by Lynn Bryant
With the mounted officers at their head, the brigade reached the top of the hill. The French charged forward and there was a deafening crash of musket fire which blew away a section of Wallace's front rank and some of the second. Simon felt a blast of powder and was temporarily shaken to realise that the man to the side of him was down, covered in blood. Wallace turned, yelling and pointing towards the French and the brigade raced forward over their dead and injured comrades.
The French second volley was less successful. They were already wavering, unsettled both by the cavalry charge and artillery fire and the determined rush of the Allies and confused them further. Their firing was uncoordinated and poorly directed and did little damage to the Allies. Eventually it petered out entirely and there was almost silence for a few seconds, then somebody further down the line to Simon let out an ironic cheer.
The cheer was taken up quickly until all three of the front regiments were roaring to a man. It was a fearsome sound and Simon could see the front rank of the French beginning to panic, backing away almost without realising they were doing so. The men beside him were clearly impatient, straining against the invisible bonds of discipline to be let loose against the French and Simon shouted at them to hold and wait. In the ranks of the French he could see the officers trying to rally their men, urging them forward before the Allies made their charge.
One of the French officers, his face scarlet with both the heat and the exertion of screaming at his reluctant men, ran forward a few paces. He was holding a musket, probably snatched from one of his men, and Simon watched as he raised it and fired. There was a collective shout of horror around Simon and he saw that the officer's bullet had struck home, probably more by luck than good aim, given the notoriously unreliable aim of a musket. Major Murphy, on horseback at the head of his men, fell with a strangled cry. Simon watched in horror as his panicked horse took off across the front of the line, dragging Murphy's bloody body with one foot caught in the stirrup.
Simon had no idea if the major was still alive, but watching the body bouncing across the dry ground, he knew with sick certainty that he would be dead soon. There was a swell of sound from the men of the 88th, all the more menacing because this time it was quiet.
A movement from the left caught Simon's eye and he looked over to where a rifleman from the 60th stood poised, his rifle aimed. He was looking over towards his officer, his expression almost desperate, pleading, but the officer was looking elsewhere. Simon looked back at Murphy's battered body, soaked now in his own blood, and caught up in a wave of sheer fury, shouted:
"Rifleman, take that bastard down."
The rifleman fired once and it was enough. The French officer threw up his arms as the shot hit him and fell forward. Unlike Murphy, Simon thought, it had been quick.
It would be impossible to hold the 88th any longer and Pakenham did not try. "Let them loose, Colonel Wallace," he called, and there was a surge of movement, an atavistic roar which deafened Simon and the British line rushed forward, hitting the French hard and breaking open their ranks in a wave of savage death.
Simon's attention was elsewhere. With no specific command responsibilities, his eyes were on the terrified horse which still dragged the body of Murphy, now engulfed in a wave of furious redcoats. Amidst the roar of musket fire and the screams of wounded and dying men, the horse reared up. Simon pushed through the ranks, sword drawn and wary of a French counter-attack, and reached the horse which was plunging madly amidst the fighting, endangering both itself and the men around it.
Sheathing his sword, Simon reached for the bridle, keeping clear of the thrashing hooves, and managed to catch hold. He could do nothing with the frightened animal in this melee so he dragged it towards the rear, horribly aware of the bloody mess which had once been a man who had sat beside him the previous evening at dinner and talked to him about his previous service and his hopes for the future. Simon had liked Murphy enormously and had no intention of letting his body be trampled any further.
He reached finally, the rear of the lines and there was suddenly space and air around him. Ahead he could see some of the regimental bandsmen of the 88th, waiting with the medical staff and he shouted for help. Two men ran forward, a middle aged Irishman with a shiny bald head and a boy of half his age whose uniform looked too big for him.
"What the devil is this?"
"It's Major Murphy's horse," the boy said instantly, and then saw the horrible burden. "Oh no. Oh shit, no."
"Get him free, I'll hold the horse," Simon said. His voice came out as a croak, partly from the choking clouds of black smoke and partly from tears he had not realise he had shed until he spoke. Both men ran forward and Simon held the black gelding close to him, trying to shield its eyes from the sight of its master's ruined body as the men freed Murphy and lifted what was left of him onto a blanket, wrapping him up as if in a makeshift shroud.
"Take him to the rear," Simon said. "And get one of the grooms to come and take his horse, the poor thing's mad with fear, he'll kill somebody."
"I'll take him, sir."
Simon looked round to see his own groom coming forward and he was passionately glad of it. "Reynolds, what the devil are you doing here?"
"The horses are safe, sir, I left them with a couple of the officers' grooms. I thought I might help up here with the wounded."
"Well get this poor creature back with them for now. And stay back there, Reynolds, I'm not having you within range of a musket. I'm going back up. Take care of him."
"I will, sir. Keep safe."
Simon turned and made his way back up into the fray. He weaved his way through the mass of red coats, stepping over both dead and wounded, and found that the Allies initial charge had slowed, not so much because of French resistance but because the men were exhausted by their run uphill in the heat. Those who had water, were refreshing themselves from their water bottles but many were empty. The fighting was fierce, hand to hand combat with bayonets and the French had fallen back some distance from the first rush but were now making a desperate stand.
