Fire and Sword

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘I can’t see any sign of movement,’ Arthur said quietly. ‘What about you, Somerset? Your eyes are younger than mine.’

  There was a short pause, then: ‘Nothing, sir. Do you suppose the scouts could have been mistaken?’

  ‘Hardly,’ Arthur replied with a wry smile.‘Either you see an army on the march or you don’t.There’s very little middle ground.’

  ‘Well, what if they were mistaken about the direction that Junot was taking? Or what if Junot changed direction during the night?’

  ‘It is possible,’ Arthur conceded. ‘We shall discover the truth soon enough.’

  But as the sun climbed into the sky and burned off any lingering mist that hung in pockets of the ground there was still no sign of the French army approaching from the south, and the peasants who lived in the houses dotted across the landscape began to emerge and tend their crops and animals without any sign of alarm.

  At length Arthur checked his fob watch. Just after nine o’clock. He turned to Somerset. ‘In all the excitement I seem to have forgotten to inform Sir Harry of the night’s events.Would you be so good as to send a runner to the beachhead to pass the details on?’

  ‘A runner, sir? Wouldn’t a rider be quicker?’

  ‘It would, but we are short enough of mounted men as it is. No, I think a runner is all that can be spared at present. Now, don’t delay, Somerset. Mustn’t keep Sir Harry waiting.’

  ‘Of course not, sir,’ Somerset replied with a knowing expression. ‘I’ll see to it.’

  Arthur nodded and returned to his examination of the surrounding landscape for a few more minutes. He was about to lower his telescope when he caught a glimpse of a flash, away to the east, amongst some trees on a ridge running past the British line. Arthur held his breath and steadied his telescope as best he could. There was another glint of reflected sunlight, and a faint tawny haze hanging in the air. Arthur scrutinised the ridge a moment longer before snapping his telescope shut and turning to his staff officers, a nervous flutter in his stomach.

  ‘Junot has caught me napping, by God! He means to outflank us over there.’ Arthur indicated the tree-covered ridge. ‘He has already stolen a few hours’ march on us so we must move swiftly, gentlemen.’ He turned and indicated the ridge that ran at an angle from the village towards the east. ‘That is our new battle line.Vimeiro Hill will now form our right flank and Acland, Bowes, Fergusson, Nightingall and Trant’s Portuguese are to march on to the east ridge as quickly as possible, in the same order that they were positioned on the west ridge. Is that clear? Then move swiftly, gentlemen. The race is on.’

  As soon as they had received their new orders, the five brigades hurriedly descended from the west ridge, marched past the village of Vimeiro and began to climb the slopes to their new positions. After a last careful examination of the enemy’s dust cloud Arthur calculated that the French would not reach the redeployed redcoats until the latter were in position. Calling for Somerset, he spurred his horse into a trot and rode across to the east ridge. General Acland’s brigade was the first in new line and Arthur touched the brim of his hat as he reined in.

  ‘Well done, Acland.Your men have made good time.’

  Acland was a dour, thin man, somewhat older than his commander, but he was gratified by the comment and smiled.

  ‘Yes, sir. The lads are keen to have a go at the French.’

  ‘And I am sure their keenness will be amply rewarded.’They shared a short laugh before Arthur raised his riding crop and pointed down the slope. ‘Now then, I would like your Light Companies at the bottom of the ridge.The rest of your men are to stay up here and lie down.’

  ‘Lie down?’ Acland frowned. ‘But the day’s barely started, sir.’

  ‘Easy, Acland. I am not indulging their indolence, merely trying to make them less of a ready target for enemy bullets.’

  Acland was from the old school and he shook his head doubtfully. ‘I’m not sure about that, sir. It’s best to make ’em stand up to enemy fire. Last thing we want is to encourage any sense of self-preservation in the beggars.’

  ‘While I agree with you, it is a fact that soldiers are less easy for his majesty to come by than they are for the Emperor. So let us preserve them as we may. Now, when those fellows of Junot’s advance on the ridge, you must bide your time and wait for them to come well within range.Then have your men rise up and shoot them down.Then, in with the bayonet, when you judge the moment is ripe.’

  ‘Aye.’ Acland nodded. ‘That’ll please my boys well enough!’

  ‘Then a good day to you!’ Arthur spurred his horse and galloped on for a final inspection of his other brigades before returning to his command post. By the time he returned to the crest of the small hill south of Vimeiro, the enemy had swung round to the west and was forming columns in readiness to launch their assault. Arthur glanced north and was satisfied that the army was ready to repel any attacks they might face.The two brigades on the right flank were concealed behind the crest of Vimeiro Hill, on which twelve cannon had been positioned to cover the slopes. Down below, in the cover of boulders and folds in the ground, crouched the light infantry and two companies of rifles. Arthur nodded to himself with satisfaction. Now he would put his ideas to the test and see just how formidable the French assault columns really were.

