“Well done, Sillery. We can do this!”
Back in the centre Lacey now realised that conflict was but moments away. He looked over to see Heaviside, stood next to Colour Sergeant Bennet.
“You’re first, Heaviside.”
Heaviside raised his sword, but he had something to impart first.
“Let no man's heart fail because of him; thy servant will go and fight with this Philistine. One Samuel. 17 verse 32.”
A pause.
“Front rank. Present!”
The muskets reached out beyond and around Lacey and the order was repeated out from the centre to the flank Companies. Lacey let them come on until they came up to the French dead of the previous encounter.
“Fire!”
The muskets crashed out and all was smoke as the muskets came down for Heaviside’s front rank to make a rapid reload. Then, at this signal and all along the front rank, moving both left and right, half Company volleys crashed out. Lacey stood and waited for the smoke to clear, as did Heaviside, now choosing his moment. As the smoke thinned in the breeze, he called ‘Present’ and the muzzles of the second line came down beside Lacey. There was just time enough for Lacey to see that the French front rank before them had been demolished, almost all prone on the ground, before Heaviside, with the smoke now almost gone, called out ‘Fire’ and again came the blast of noise and choking smoke. Lacey now turned to pass through the ranks and he emerged out of the second rank just as Heaviside ordered the front rank to fire again. There was nothing more that Lacey could do now, other than to encourage his men. The half Company volleys were incessant, the noise itself deeply intimidating besides the non-stop assault of the bullets against the French ranks, but it was plain that his own men were now taking casualties, as bodies slumped down between the feet of their comrades and the men from the second rank stepped forward to fill the gap. The French were standing; like the veterans they were, to make a firefight of it, their Officers knowing that they outnumbered their enemies by over five to one.
For those of the Light Company on the left, life was suddenly an experience of noise, smoke and the closing of their minds to all but the automatic motions of loading, waiting and firing. Joe Pike was in the front rank, with Tom Miles to his left and John Davey locked on behind. At the first discharge all was dense smoke as they reloaded, but, with that done, Joe Pike raised his Baker to the ‘make ready’ and looked forward, which caused him near panic.
“Tom! I can’t see anything! What do I aim at? Tom. What do I do?”
Miles was also at the ‘make ready’.
“Wait for Drake’s order. If you can’t see nuthin, then just aim a bit down from level and pull the trigger. Anything blue, aim at it. If you sees a shako, two foot below.”
The smoke was clearing and Pike saw a row of shakoes, around 40 yards distant. Drake also could now also see enough.
“Present!”
Pike aimed his Baker just below a shako that was a little higher than the others.
“Fire!”
The Baker kicked back and Pike began an automatic reload.
“I think that worked, Tom.”
He turned his head slightly to bite the cartridge, but not to see Miles there, instead a space that was soon filled by Nat Solomon. Tom Miles was rolling on the ground, holding his leg and cursing. Pike stopped his reload and reached down to him, which was noticed by Ellis.
“Keep firing, damn you! The more bullets you sends into those bastards yonder, the less of us gets knocked over like that.”
Shocked at the fierce rebuke, Pike drew out his ramrod and continued to reload. As he finished there came a yelp from Captain Drake and Ellis took over giving the orders.
Over on the right, O’Hare came to the Grenadiers, and began shouting encouragements, however, mostly useless above the din. He was there because his trust of Carravoy and D’Villiers was not of the fullest, but there could be no cause for concern, the Grenadiers were punishing the French as hard as any Company of the 105th. Both Ameshurst and D’Villiers were obviously controlling their half-Company volleys as well as any other Officer in the line, Ameshurst, in between using a whole stream of words wholly unbecoming of an Officer, mostly centered around the dubious parentage of the French. D’Villiers, in contrast, was stood in a dreamlike state which translated into a nightmare inside his head, but, as far as his men and O’Hare were concerned, he was stood in the front rank, sword erect, controlling their fire. His narrowed mind dutifully watched for the French shakoes through the smoke, which would bring about another half-Company volley. However, it should be their Captain who was controlling the fire of the Grenadiers and what O’Hare did not like was to see Carravoy behind the second rank, albeit encouraging his men vociferously. He angered instantly.
