No one reacted. There seemed to be no sound beyond the gentle sigh of the wind. For the moment there was no more sound of gunfire.
‘Will you promise?’
‘Yes,’ hissed Pringle in a whisper. He guessed that other officers were doing the same.
‘Yes,’ boomed out Dobson’s voice. Rawson echoed the call immediately. Then all the grenadiers and the rest of the regiment took up the cry. ‘Yes!’
‘So be it.’ Sir Edward signalled to the commander of the provosts. The two men were quickly lowered and released. Other provosts dismantled the triangles to signal that there would be no more floggings. The officers called for three cheers for the general, which were most heartily given. MacAndrews wondered whether a last-minute reprieve had been planned from the start. He had known more than a few commanders fond of such theatrics, believing that enough fear was created, and, better still, gratitude won, so that future offences were less likely. Old Billy Howe had been a great one for such things in America.
Little clusters of greenjackets from the 95th started spilling over the crest above them. There was more popping as they turned to fire at the as yet invisible enemy. The hussars were also falling back.
As the square broke up, each of the battalions of the reserve formed column at quarter-distance and began to file in turn down the hill towards the bridge. The 106th was in the rear. It took time for the others to make their way through the narrow streets and over the bridge and MacAndrews had to halt his battalion. He turned them about in case the French arrived more quickly than expected. A troop of horse artillery with six guns each pulled by half a dozen horses caused farther delay.
When the logjam cleared, he sent Pringle with the grenadiers to form in a patch of open ground to the right of the road, before sending the next four companies of the battalion over the bridge. Together, this was half of the 106th, and since they stood on the right of the formation they were known as the right wing. The 52nd had extended along the riverbank and he had his own companies deploy on their flank. The 20th were on the other side of the road. Then the left wing crossed and formed line closer to the high towered church which stood on a rise beside the road.
Pringle waited for the order to bring his own company across the bridge. He had them in line, two deep, with the front rank kneeling, all at an angle to the road. The men were loaded and ready. The right flank was only a few yards from the bridge, but the ground dipped between the last few houses and the crossing point, making it hard for Pringle to see what was happening on the far bank.
Feet pounded as a company of the 95th came jogging down the road. Another followed close behind, and Pringle stepped back to allow the greenjackets to cross. Other riflemen were going into the houses. One of the men looked quite drunk and wandered aimlessly in the street until a comrade dragged him through the door.
Sir Edward Paget remained on the far side of the village, using his telescope to scan the high ground and the road. The 15th continued to pull back, and Wickham began to wonder when the general would himself retire. They could already see French squadrons on the road, and others were just cresting the high ground so recently occupied by the division. There were chasseurs in green, and a regiment of hussars in grey, wearing shakos rather than the fur hats of the British light dragoons.
‘Time?’ asked Sir Edward.
‘A quarter past one, sir,’ replied one his officers, checking his fob watch. A clatter of hoofs announced the arrival of Sir John himself, along with Graham, Colborne and some of his other officers.
The generals exchanged greetings, and Moore explained that he had met Slade on his ride here and hurried his pace accordingly. ‘It appears that he now considers himself ADC to Colonel Grant of the Fifteenth,’ joked Sir John, before listening to Paget explain the situation.
Wickham saw the French horsemen get closer. Using his own glass brought them even nearer. The French hussars had red facings and white lace on the fur pelisses which they wore over their jackets. Shifting his gaze, he saw glittering from the brass helmets of a squadron of dragoons. They were at some distance, but it suggested that enemy reinforcements were approaching fast. The music of a band drifted through the air, playing a jaunty tune. A mounted band seemed unlikely, so that suggested the approach of infantry. Surely it was time to leave.
As if in answer to a cue in the theatre, one of the leading French squadrons gave a cheer and charged. Others came behind it in support. Most of the 15th were some way back, filing through the main street of the village, and the heavily outnumbered piquet had no choice but to flee in front of the attack.