  A dull boom echoed up the slope and he saw a puff of smoke some half a mile from the foot of the ridge. Abruptly several more guns opened fire and kicked up small explosions of dirt, rock and small branches as the grapeshot tore up the ground along his skirmish line. After a few more rounds the French guns fell silent and a moment later the enemy skirmishers advanced to duel with their British counterparts. A steady crackle of musket and rifle fire drifted up the slope as the skirmishers of both sides contested the foot of the hill. Then, as weight of numbers began to tell, the British fell back, scurrying from cover to cover as they fired on their pursuers. A deep drum roll and tinny blare of trumpets carried across from the French lines as the assault columns edged forward and began to tramp up the slope behind their skirmishers.

  ‘And here they come,’ Somerset muttered casually.

  There was a low fold in the ground just in front of the British cannon and the riflemen took shelter there as the other skirmishers ran back to their battalions and joined the main battle line. Then, as the first of the French skirmishers came into plain view, closely followed by the heads of the assault columns, the British guns opened fire. Arthur watched with keen interest the effects of the three howitzers he had deployed alongside the other guns. They were firing the newly developed shells designed by an artillery officer named Shrapnel, which were fused to burst over the heads of the enemy, spraying out scores of small iron shards. As Arthur watched, the first of the shells burst in a white puff over the leading ranks of the nearest column and at once a score of men went down.

  ‘Not bad,’ he mused, impressed by the effect. He could imagine the moral effect of being struck down from above as well as from the front, and made a mental note to fully endorse Shrapnel’s innovation when he had the opportunity. Meanwhile the columns tramped forward remorselessly, straight into the withering hail of the case shot blasting out from the British guns. As each cone of shot struck home it was as if a giant fist punched into the French columns, knocking men down like skittles. Despite the terrible carnage Arthur could not help admiring the élan of the enemy as the gaps were swiftly filled with fresh men and the columns continued up the slope, urged on by the relentless beating of drums and shouts of encouragement from officers and sergeants.

  As the front rank of the enemy came within musket range, the British gun crews fired one last shot and then fell back, running for the cover of the hill crest. At once the French began to jeer and shout their contempt and their pace increased now that they no longer had to fear being cut down by case shot. Ahead of them lay the abandoned guns and a short distance beyond them a small group of British officers on horseback.

  Arthur raised his arm, glancing l
eft and right to make sure that he had the attention of the two brigades either side of him, and then swept his arm forward. Orders were bellowed out and the men of the two brigades rose up from the ground, dressed their ranks and then advanced over the crest.To the French it looked as if they had risen up from the earth, and the assault column’s pace faltered even as the slope began to level out beneath the leading ranks.

  The British officers barked out the command, ‘Halt! . . . Make ready to fire!’

  The long thin line, two men deep, stopped dead, and then over two thousand muskets were lowered so that their muzzles pointed down the slope at the French, no more than fifty paces away.

  ‘Cock your weapons!’

  A ragged clicking rippled along the line, and then there was a pause, and a stillness that reminded Arthur of the tense anticipation between the flash of lightning and the crash of thunder.

  ‘Fire!’

  The roar was like a multitude of hammers striking a sheet of steel, and flame and smoke burst out along the British line. From his position slightly above and behind his men Arthur saw the terrible impact of the first volley as the heads of the French columns collapsed, leaving a crumpled line of blue-coated bodies across the bloodstained ground.

  ‘Fire by companies!’

  The flanks of the British brigades advanced round the heads of the French columns and then a rolling series of volleys crashed out as one company after another fired into the enemy. The French struggled to deploy from column into line amid the chaos of tumbling bodies and the whirr of lead passing through the air all around them. There was only the briefest of delays between the volleys, and the near continuous destruction being wrought on the French ranks shattered their cohesion and broke their spirit. Inevitably, they began to give way. Succeeding companies refused to advance into the place of their fallen comrades, and even began to edge back, down the slope.

  As the commanders of the British battalions became aware that the enemy was recoiling, they gave the order to cease fire and fix bayonets.With a rattle and clatter the bayonets were fastened on to the ends of the muskets and then the red lines began to advance again. Arthur was struck by the difference between the two armies. The French, loud, brash and vociferous as they advanced, each man cheering, or singing along to the Marseillaise or another of their patriotic tunes. Facing them, the British soldiers were calm, ordered and quite silent, functioning like an implacable machine, so that when the final order to charge echoed along the crest of the hill, their sudden roar was quite terrifying and Arthur felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise in icy response.

  The redcoats burst into a run, rushing down on their enemy, mouths wide open as they bellowed their meaningless roars of aggression. The more fearless of the Frenchmen stood their ground, bayonets lowered and boots braced, while others just froze in terror. Many more fell back then turned and ran as the British infantry burst upon them, stabbing with their bayonets and smashing the butts of their muskets into the heads and bodies of the enemy. It was a sharp, savage fight as Arthur looked on. The French were knocked down and impaled without mercy, adding still more corpses to those strewn along the hillside.

