“Wait, Lacey. I will bring over two Companies of Grenadiers from our right. They can form up to answer those brigands on the hillside. Hold here, I will get them myself.”
With that he put spurs to his horse and galloped off, but Lacey didn’t like it, coming from far over, how long before the Grenadiers arrived? He called to O’Hare.
“O’Hare. Bring round No 1, the nearest, to answer those French in the scrub on the hillside. When the Grenadiers arrive, they will take their place, so then return No. 1 to their original front.”
O’Hare saluted and ran across to give the order, in this case to Captain Reynolds. The Company broke apart but soon reformed as a firing line opposing the Voltigeurs, but the French Brigadier must have seen the threat that they were posing to the British because he had reinforced them. No. 1 was heavily outgunned, even though the range was over 100 yards, however, Reynolds was answering the French with volley by ranks and the French began to fall, but so too were his own men.
Deakin and Halfway, both stood in the middle of No. 3, and facing the oncoming French line, were as worried as Lacey. An eruption of smoke from the French position added to their worries, French artillery had come into action but at least firing round shot not case, nevertheless there came cries and screaming from over on their right. Then a shell fell short in front of them and exploded, setting fire to the tinder dry grass, which quickly spread, adding choking smoke to the dust and heat. Both pulled up their neckerchiefs to cover their mouths and noses and many copied, but the smoke stung their eyes.
“This be turnin’ into a bad battle, Jed.”
“You’ll get no argument from me.”
“Who do you think we’ll be fightin’, Jed, them in front or the cavalry?”
“Them in front, Toby. Those bastards be aimin’ to close. We’ll be muzzle to muzzle afore long. But what I don’t like is them sneakin’ along to our left. They’m gettin’ behind us. B’ain’t good.”
Then he turned to see what he first heard. Grenadiers were doubling behind them, their kit clashing together sounding nothing like musical, but it was a sweet enough sound to him for all that. Cole was with them and he saw what Lacey had done in his absence and was both impressed and reassured as Reynold’s company quickly dissolved to make way for the Grenadiers and then reform on their original front. One of the Companies he brought over was Carravoy’s and his Grenadiers formed on the end of the 5th line, forming a corner with the members of their own battalion. Before riding off Cole gave Carravoy his simple orders.
“You’re in command, Captain. Stand with your men and give all the fire you can. Keep Johnny over there!”
Carravoy brought his sword up before his face, which was good because it hid the anxiety that was growing there. He was never more grateful than when he found Major O’Hare standing beside him.
“Hello Captain Carravoy. Welcome back to the Battalion!”
Carravoy made no reply and O’Hare could tell that, despite the reassuring tone he was trying to use, it caused no change in Carravoy. He was almost in a state of shock from all the noise, screams, and rapid changes of ground.
“Right. Off you go, but don’t run, it gives a bad impression. Steady your men, then volley by ranks. But you may find yourself having to go to independent fire. Get as many bullets into those gombeens over there as you can. Good luck to you now.”
Carravoy took himself off and joined the front rank that was just forming, but already some were falling from enemy fire. He gave the orders and volleys began. The man beside him uttered something between a grunt and a sigh and collapsed on the ground at his feet, choking out blood onto the dry earth. Another fell, three files up, making no sound, just falling in a heap. Carravoy felt his self control going and his voice cracking, but he kept his place, fear of shame and fear of the enemy both vying within him. His one consolation was that his men were loading and firing as though at a practice, standing firm, asking his pardon when they needed him to give them room to reload.
Cole looked over to his left. It was still perilous, all the more so because the Voltigeurs were receiving yet more reinforcements and the French cavalry were massing behind them as if to turn this flank, at present held only by the two deep line of Grenadiers. Also he was being menaced in front by an advancing French Brigade, supported by artillery. He looked for Lacey.
“Lacey. We must extend back further from the Grenadiers opposite the skirmishers and also form them four deep on that side for cavalry. Should I bring over more Grenadiers, or can your men move quickly enough out of the centre?”
“It must be done quickly, Sir, in case the cavalry come soon upon us. My men are nearest. Pull 6, 7, and 8, out of the centre and close up the Grenadiers from the right to fill the gap. That will bring them into the fight that’s coming on our front.”
“Very good.”