‘We had best be off as well,’ said Sir John. They took a side alley, but soon found themselves in the main street, trying to push through an almost solid mass of hussars and riflemen. There was shouting from behind them, and the sound of blade clashing against blade as the French charge met a troop of British hussars formed to meet them.
Somehow the mass shifted. Hussar horses so tired and lame they had barely been capable of a trot half an hour ago now found a burst of energy. Everyone, hussars, riflemen and senior officers, pelted along the road. Those in the lead were already crossing the humpbacked bridge. The mêlée broke up and there were grey-uniformed Frenchmen riding in among the rest. Rifles fired from windows, the sharp cracks of the discharges echoing along the street. A muzzle appeared from a second-floor window just in front of Wickham. He ducked beneath it as he passed, but the explosion was deafening and he was sure the flame touched him.
Horses and men were screaming. Wickham yelped as a Frenchman rode abreast of him, and then he yelled out in horror because the man’s head was almost severed from his neck, and simply hung down by a thread of skin, bumping against his chest with the motion of the horse. Another grey-coated Frenchman, this time very much alive, appeared from behind the other. He cut down to slice through the skull of a rifleman running alongside. Then a shot from another window hit the man in the face, pitching him from the saddle to be trampled in the scrimmage.
Wickham felt his horse break through the crowd, his shoes sliding for a moment on the stones of the bridge, and then he was across. He cantered along the road, not sure whether the French were coming after him and afraid to look back. MacAndrews saw him pass, his head pulled down and not looking either right or left.
The grenadiers could not fire into the French without killing their own hussars and riflemen. Pringle stood back from the bridge, knowing that he could not take his own men across until the crowd had gone. He would fire if he had to, but at the moment there were few French to be seen and most were some way back.
‘Steady, lads,’ he said calmly but firmly over the chaos. He looked along the faces of the rear rank – the men in front were too low to see – and was amazed at how confident they looked. ‘Fix bayonets!’ Men clipped the rings of the blades around the muzzles of their muskets.
The crowd started to thin. Most of the 15th were across, and the generals and their staffs long since safe. Pringle had smiled to see Wickham pass, looking like a startled rabbit, but then doubted he would have looked too happy in a similar situation. There were dead in the street, but fewer than he expected. At the far end he could see numbers of riflemen being herded away as captives. He could discern no means of rescuing them, and since the greenjackets in the houses were nearer and made no move to help he doubted that it was possible. Perhaps a dozen French hussars were walking their horses down the street towards him.
‘Present!’ Both ranks raised muskets to their shoulders. ‘Front rank only. Wait for the command.’
The French stopped. They had already done a lot of damage. A formed squadron would probably have hurled itself at the single company, but these men were tired from the confused fight and had the sense not to take a risk against an opponent who was clearly ready. They turned their horses and trotted back the way they had come.
Pringle watched them. He wanted to keep his volley if possible. Once the men fired, it would take time to reload and in that time more horsemen might be
upon them. Loaded muskets and good order were great enough threats to deter the enemy, at least for the moment.
The riflemen were pulling out of the houses and running back over the bridge. He let them pass, and when there seemed to be no more he sent Hanley with half the company back. There was still no sign of enemy horsemen organising to attack down the street, so he sent his own men back. Walking backwards a few paces, he finally decided that they still had time, and so turned and scampered after his men.
The main line was withdrawing. The 20th and 52nd were on their way up the slope to the ridge behind the church. The 91st Highlanders were already there. Sir John himself rode up to MacAndrews and ordered him to conform to the new position. The 106th remained in two wings. The left wing was to form on the ridge to the north of the road, extending the line of the other regiments. The right wing was farther forward, standing across the road itself. Moore and Paget both trotted along the road to meet the Grenadier Company as they marched back, passing the walled churchyard. Riflemen were already extending in pairs among the rows of trees and vines on either side of the road.
‘Good day to you, Captain …?’
‘Pringle, sir.’