  In less than a minute, it was over.The French soldiers were streaming down the hill and the British were left masters of the slope. Now it was their turn to shout their contempt for the enemy, and they bellowed insults and whistled mockingly before the sergeants called them to order and re-formed each company before marching it back over the crest of the hill. Meanwhile the artillery crews ran forward to their guns and recommenced firing after the fleeing mob of French soldiers until they reached the foot of the hill and scattered across the open ground beyond. The guns fell silent and Arthur surveyed the slope in front of his position.The attack had cost Junot as many as five hundred men, he estimated. In amongst the heaps of bodies lay an occasional redcoat, but the British losses had been slight indeed.

  Even so, the French recovered quickly, and already a fresh column, preceded by the usual screen of skirmishers, was advancing up through the stunted trees that dotted the approaches to the hill. This time, though, Arthur could see that they were accompanied by light artillery pieces to provide close support for the attacking column. Clearly Junot had learned to respect his enemy.

  The second attack suffered the same fate as the first, and most of the French guns were knocked out long before they could be deployed on the slopes. Once more the French battalions were badly cut up by British artillery before being stopped dead by a continuous fusillade of musket fire and then breaking as a wave of bayonets swept down the slope towards them, though this time they had exchanged a series of volleys with the redcoats and caused over a hundred casualties amongst Arthur’s two brigades. Satisfied that there was no immediate threat to his position, Arthur trained his telescope on the east ridge and was pleased to observe that the French were being repelled there as well. So far, the British infantry had held their nerve and fought the enemy in fine style, as Arthur had always been confident they would. He lowered his telescope with a satisfied nod and returned his attention to the fight on Vimeiro Hill.

  The British soldiers were returning to their protected position on the reverse slope of the hill when Arthur spied a party of horsemen riding up the hill from the west. As they drew closer he made out the gold braid and sash of a senior officer amongst them and realised, with a sinking feeling, that Sir Harry Burrard must have landed before the runner had reached the coast.Wheeling his horse about, Arthur turned towards Sir Harry and waited.

  ‘Good morning to you, Wellesley!’ Sir Harry called out as he rode up. ‘It seems you have your battle after all.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘So how is it proceeding?’ Sir Harry surveyed the bodies littering the slope and the French below, massing for yet another attack, this time to the north of the hill, in the direction of the village of Vimeiro. Arthur quickly made his report and then hesitated before asking the obvious question.

  ‘Do you intend to assume command here, sir?’

  Sir Harry shook his head. ‘I see no need.You have the situation in hand, Wellesley. Please continue your domination of the enemy.’

  Arthur could not help smiling. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Even though he could not but be conscious of his superior’s silent attention, Arthur did his best to ignore Sir Harry as he watched for developments amid the scattered trees that covered the approaches to the ridge. He did not have to wait long. Once again, a thin screen of skirmishers emerged and warily began to make their way up the slope, to be met by the waiting light infantry and men of the Rifles. But this was no more than a feint. As soon as the musket fire had intensified on Vimeiro Hill a fresh column of French infantry suddenly marched into view, making straight for the village of Vimeiro, at the centre of the British line.

  ‘Damn Junot,’ Arthur muttered to himself. ‘He means to cut my army in two.’

  If the French general succeeded, then he would threaten to destroy each wing of the British army in turn. With a quick glance to the east to reassure himself that there was no sign of any further attempt to be made on the hill, Arthur called to Somerset and set off for Vimeiro at a gallop.The sturdy houses on the edge of the village had been occupied by light infantry and two companies of grenadiers. Behind it stood the survivors of the Twenty-Ninth Foot and the two hundred and fifty men of the Light Dragoons, the only cavalry available to Arthur since he had landed in Portugal. The two officers galloped into the main street of Vimeiro and the pounding of their mounts’ hooves echoed off the whitewashed walls on either side of the empty street. The village’s inhabitants had barricaded themselves in and were praying for a swift end to the battle.

  When Arthur and Somerset reached the far side, they drew up behind a shoulder-high wall lined with British skirmishers who were already firing on the head of the French column. Rising in his stirrups Arthur squinted through the rolling haze of gunpowder smoke and saw that the leading enemy troops were no more than a hundred paces away. T
he crackle of muskets was underscored by the deep rhythmic rumble and rattle of drums. A handful of the enemy had been struck down, and as Arthur watched there was a white puff in the air above the column as one of the British howitzers on the hill found the range. Despite the losses the column came on at a quick step, and within a minute they had halted not more than thirty paces from the village to deliver one volley before charging.

  Arthur felt a chill of terror as the enemy muskets foreshortened.The possibility that he could be shot at any moment filled him with a perverse excitement. Only good fortune could save him now, but if he lived he would have the satisfaction of having stood up to the enemy’s fire. The French fired and the air was filled with the clatter of musket balls striking the walls. When the moment had passed Arthur looked round and was relieved to see that the only damage done was that one of his men’s shakos had been shot off its owner’s head.The soldier was now swearing bloody revenge at the French as he reloaded his musket, fired, and swiftly prepared the next round.

  With a roar the French rushed forward.