He turned to his Aide de Camp, at his side but just behind.
“Madden. You heard that?”
“Yes Sir.”
“Get them over, at the double. Then on to the Grenadiers. Tell them to close up at their best speed.”
The Aide de Camp galloped off and Lacey followed, only jogging on foot. He didn’t like a three Company hole in his front, he wanted to be there himself to see all quickly set to right. Madden had got there first and the three Companies were already turning out of the line. He continued his run, but stopped when his men were passing him, shouting as much to the men as to their Captains.
“Form fours as you go, men. You’re against cavalry.”
Lacey’s remaining companies were watching the approaching French infantry to their main front, reacting to the sight as they saw fit. As he passed the last Companies, Lacey heard both Officers and Sergeants encouraging their men, but in different ways. Some uttering dire threats.
“If any one of you bastards takes one backward step you’ll get my halberd through you, see if you don’t.”
Elsewhere he heard different forms of encouragement.
“Get off your ten, boys. Just get off your ten. That’ll see these Crapauds away, you see if it don’t. Ten good shots will do it.”
Lacey reached the beginning of the now huge gap, and didn’t like what he saw. The French line was little more that 150 yards distant and the Grenadiers had not moved. The French had to be halted. He saw no choice but to create a long range firefight, it would decide nothing, but it would hold off the immediate danger.
“Prepare for volley fire by ranks.”
The word was passed along and Lacey saw his men, the five companies remaining, all come to the “make ready”, steady and waiting. The French were now 100 yards away.
“Front rank, present. Fire!”
He let the smoke clear a little.
“Rear rank, present. Fire!”
The Captains took over and the volleys continued. Lacey waited for a gap in the smoke and looked. He saw that the French were halted but were now stood returning fire. He then heard what Deakin had heard earlier, the Grenadiers were closing up behind him. The firefight was set up, albeit at long range. There was nothing for it now but to stand up to it and trust to his men.
Cole was organising the Grenadiers to receive cavalry and was wholly relieved to see that the 5th Provisionals were arriving already in fours. They ran to their places, but instead of receiving the still threatening cavalry, what happened was that the Voltigeurs crept closer and increased their fire, a four deep line being impossible to miss. From the outset, Cole’s new line began to take casualties.
On the main front the requirement was now to fire as often as possible and the Captains had ordered independent fire. The smoke and noise from the opposing lines was indescribable, each man could do nothing but follow the orders he gave to himself. D’Villiers was stood in front of his men, stock still. He couldn’t move even had he wanted, but his men wanted him back to clear their field of fire. They had called out “Come back, Sir,” but he had remained out front, sword sloped back over his right shoulder, so the NCO’
s moved the men up, causing a curve in No.3 company, but they were now firing either side of him. His mind was shutting out all the noise and the mayhem; he didn’t notice the noise from the bellowing muzzles no more than inches either side of him. In contrast, Heaviside was walking up and down behind the two deep line, giving encouragement in the way that would have worried the men, were it any different, and causing many a wry grin to pass across faces now stained with dust and gunpowder.
“Stand and deal it out to them, men. Thou comest to me with a sword, and with a spear, and with a shield: but I come to thee in the name of the Lord of hosts. First Samuel. 17, verse 45.”
The range was down to 75 yards, as the French inched forward. These, too, were veterans of Morengo. It was a pure test of will with each side having two battalions, but the British had one advantage, in a two deep line every man could fire; the French were in three lines, the third line taking no part, only there to fill the gaps from casualties. Both sides were under artillery fire, but the British were firing case shot, the French continued with solid. O’Hare looked along the line of No. 3 Company. This was far from his first battle, but nevertheless emotion rose within him. The 5th Provisionals were holding their line, edging forward, loading and firing like veterans, their musket barrels moving smoothly through the angles required to reload and fire. Halfway and Deakin were close to him in the front rank, with Gibney and Mulcahey locked on behind. Gibney had discarded his halberd and had prised a musket from a deadman’s fingers. Each was matching the other load for load, firing at the flashes seen through the smoke before them; four reloads per minute.
The exchange of fire continued, ten minutes and beyond. No. 1 Company had been in action for almost 15. A runner, an NCO in No.1, part of O’Hare’s messenger network, came to him and saluted.