‘Now Mr Pringle, I need your fellows for a special task.’ Sir John’s voice was calm, reasonable, and conveyed absolute authority. ‘Halt here, and form line across the road.’ The church beside them was on a hummock, making its high walls and tower loom even taller. ‘You must stay here and protect the artillery. The French cannot see them at the moment, but the guns are hidden behind the churchyard. When the time comes they will wheel them out and engage over your heads.’ Just behind the company, the road climbed steeply to reach the same level as the church.
‘The French are lively today, so I do not think it will be long before they come to visit. Well, they shall have a greater welcome than they expect.’ For all his professional coolness, the general appeared to be enjoying himself. Paget and their respective staffs seemed equally jolly. Wickham had not yet rejoined them. Raising his voice, Moore called as they left, ‘I know I can rely on my grenadiers to see the French off!’
Sergeant Rawson dressed the line with care. Once again the front rank knelt. They would fire their volley and then ram the butts of their muskets against the ground, pointing them upwards so the bayonets formed a solid line of sharp points to deter any horse from charging home. That, at least, was the theory. Pringle had never done it in practice. Hanley thought to himself that their little band of sixty-seven men was hopelessly out on a limb. Yet his friend seemed untroubled, and the sergeants their usual confident selves. If anything the men were eager to be at the enemy, and he sensed they enjoyed being closer to them than the rest of the regiment.
‘We’ll teach the bastards for killing women,’ said Murphy.
Dobson just nodded, and then saw Hanley and nodded amiably to him.
‘Aye, we’ll show ’em,’ he said firmly.
‘Not long now, lads,’ said Pringle, pacing along the front of the formation. ‘They’re only cavalry, so aren’t likely to do much thinking.’ They grinned at that. ‘Wait for the orders, and we’ll tumble the rogues in the mud. Now our gunners are going to nip out and be firing over our heads, so don’t worry about the noise.’
‘You sure they can shoot straight?’ called out Murphy cheerfully.
‘Oh yes, of course yes. I am sure our gallant artillery can see as well as me.’ Pringle took off his glasses and squinted blindly at them. The grenadiers roared with laughter. Hanley envied his friend’s familiarity with the men. So often the faces seemed closed to him. He felt useless, with little to do and even less idea of what needed to be done for them to survive the next half-hour.
‘Mr Hanley.’ Pringle’s voice was formal. ‘If you would be so good as to watch the left flank, I shall take care of the right.’ That was the danger. If the French came at them up the road, and if the men held their fire and then poured it on at the right moment, the enemy horsemen should be stopped cold. Pringle was confident of this. The risk was if the cavalry managed to sweep round the flanks of the company. It would not be easy for them. The road was constricted by walls and the trees and the grenadiers filled most of the open ground.
‘Sir!’ There was just a hint of nervousness in Sergeant Probert’s voice as he called a warning to the captain, breaking in on Pringle’s thoughts. The officer turned.
‘Thank you, Sergeant, I see them. Well …’ Pringle struggled to think of something fittingly casual to say, and failed to think of anything original. ‘It looks like the ball is about to open.’
19
‘Plucky fellows!’ said Sir John Moore, focusing his telescope on the two Frenchmen riding over the hump of the bridge. The movement was slow, almost nonchalant. The first man was dressed in the heavily braided blue coat of a French general and a thick white plume crowned his cocked hat. His horse was a grey, so light as to look wholly white even against the snow of the fields. A few paces behind him came an ADC, dressed in a spectacular hussar-style uniform of red and green. All around them, balls flicked up puffs of dust and chips from the stonework as the sharpshooters of the 95th were drawn to such an irresistible target.
‘Damned lucky fellows at least!’ conceded Sir Edward. He could see the French general raising his glass to study them, just as they were in turn watching the Frenchmen.
Sir John moved his telescope to scan the far bank of the river. ‘They must be forming in the depression behind the bridge. I do not believe it will be long now. Any sign of their infantry?’
Colborne answered his question. ‘Not yet, sir.’
‘Guns?’
