charro was smiling, but Pringle could not help thinking that the same was true of many a predator before it pounced. He hoped that his face betrayed no emotion. The man should not know of his affair with Josepha, but then guerrillas were surely very good at finding out about their enemies. Billy Pringle dearly hoped this small and cheerful man was not his enemy.
‘Guillermo Hanley,’ the guerrilla explained.
Pringle hoped his own broad smile would pass for simple pleasure and not relief. ‘Oh, Hanley. Yes, he is an excellent fellow.’
‘He said the company coming from La Concepción would be led by two of his comrades and that you were both men to be trusted.’
Was there an edge in El Charro’s voice? ‘Decent of him, although to tell you the truth, I cannot see what good we are doing here.’
‘You are here as a symbol,’ said Don Julián Sánchez. ‘People feel that if redcoats are here with us, then your general will be all the more ready to come and save them when the crisis comes.’
‘Then why keep us out of the way rather than parade us marching out to new attacks?’
‘Herrasti has done that once, and it cost him one of your number. You are no use to him if you all get killed.’
They came out of the castle into the market square.
‘Viva El Charro!’ The shout went up almost instantly, soldiers joining in with the women and the elderly civilians going about their business. ‘Viva El Charro y viva los ingleses!’
The guerrilla leader waved to the crowd. A few women ran forward and knelt to kiss his hand. ‘You see what I mean,’ he said to Pringle as they at last got through the crowd. ‘I do know all about being a symbol. We give them hope, and that is a rare and precious thing in a doomed town.’
Pringle was shocked at the words, and this time he obviously betrayed his feelings.
All in Scarlet Uniform (Napoleonic War 4) Page 16