“You should be alongside your far right file. Get there now!”
This place was near enough for O’Hare to point at and Carravoy, the shock of the order coming on top of his fear of the mind numbing conflict, ran off to comply; he was in no condition to argue. At that moment, O’Hare saw Mackenzie, still mounted and riding along the back of his line, shouting encouragements, mostly unheard above the incessant crash of his men’s reply to the French onslaught. Mackenzie stopped.
“O’Hare, is it not?”
O’Hare saluted.
“Yes Sir.”
“We’re holding them, tell Lacey. The Guards have come back, what’s left of them, an’ there somethin’ come down off the hill, sent by Himself, so ah’ve bin told.”
O’Hare nodded.
“Yes Sir, we’re holding here, and should………..”
O’Hare stopped in mid sentence. At that moment a hole appeared in Mackenzie’s tunic just below his left collarbone. He toppled forward and would have hit the ground had O’Hare not caught him and eased him to the ground, to then loosen his collar. That done, he shouted at Carravoy, now stood near and in the correct place.
“Carravoy! Get two men to carry the General back!”
However, the General raised his hand to seize O’Hare’s left epaulette. His words came between gasps for air.
“No, lad. No! Ah’m done, ah can feel it. The lads are holdin’, guid lads all. Tell ‘em so, an’ keep ‘em goin’. Tell Lacey……..”
But the sentence was chocked off by a huge gobbet of blood emerging from his mouth and Mackenzie’s head fell back. The two soldiers had arrived and O’Hare gave his order.
“Carry the General back, to our old line. Then back to your places.”
O’Hare was overcome as he watched them carry the body back, but then he set his teeth and rose, needing to find Lacey. Holding his sword safely away from his feet, he ran to the centre, noting with grim satisfaction the smooth, non-stop movement of his men re-loading, readying their weapons and firing to orders. The rhythm of their defence was being maintained; the punishment being given to the French must be appalling. He found Lacey, giving water to a wounded man and he ran up and knelt beside him.
“Mackenzie’s dead. Just now. You’re the Brigadier!”
Lacey showed no reaction, but lowered the canteen to place it beside the man’s hand.
“What orders to give? If we hold, the thing’s done. There’ll be no more after this, we’ve fought each other to a standstill.”
O’Hare nodded.
“Right. Then I’m for the front rank! Where else? Try to do some good.”
He picked up a discarded musket and pulled an ammunition pouch from the body of a dead soldier. With that he filled one of the many gaps in the second rank and began to load.
“Mind if I join you, boys? I fancy a go at these unwelcome Johnnies!”
Ironic laughter came from either side and soon he was at the ‘make ready’ and under Heaviside’s orders. He well knew the Hell of the firing line, but if his joining them put extra spirit into the men stood close, then he would do it. All around was noise, smoke, the flash from the flintlocks and the blast from muzzles so close as to make any head dizzy from the rep
eated explosions. The Colour Company were behaving perfectly, their muskets going through the motions to enable them to respond to Heaviside’s orders and O’Hare was confident that the same was happening all along their line, but that was much thinned, the second rank being less then half what it was. He had little idea of how long he stood there amongst the common Privates manning the firing line, for the uproar was incessant and he envied the soldiers who had tied a rag across their ears. All too soon, he also had a raging thirst from biting the cartridges and he took the time for a swallow of water from the canteen of the man next to him. On extracting the next cartridge from the box, he noticed that it was over half empty, so he must have fired almost thirty shots, this confirmed by the fearsome recoil of his musket, which told him that the barrel was now badly fouled. He must have been in the line for nearly ten minutes. Then came a call, which brought him out of his automatic work with the musket.
“Sir! An Ensign’s down.”
