“Fire”
The muzzles blasted forth more flame and smoke to add to that before and O’Hare counted ten seconds. By then, he knew that the front rank would have reloaded and so, satisfied, he ordered one repeat volley from both front and rear ranks.
“Fall back. Form on the Colonel.”
The endless practice on the hills of Ireland was paying off. The firing line dissolved, taking the Riflemen with them, to reform on the ends of Lacey’s line, back waiting 300 yards behind. With the line formed, Lacey took over, but he remained patient, awaiting events. A minute passed, then two. The wind that had extended out their Colours took away the smoke to reveal the blue line still there and still advancing, but O’Hare had held them up just enough. This time the French were faced with a full battalion, greatly extended by the green uniformed Riflemen. Lacey looked along his line, off to the right, then the left, all was in place including The Colours; his men had formed up, muskets vertical at the ‘make ready”, no orders had been needed. The French were not done, but this time Lacey was content to allow the range to fall, this time the blow would be harder.
“Front rank. Present!”
The order made its progress by example down the long line as he waited to see what the French would do, he knew that the moment they stopped was when they would prepare to loose off a volley of their own, but for the moment he was content to let them do what they were doing; coming on, with their muskets held diagonally across their chests. Then he saw what he had been waiting for, their Officers turned to face their advancing men, with their swords horizontal; the French were forming their own firing line.
“Fire!”
At 70 yards range, the volley was merely destructive, not devastating, but the French line had been dealt a severe blow.
“Rear rank. Present.”
A pause as the hammers of almost 800 muskets and rifles were cocked fully back.
“Fire!”
Again the roar of noise and smoke and then, for some minutes, Lacey maintained fire from both ranks, finally allowing his Company Captains to control the fire of their own Companies. Soon there was nothing but the ear splitting noise of continuous firing up and down the line as Companies fired independently, the Rifles gleefully adding their firepower, but then a voice came to him from the rear.
“Sir. We’re being reinforced, Sir.”
Lacey turned and pushed his way back through the double rank to see General Spencer and his Staff at the head of his own Brigade, and his battalions were immediately running off both left and right to form their own line. The General cantered over and Lacey saluted, but Spencer asked the first question.
“How many are you against?”
“I’ve seen at least two battalions, Sir, but I think we’ve now held them up.”
Spencer nodded.
“Good. Well done. Pull your men back and we’ll take over, but remain in line as a reserve.”
Lacey thought that any form of withdrawal was easier said then done, but, by the time he had returned, O’Hare had ordered their own men to break apart into Companies, to allow Spencer’s individual Companies to run between the intervals and form their own firing line. It was smoothly done, but, in fact there was little left of the conflict. The French, seeing the reinforcements, had the choice to feed in men piecemeal and begin a battle against an enemy able to do the same, or pull back to perhaps better positions. They chose the latter and soon there was little to mark their presence, bar a long line of dead and wounded where they had been hit by the volleys of the 105th and the Riflemen.
In the Colour Party, the Colours were lowered, the brass ends of the staffs placed on the ground. Rushby leant wearily on his, whilst Neape, emerging from a mental daze accompanied by a loud ringing in his ears, examined each part of himself and found no damage. However, this was not the case when he examined his Colour; the wide expanse of emerald green. Four musket balls had passed through, each evidenced by Neape thrusting through his finger, which immediately rekindled his state of shock. Deakin looked along and found Rushby examining the silk of his for the same.
“Ah, now don’t thee worry too much about those, Sirs. There’ll be plenty more of that before we’re done ’ere, an’ my Bridie will take care of those, Mr. Rushby, Sir, and I’m sure we’ll find someone for yours, too, Mr. Neape.”
***
“The General’s come up.”
Lacey looked across to his left, across the now ordered lines of dead and wounded, some with light wounds being attended, some awaiting their turn with the surgeon’s probe, knife, or saw. Beyond the sorry scene, Wellesley was talking to the Colonels of the two Rifle Regiments, or, more accurately, thoroughly conveying his displeasure, his wagging finger and aggressive stance fully conveying the fact that both Senior Officers were the recipients of a savage dressing down. That done, and with a final nod of his head, Wellesley mounted his horse. Both Lacey and O’Hare remained watching, but it was O’Hare who first predicted what was coming next.