"Carlyon. Did you get him off the field?"
Simon turned to find Colonel Wallace beside him. "Yes, sir, the bandsmen will take care of him. Very sorry, sir."
"We all are, he was a fine officer, well liked by the men. Bloody tragedy. Well done, I saw what you did. General Pakenham has ordered up the reserves."
"What's happening on the left?" Simon asked. He could hear it now, the crash of musketry volleys hitting the French from a new direction.
"He's sent in the fifth, I think. Not that we can see, it could be anybody out there." Wallace coughed. "Reserves are coming in now."
The French infantry was in total confusion, only the iron determination of some of their officers keeping them from fleeing incontinently. Even so, some of the men were pushing back, becoming entangled with the back of the columns which was still trying to press forward against the Allies.
As always in battle, Simon had no sense of time. With the Allied lines pushing through the French, communication became difficult, and he found himself, by default, taking charge of half a company of the 88th which seemed to have lost all its officers, either dead or wounded or possibly separated on the field. Pakenham's men had steadily pursued the French column out onto an open plain, dry grass dotted about with small copses of cork oak trees. They were making good progress, with Simon urging on his company, when he heard a shout which he recognised as coming from Colonel Williams of the 60th.
"Cavalry coming up and they've got reinforcements."
It was clearly true; the French were suddenly renewed, turning to fight where they had been fleeing, and there were fresh troops coming in to face Pakenham's exhausted men. The sergeant of Simon's company went down with a cry of pain as a ball caught him in the shoulder and two infantrymen were on him in a second, stabbing down viciously with bayonets. Simon went in furiously, swinging his sword, almost decapitating the first man who fell on top of the sergeant, blood shooting u
p in a high arc, splashing Simon's face and neck. He had the thick, metallic smell of it in his nostrils as he turned on the second Frenchman and cut him across the body. There was a flash of blue at his elbow and he turned quickly and found himself in a furious duel with a French officer, a stocky man with an elaborate dark moustache, his face scarlet with effort and his eyes black pools of fury. He was a good swordsman; better than Simon, and for two terrifying minutes Simon parried frantically, backing up, unable to reach through the other man's guard, and wondered if he was about to die.
Simon did not hear the shot, it was lost in the cacophony of the battle around him, but he saw suddenly, his opponent's body jerk violently. A red rose appeared on his breast, spreading quickly and an expression of sheer astonishment flickered across his face, then he fell forward to the ground, and beyond him Simon saw a rifleman from the 60th reloading. He lifted his bloody sword in a grateful gesture.
"Cavalry! Form square!"
The sounds of musket fire along the centre had continued throughout and Simon's ears were ringing with the noise. There was clearly a battle raging to the left but it was invisible to him through the thick black smoke. A dozen men sporting the blue facings of the 4th infantry appeared ahead of him and Simon realised that Leith's fifth division was becoming entangled with Pakenham's men.
He could hear cheering coming from behind and around him, men turned, alarmed, thinking that French cavalry were attacking from the rear. Instead, orders were shouted through to open up, and in place of the French, Simon saw with relief that the Allied heavy cavalry brigade of Le Marchant was coming forward in line at a swift canter. Simon called to his men to part and the thudding of hooves and jingling of harness passed him, although the smoke was so thick he could see very little of them. Around the battlefield, areas of dry grass had been set alight, probably by discarded cartridge papers, and the rolling smoke was suffocating.
Simon felt a momentary pang of sympathy for the French, who had been doing well against superior numbers. Prepared to fight Pakenham and Leith's exhausted infantry, they were faced instead with three regiments of cavalry. Simon could see the sheer terror on their faces and hear their officers screaming at them to get into square, but it was too late. The cavalry thundered into the charge and the French column scrambled into the best formation they could manage and stood. An order was yelled and a massive volley of fire hit the cavalry as it reached them, taking many men out of the saddle and down into the first rows of the French bayonets. The first line of troopers suffered heavy casualties but there was no time to reload as the dragoons thundered on, cutting down the French in swathes.
Simon watched in fascinated horror. He had never seen such a destructive cavalry charge. The French were being slaughtered in line, the horses jumping over piled dead and wounded on the ground to chase down those who were trying to flee, and the British sabres were red in the garish light of the flames.
The French were running, no longer making any attempt to stand, and many of them ran towards Pakenham's infantry lines, taking refuge among Simon's men. They were beyond fighting further, beyond even rational thought, both faces and uniforms black with smoke and powder, many bleeding and limping, all of them exhausted. Simon shouted an order but it was unnecessary; none of the surrendering Frenchmen were attacked. The third division closed protectively around them, and prisoners, not slaughter, were suddenly the order of the day. Both the third and fifth division herded them close, divesting them on the way of colours, flags and trophies, but individual prisoners were left unmolested. With the battle sweeping further over the plain, Simon stood, completely exhausted, looking around him. On this part of the field, for a time, at least, the fight was over.
Chapter Six
The sounds of battle reached the commanders of the light division out on Wellington's right as they waited, with ill-concealed impatience, for further orders.