‘No sign of them.’
‘Excellent.’
Wickham was happy enough that the enemy had only cavalry up so far, although to him it seemed just a matter of time before they were reinforced. There seemed little point in waiting here to fight them. Better to pull away, and turn only now and again to fend off the cavalry. There should be no great danger if the rearguard kept moving and prevented the enemy from bringing up their other troops. Considerably more vexing was the generals’ insistence on watching the affair from among the skirmishers of the 95th. Surely the ridge to the rear offered not only a better platform for observation, but also greater security, which would permit the calm exercise of control over the fighting. Wickham had been waiting up there, after his escape from the chaos in the village. Then that damned vulgar Scotsman MacAndrews appeared and ‘helpfully’ pointed General Paget out to him. He worried again that the major held him responsible for the loss of his fool of a daughter. Wickham silently cursed him, and cursed again the unkind fate that had driven him from the comfort of Lefebre-Desnouettes and his carriage. He wondered whether there was any prospect of cashing the Frenchman’s promissory note for thirty dollars won in their card games.
There was noise from the others and Wickham returned his focus to the bridge. The French general raised his sabre high, and seemed to be calling to the men behind him. He and his aide still remained untouched by the fire of the riflemen.
Paget admired the courage of the French leader, although he also doubted his wisdom. No doubt he had seen the drunks and stragglers in the last few days, and judged the British to be all such men. The Frenchman was brave, and that was to be admired. He was also an enemy, making his courage dangerous.
Sir Edward reached into his jacket and pulled out a small purse, shaking it so that the coins inside jingled. ‘This goes to the man who spins that saucy fellow on the white horse,’ he called out. The closest of the 95th grinned, and a moment later one of them dashed out into the road, running along towards the bridge.
‘Tom’s off,’ said a sergeant. ‘Lot of brandy in that purse!’
The lone rifleman pelted down the road. Then he stopped and lay down on his back in the churned snow. He cocked his right leg over his left and rested his rifle’s muzzle down just next to his ankle.
Trumpets blared, and grey-uniformed hussars, their tall plumes nodding, ca
me trotting in column of fours across the bridge. Their officer and a trumpeter led them, and the general and his ADC were at least three horse lengths farther in advance.
The rifleman waited. Another trumpet signal and the horsemen urged their mounts into a canter. They were moving quickly now, sabres pointing forward at the charge, and hoofs flinging up lumps of snow and ice.
The rifleman waited. The French general was already within range, but he was a fast-moving target. None of the other greenjackets was firing, wanting the enemy to move on into the trap and also silently urging on the lone man on the road.
With a sharp crack the rifleman fired, the recoil driving the butt back into his armpit as he lay. A thick cloud of smoke covered the target, but all his instincts told him that his aim was true. The general was flung back in the saddle by the blow, and blood was already spreading across his chest. His aide drove spurs into the flanks of his horse, sending the animal into a full gallop in his rage to get at the assassin. He pounded along the road, and at the same time a roar of anger came from the hussars behind.
The rifleman loaded. It was an awkward task to perform while lying down, and would have been impossible with the longer musket, but long hours of training paid off. The ADC was barely ten yards away when the rifle cracked again. The ball hit the officer’s forehead, just beneath the peak of his gaudy shako, and had enough force to take a chunk out of the back of his skull. The dead man fell, but his right boot caught in the stirrup and he was dragged along by the panicking horse, his mangled head bouncing against the ground.
The lone greenjacket fled for the shelter of the trees and his comrades. The hussars were close behind, and were gaining on him, but then more and more of the 95th opened up. Men and horses started to fall. The neat ranks of the hussars dissolved. Some men were still pressing on, the officer and his trumpeter at the head of them. Others had fallen, or were trying without success to turn off the road and reach the skirmishers. Another squadron of hussars came across the bridge and the energy of the new advance set everyone going forward again. A third squadron came up behind, and in the rear of them were chasseurs in green.
Beat the Drums Slowly Page 21