“Oh God and b’Jesus, he’s coming over!”
Lacey gave no reply, being engrossed with his own thoughts, until one fear spoke out.
“Will he say that we were too far ahead?”
“We’ll know soon enough.”
As Wellesley and his Staff rounded the rows of casualties, both Officers came to the attention and saluted, the reply being a touch of a riding crop to the peak of Wellesley’s bi-corn.
“Lacey?’
“Yes Sir.”
“And your Major?”
“Sir, may I have the honour to present my Senior Major, Padraigh O’Hare?’
O’Hare bowed his head, and Wellesley eased himself in the saddle, both hands now on the pommel.
“You handled your men well, so I hear. Well done.”
A very slight pause, but inadequate for any reply.
“Fane has your orders.”
With that he pulled his horse’s head around, leaving the two both astonished and saluting. With Wellesley now leaving, Lacey looked at O’Hare, both exhaling a sigh of relief.
Fane was nearby; anxious himself to hear Wellesley’s words to the final pair of his immediate inferiors, but his first words explained what had just happened.
“The Rifles ran into the whole French army, in front of Obidos, two miles up. They were roughly handled, but at least we now know where the Johnnies are. The General’s going to wait, now, for the rest of the army to come up throughout today and tomorrow, then we move. Stand your men down and camp here.”
He paused and shifted his feet.
“Blake and Webster of the Rifles send their thanks. The sight of your men stood formed up as they fell back was most welcome. Well done from me, too.”
Lacey and O’Hare spoke their thanks in unison, then Fane departed and they were left alone.
“Right. Stood down for a day, or more!”
Lacey looked around, then spoke further.
“Tell the men to make camp and take their rest. A “make and mend”, I think the matelots call it.”
The order soon circulated and the 105th made camp more or less where they had fought, although many moved on, the sounds of the surgeons at work gave them a chill presage of their own possible future. It was exactly such a group that strategically set themselves up near enough to the road to immediately see the arrival of supplies, but sufficiently out of the way for peace and quiet. This group which habitually cleaved together consisted of; Davey, Pike, Miles, Byford, Bailey and Saunders from the Light Company and, from Number Three; Deakin, Halfway, and “the twins”, Alfred Stiles and Samuel Peters. Although wholly unrelated, the last two were practically alike in appearance, speech, stature and their outlook on life. The first thoughts of all were relief at seeing each of their mates still alive, but they soon fell to squabbling about sharing out biscuit, dried salt beef and water, until rations arrived. However, the whole group was cheered up by the arrival of a “happier” Tom Miles from the site of their conflict. He’d found a Light Infa
ntry shako that almost fitted, but just too big, it needed but an extra sweat band sewn around inside, which he’d torn out of another, but then the squabbling began again when he found that he did not have enough black thread and needed to borrow some.
Elsewhere, others settled to post battle activities. Carravoy and D’Villiers sat on their single campbed, both still shaking, but strangely euphoric and this not only stemming from the simple reason that they were both still alive. This was not their first battle and so the sights and horror had not impacted upon them so powerfully, but they had still been frightened to the point of terror. However, they consoled themselves that their Grenadiers had fought well and they, despite their almost paralyzing fear, had given the correct orders and stood with their men. As they sat in silence, each was now grateful for the mug of coffee prepared them by Binns, himself covered in blood, the result of the death of the filemate who had been stood in the rank before.