"We have our orders, Colonel," General Alten said, watching with some amusement as Paul moved restlessly on his horse, shifting position from time to time to find a better view of the battlefield. "We are to stay here in reserve and watch the troops of Foy and Ferey."
"I'm not finding watching them all that interesting." Paul looked over at his commander. "I'm not very good at waiting. Is that Leith in action?"
"Possibly. Also, General Pakenham, I think. And you are to remain here with your brigade."
Paul gave a slight smile. "You're getting to know me, sir," he said softly and the German grinned.
"Your frustration is visible for us all to see, Colonel, but we shall have to wait. We have a task."
Another half hour dragged on. The ground over to the south-west was covered in rolling smoke and the crash of muskets and cannon made it clear that battle was fully joined. For Paul's men there was little to do although there was an occasional exchange of fire between the skirmishers and the French tirraileurs of Foy and Ferey's divisions. It was almost a relief to see any action at all. Paul knew that his men hated the tension of waiting inactive, knowing that should things go wrong they might be called into battle at any moment.
When the smoke occasionally cleared, Paul could see the French column on the heights fighting for its life against the Allied advance. There was a flurry of movement early in the battle as a large body of French infantry and the majority of the cavalry moved from their position facing the light division towards the action, leaving only a small force facing Alten's men.
"We could go through them in about twenty minutes," Paul said wistfully.
"Orders, Colonel."
"Sometimes, General, you are so German."
"Sometimes, Colonel, I begin to see why many people believed that you and I could not work together," Alten responded, and Paul looked over at him quickly, wondering if he had given offence. He had not; Alten's pleasant smile had not changed and Paul relaxed. He realised, in some surprise, how much he was beginning to value the easy friendship he was developing with the Hanoverian.
"Robert Craufurd would have been climbing the walls by now," he said. "But just at the moment I'm glad we have you, you're very calming."
The German looked sideways at him.
"I am glad I have you also," he said.
It was not in Paul's nature to wait patiently while others fought. At twenty-two, during his first major battle as a newly gazetted captain at the battle of Assaye in India, he had taken his own decision to go in ahead of orders, risking the wrath of a general who even back then had a dislike of officers acting on their own initiative. Almost ten years later, the balance between Lord Wellington's need to control and Paul's readiness to use his own judgement on a battlefield had been tested many times. Paul was aware that much of the army was constantly astonished at Wellington's steady support of an officer whose tendency to act without orders was legendary.
Paul's easy, almost affectionate relationship with his commander-in-chief was unique in Wellington's life but there had been frequent arguments, some more serious than others. Paul knew that his wife's friendship with Wellington was a considerable advantage to him on these occasions, and he used it shamelessly, knowing that the mention of her name would always cause his chief to stop, take a breath and possibly rethink. Wellington's officers and some of his own staff considered him to be difficult, arrogant and sarcastic, a man who could not admit a mistake, often rode roughshod over the feelings of his subordinates, and who would never apologise. Paul could not entirely disagree, but he shared Wellington's dry sense of humour and was very seldom offended by him although he was often exasperated with his controlling leadership style. His chief annoyed him, but did not upset him, and despite their frequent differences of opinion Paul considered him a friend.
Watching Wellington's genius enacted around him, Paul did not feel the urge to order his men into the fray. They were simply not needed at this point, but he knew that things could suddenly change and that the light division were the perfect force to be sent in quickly should they be required. Wellington needed them to
be where he had left them, so Paul curbed him impatience and waited for orders.
Beside him, Major Swanson said placidly:
"Nice day for it. We should have brought chairs."
Paul grinned, knowing that his friends were very well aware how difficult inactivity was for him. "I wonder if he's ordered the baggage train back yet? I probably would. Still, it's barely started - things could still go wrong."
"We have company, gentlemen," Alten said placidly, his glass to his eye. Paul, Barnard and Vandeleur all turned to look as three horsemen approached at a gallop.
Paul was amused at the sight of his commander-in-chief riding well ahead of his staff. If it were at all possible, Wellington liked to be able to ride around the battlefield delivering orders in person and the sight of his staff officers scrambling to keep up with him while not getting themselves killed was a familiar one. Wellington reined in before Alten who saluted.
"Orders, Lord Wellington?"
"Remain in place, General. We will need you when they start to retreat, to keep Foy occupied, he's the one with the most undamaged troops. You'll see some action then."
"Yes, sir."
Wellington glanced over at the brigade commanders. "Colonel Barnard, General Vandeleur, you'll remain under General Alten in reserve until you're needed. Colonel van Daan, get your men to form up. I want you out on the road immediately to cut off their line of retreat."
"Sir?" Paul said in surprise.
"Espana has a force of 2000 Spanish garrisoning the castle and guarding the bridge at Alba de Tormes. Do you know where that is?"
"I do, sir."
"Get your brigade over there. I've had scouts out, there's a clear line to the river to the north of Foy's men, through those trees." Wellington indicated a slight, dark man, mounted on a mule. "This is Jorge Collado, he has fought with a guerrilla band close to Salamanca for two years, he knows the land. He will guide you to a small ford just above the town, you can cross there and join up with Espana's men."