He looked over, but The Colour still remained upright. A Colour Sergeant must be holding it. O’Hare bit into the cartridge, then tipped a little into the priming pan.
“Then grab some Drummerboy. Anyone will do.”
He then poured the rest of the powder into the barrel, stuffed in the paper with the bullet and pulled out the ramrod from its guides, giving no further thought to the Ensign as he finished his reloading.
Lacey was in need of re-assurance. What was happening with the combat between his men and the French? He found a gap in the second rank and looked between the heads of his men standing before. What he heard from the Private stood to his left re-assured him greatly.
“We’re holding these, Sir. They’ve stopped an’ come no nearer. We’re spinnin’ ‘em, soon as they steps forward.”
He ran to another gap and was further relieved to see the same. His half Company volleys were bringing down whole sections of the column’s front rank. What this was doing to the French was not hard to calculate, even though veterans, victors all over Europe, they were not expecting this, the fiercest resistance they had even encountered. Lacey felt inspired, immeasurably proud of his men, all stood loading and firing, all holding to their Officer’s commands. He filled his lungs.
“Well done, lads. Stand fast. They can’t take much more! Close up to them, boys. Get right in their faces.”
As if in obedience his men edged closer to the still solid blue line.
On the left, Carr was doing the same as O’Hare, only him with a Baker rifle, which he used to accurately bring down any Officer or NCO that he could see. Beyond Sillery, he was sure that the 48th were performing heroics to hold back their columns, but it was the guns that were doing more damage to the French than the musketry, all six now definitely firing canister into the columns. This Carr knew, as a glance left showed the gunners loading into the muzzles of their busy guns the canvas bags full of musket balls. Being on the left of the 105th, he could not fail to notice that they had been edging right, to close to the centre and fill the gaps left by casualties, but this lengthened the gap between him and Sillery. There was no change in the intensity of the fighting, because the French, still in vast numbers, were filling the casualties in their front from the numerous ranks behind, but their dead and wounded were now in a three deep pile before them. Suddenly came hope, when an Irish voice came onto his left shoulder and it was not O’Hare.
“Metcalf. 83rd. I’m bringing mine back into the line, either side of the guns. We’ll make a better job of it this time.”
Carr could do nothing but nod before the Officer was gone. If a Colonel or Major, he knew not, but within a minute Carr had the 83rd’s Grenadiers within touching distance and their volleys joined his own. Simultaneously, Lacey, as acting Brigadier, was giving orders to bring the reformed 61st back into the line. The immediate concern was the gap between his 105th and the reformed Guards, caused by both closing in to their centre, leaving gaps on their flanks. The Guards had returned to a place between his 105th and the 45th He was talking to a Major of the 61st, their Colonel having been wounded.
“Get one wing in there. I’ll lead your other between the 45th and 24th.”
The Major reached his men first and yelled his order.
“Lights, Nine to Six, with me! Grenadiers and Two to Five. With the Colonel.”
Lacey ran on behind The Guards and then the 45th, hoping that the Companies numbered would follow, they did. It was evident from the crash of their volleys that The Guards and the 45th were dealing out a dreadful mauling, but when he came to the 24th he was shocked. There was hardly any line left at all, no second rank and several gaps in the front rank. They had suffered severely, their dead and wounded at their feet, but their Colours remained upright and those still standing maintained their fire into the French ranks before them. Whilst Lacey stood in disbelief, his five Companies of the 61st formed their line in the space and soon began their own half Company volleys against those opposite. Lacey ran back to his own Command to find O’Hare where he had placed himself in the line close to The Colours. There Lacey noticed that his own firing line had been edging forward to close the range, this evidenced by the trail of dead and wounded now behind them, no longer at their feet. Peering through the thinning smoke of another volley he could see that the range was down to closer than 20 yards, which meant that every shot from the thinning ranks of his own men, all still maintaining their fire discipline, was finding a mark.