“From Captain Reynold’s, Sir. Our Company is runnin’ low on cartridges. Some of the lads have fired more than 40, Sir. Only close on 10 left. Were takin’ the cartridges from the dead and wounded already, Sir.”
“Thank you, Corporal. Return. Give Captain Reynolds my compliments and tell him to hold his fire to three per minute. I will see that ammunition arrives soon.”
He looked for an Officer, but there was none. He turned to an NCO.
“Corporal.”
The NCO turned to face towards him, his face was sweat stained and filthy with dust, white eyes emphasised in the grime. His left ear was covered by a kerchief, and black grains of gunpowder adhering to parched lips. His “Britannia” shako plate showed that he was “old Norfolk”.
“Name, please Corporal?”
“Harris, Sir.”
“Take yourself back at the double to our supply train, Harris. I want more cartridges up here in five minutes. Clear?”
“Sir.”
Harris ran off.
Sedgwicke and Pearson were both in a state of high agitation, but for different reasons. Sedgwicke could see the lines of wounded being attended by the Surgeon and his Assistants, their screams loud even above the sounds of battle as amputations were carried out with nothing to ease the pain beyond a piece of wood locked into their mouths. Some were obviously beyond help with nothing more to ease their dying than a mouthful of water, other lay waiting their turn with the Surgeon. He wanted to go to them to give them the Peace of the Last Rites, but Pearson forbade it. He was himself in a state of near terror being so close to the fighting which was evidently very fierce, but he was enough of an old soldier to realise that this fire fight had gone on for some time and would soon need more ammunition. He was involved in his own argument with the other Storemen who were saying that they should take the cartridges up anyway. The mules were loaded and ready, but a look forward and to the left showed him the clouds of dust and that meant cavalry, and some hundreds of yards ahead he could see the firefight between the Voltigeurs and the line opposing them. He wanted nothing to do with going further forward, but a runner was coming back. Harris went straight to Pearson.
“Major O’Hare wants the ammunition brought up. Straight away.”
Pearson looked at Harris. His appearance alone told of the ferocity of the fight.
“I wants volunteers to take these mules forward.”
Harris was incensed and even leveled his musket at Pearson.”
“Bugger your volunteers. The damn lot of you is needed. “'Tain’t just about getting’ the new up there, ‘tis also about takin’ the cartridges along the line, to give to the lads. Now get these mules up there, or I’ll put one in you, an’ I don’t care if I swing for it. The rest of you, load your muskets, they may be needed. We’re goin’ back up.”
Their muskets were already loaded and were swung up onto their shoulders. Sedgwicke seized the bridle of a mule and began to pull it forward, as did others so that the mules moved towards the conflict. All the Storemen were pulling a mule, wherever it was in the train and all were moving bar Pearson. Harris placed the muzzle before his nose.
“You an’ all. Sergeant Quartermaster!”
The mules were moving up, but the fight was coming their way. The French Voltigeurs, chosen for their initiative, could see the supplies and these elite soldiers soon worked out why they were needed and where they were going. Bullets began to sing around the group. One hit a mule and the animal bucked and reared throwing its burden around like mere parcels until a Storeman shot the animal and cut its tether. The train moved on, but into greater peril. A Voltigeur Officer, of high courage, was leading six of his men across to intercept the mules. Harris walked forward to meet them. At 40 yards he shot one, but was then shot himself, collapsing over in a heap. The Voltigeurs knew what to do, shoot the muleteers then drive off the mules and so they came on to do just that, but they needed point blank range amidst the milling animals.
The Storemen raised their own muskets and fired. Sedgwicke pulled the trigger, but nothing happened, he hadn’t fully cocked the hammer. Two more French were brought down, which left four including the Officer. The Storemen were reloading frantically, when a volley from the right brought down all the remaining French except the Officer. A Lieutenant of the 5th’s Grenadiers had noticed where the Voltigeurs were running and had pulled some men out of the line to meet them, but the surviving Officer ran on trying to drive off the mules. The nearest was Sedgwicke’s. He swung at Sedgwicke with his sword and he instinctively raised his musket to take the blow, but then the Officer collapsed against him, mouth and eyes wide in shock. He had been shot from behind by the Lieutenant’s pistol.