The space behind the fighting line of the 105th was a scene of nightmare. The number of dead was bad enough, but much worse was the fate of the wounded, many too badly injured and condemned as too likely to die, therefore left to their fate where they had fallen. Equally dreadful were the screams and suffering of those dragged back from danger, hauled over the ground by whoever came, Waggoners, Orderlies, Bandsman and Followers, many of whom now lay dead and wounded themselves. Where they were taken was a scene of almost total despair, as Medical Orderlies ran back and forth doing their best to staunch the flow of blood from almost who arrived, whilst Surgeon Pearce worked ceaselessly at his blood drenched table. Whilst Sedgwicke hurried around with water and bandages, his superior Albright stood in a state of shock and stupor, stood amidst a scene that he could barely take in. Men were screaming before, behind and to either side, making it impossible to choose who to give succour to, either medical help or the Last Rites. By instinct he knelt beside one, but his choice was the poorest, the wound was severe but not life threatening, if the blood could be staunched. He saw this, but remained helpless, until Eirin Mulcahy came to the far side of the soldier, pulled out the man’s belt and used it as a tourniquet. She looked at his distraught and bemused face.
“It’s alright, Father, I’ll take care of this. There’s plenty of other men needing the final words from such as yourself.”
Then Sedgwicke arrived, having overheard.
“This way, Sir. The men needing you are over here.”
Still in the midst of the conflict, for Carr, on the left, hope was growing further. The French were edging back, leaving the bank of their dead now clear before them. The incessant and overlapping volleys had taken their toll throughout a firefight that had lasted for what seemed an hour, but was actually only 20 minutes. Then hope turned to certainty. From somewhere on the left, seemingly from the 48th, beyond the 83rd, there came a cheer. It was taken up by the 83rd and, like a wave it carried on, picked up hoarsely by his own Regiment and then continuing on, seemingly down to the Pajar. The sound acted like a final devastating volley such as to cause the French to finally lose heart and to fall back and so they did, still facing the British line, but leaving their ground covered in their dead and wounded, many piled one onto the other. Carr’s wing of the 105th made to advance forward, but he ran in front of them.
“Stay! Hold here. The things done. Hold here.”
For many it was as though the strings holding them up had been cut and they fell to their knees, clutching for water-bottles. For others it was sheer relief, leaning
on their muskets and shaking hands with messmates still standing. All over the battlefield the musket firing died away. There came some sounds of some form of conflict beyond the Medellin, faint sounds to those stood in the centre, but the battle was done, what remained to be coped with was the aftermath, spread shockingly, both at their feet and out before them.
oOo
Jed Deakin and Toby Halfway were stood together, both leaning forward, both supported by their muskets, both too hot to hold, they could but lean on the muzzles protected by the thick cloth of their tunics.
“I ain’t never seen the likes of this before, Tobe, an’ I never wants to again.”
Halfway made no reply, he was too appalled at what stretched out before him. It mirrored the scene of a massacre, bodies lay side by side and piled up, and the scene was not quiet, hundreds of the wounded cried out for help and succour. Before them was the desolation of the battle’s aftermath, immediate, with the smoke not yet cleared and the now pointless cacophony of the final cannon exchange between the Cascajal and Medellin. The gunsmoke from this final and ultimately insignificant chapter of the day’s events drifted like a shroud down towards the town, as if to draw a merciful veil over an event utterly ghastly and tragic. As if the final French attack of the battle was not catastrophe enough, acrid smoke blew back into the faces of the British lines, smoke from grass fires, started by the final cannonading. Deakin knew what it meant.
“There’s wounded out there, as is goin’ to get burned, burnt to death even.”
However, this was spoken as he attended to his first concern, the Regimental Colour, which should now be rolled up and stored. He took it from Rushby and began the process, but found it to be almost impossible. The green silk was full of holes, both large from cannonballs and also small, from grapeshot and musketballs. The shaft was also severely damaged in several places. He sighed.
The Plains of Talavera Page 26