“Well done, men. Now get all this forward. It’s urgently needed.”
The mules were urged forward again, escorted by the men from the 5th. They noticed Sedgwicke.
“Well done, Parson. There must be rum on they mules, don’t ‘ee think lads? B’ain’t that so, Parson?”
The men all laughed, as did Sedgwicke, then they had reached the firing line, the smoke swirling back into their faces. Pearson was in a complete state of terror, and so the Corporal Storeman; the one “three fingers missing”, took over, as the boxes of cartridges on half the mules were broken open.
“Right lads. Get a haversack, two would be better, fill it and then give ‘em out. Ten each. Never mind their cartridge boxes, stuff ‘em into their pockets. Parson, take these other mules on to the end of the line. Do the same up there. You two go with him.”
Sedgwicke and his two companions dragged the reluctant and frightened mules further along the line, stopped and took off the boxes. The mules ran off as soon as they were unburdened, but the cartridges were exposed and Sedgwicke and the two loaded their haversacks with the white paper cylinders. Three lightly wounded soldiers came and did the same. All ran off to different parts of the line. Some soldiers came back from the line to claim their own from the open boxes and also take some back for their comrades. Sedgwicke took himself into the bedlam of the firing line and as he came to each soldier he rammed about ten down into his right hand pocket.
He came to one soldier who mumbled his thanks before col
lapsing against Sedgwicke with blood pouring from what had been his eye socket. But Sedgwicke kept on and then he reached Deakin and Gibney. Deakin noticed him first and held his pocket open for the cartridges.
“Hello, Parson. Look who’s here, Pat, Toby, ‘tis Parson. Glad to see you, Parson, there b’ain’t many Storemen like thee in this firing line that I’ve seen.”
Gibney joined in, whilst priming his musket.
“Percy, my boy. ‘Tis pleased we all are t’see thee. Ah’m fine for now, nearly a full box, but get th’sen on down the line, there’s lads there as is very short. Good lad, Percy, well done to thee.”
In the time it took to say that, he had brought his musket to the “present” and sent another ball into the French line. Sedgwicke moved on, lifted himself at what they had said to him, “in the midst of mortal peril”, their simple words of praise and greeting.
Cole sat his horse and looked, both to his left and to his front. Lacey was close by, but each said nothing. The situation was stable, Cole was holding the flank and his men were putting up a stubborn fight, but they were getting the worst of it. A look along the line showed a redcoated figure prone at the feet of almost all those remaining in the line and the drummers were helping the continuous stream of walking wounded back to the Surgeon. In between his main concerns it struck him that he could have no complaints about the 5th Provisionals; they were standing their ground and making a fight as well as any Line Regiment he had seen or heard of. However, he knew that if the French Commander knew his business, soon he would release his cavalry onto Cole’s weakened line, but he had to hold. Defeat here could lose a battle so nearly won.
The minutes wore on. He could see the punishment his men were taking and he had little idea of what was being inflicted on the French, but clearly they held the initiative and they were closing the range, both on his main front and also the Voltigeurs to the side. The psychology of battles told them that they held the upper hand. Suddenly Cole heard two heavy volleys behind and to the left and he looked fearfully over, to be quickly and wholly reassured. Above the smoke he could see two British Standards which he recognized as those of the 20th East Devons, the Union Flag that was the King’s Colour and the pale cream yellow of their Regimental Colour. The 20th had forced march up from the beach and were advancing in line along the scrub covered hillside, already pushing the Voltigeurs before them, these being those that remained standing after the first crushing volleys, but now the 20th faced a threat of their own. The French Commander, as a last throw of the dice, at last sent his cavalry forward at their firing line. The full Regiment was riding at the charge and Cole’s anxiety returned. He saw the 20th‘s Colonel address his men but could hear nothing of what he said above the din of his own ongoing firefight. What he did see was the whole Regiment come to the present and await the cavalry onslaught. At 50 yards one volley from each rank brought the French horsemen to a total halt as the front riders were brought down in a heap of men and horses and the mounts of those behind refused to ride on through the struggling shambles. The job was done; the French turned and rode off, the Voltigeurs running beside them.
Worth Their Colours (105th Foot. The Prince of Wales Own Wessex Regiment.) Page 38