Blood was very much on the mind of Chaplain Prudoe. The wounds and injuries of the men surrounding him were enough to turn his stomach, to the extent that he felt unable to approach those whose wounds were clearly fatal and had little time to live. He had been able to bring himself to stand and say the Last Rites, but had been unable to emulate Sedgwicke who knelt besides all, this evidenced by the bloodstained knees of his trousers caused by kneeling on the blood-soaked earth, the better to help them to drink and ease their suffering in whichever way he could, either by a drop of rum, or a drink of water, or a few comforting words. Many greeted him familiarly, “Hello, Old Parson,” and, for one or two, those were the last words they ever said. For Prudoe, whilst uncomprehending at his own lack of ability to administer The Sacrament to dying men from a position close enough for them to feel the comfort of it, he reassuringly consoled himself that Sedgwicke was “from amongst them, after all,” therefore more insensitive and unconcerned by the close proximity of men choking their last breaths on their own blood. He moved on and around, convincing himself that his simple presence and the enunciation of the correct spiritual formula constituted duty done. Meanwhile, back in Leiria, news of the conflict was reaching the camp followers and all took themselves to the road, to garner news, especially from any in the carts of wounded that had facings of emerald green.
The day wore on. Brilos was too small to accommodate a whole army and so those of the 105th enjoyed the entertainment of watching other Regiments march through and off to one side or the other, there to make their own camp. Come nightfall, the sounds of the surgeons at work ceased and all slept undisturbed, bar Lieutenant D’Villiers when Captain Lord Carravoy woke him to claim his time with the camp bed, this occupying one half of their tiny tent. After breakfast, knowing that a battle was imminent, Lacey ordered another check, this time to be carried out by both NCO’s and Officers, the former checking the verdict of the latter. Wellesley rode back from examining the French, accompanied by his Staff and a squadron of the 20th Light Dragoons. Those who could, including Davey’s group by the road, examined his face for any sign, but there were as many opinions as there were people making them. With the dying of the day, orders arrived and Lacey and O’Hare read theirs. They were to be withdrawn from Fane’s command and placed as the reserve battalion for Brigadier Caitlin Crauford, which was itself in reserve on the left, behind the Brigade of General Nightingall. Fane, at the moment of their reading, came to their small camp, looking none too pleased, a mood added to by the growing dark.
“Ye’ve read your orders?”
Both nodded and Lacey answered.
“Yes Sir, but it doesn’t say why.”
Fane took a suck on a pipe that he had been cradling in his right hand. The exhumed smoke added to the gloom between them.
“Ye’re in reserve, at my request. That was a good fight ye put up yesterday, ye don’t deserve involvement in another, let some others tak’ a turn. Besides, my Rifles have been given a skirmishing job out on the left, nae place for a full Line Regiment such as yourselves.”
This was the first time the 105th had been recognised as such and both Lacey and O’Hare felt a small swelling of emotion, but Fane had more to say.
“Johnny has set up a defensive line beyond Obidos, defending a village called Rolica. My men are part of a double flanking move on the left, ye see, because out even beyond me, further off in the hills, will be two Brigades under Ferguson and Bowes.”
He took another puff, then spoke as he exhaled the smoke, including a repeat of what they already knew.
“Just tae put ye both fuller in the picture, Crauford will be in reserve for the left centre behind Nightingall, with Hill right centre. On the far right, far out, will be Trant, trying the same as my men, but with Portuguese brigands.”
He sucked expectantly on the pipe and seemed nonplussed when he exhaled no smoke, but his description continued.
“Wellesley means to gobble them up with a double bite!”
Another puff, but the pipe was dead. Fane fished for his tobacco pouch, but O’Hare handed over his own, and while Fane affected a re-fill, Lacey went for the candle lantern, the better to read the order.
“Sir, there is something here that I do find, er, unusual. This last sentence, “All Regiments are required to advance in their best order and to maintain the highest standard of drill and appearance when within sight of the enemy”.
Fane was still filling his pipe, but he answered.
“Wellesley’s hoping tae mesmerize the French by what they will see facing them from in front and not notice Ferguson and the Portuguese out on their flanks.”
The pipe was filled and, after a burning brand fetched from the fire had been thoroughly applied, Fane gave his opinion.
“And good luck to us all with that one!”
With the pipe lit and smoldering, Fane took his leave, a cloud of aromatic smoke mingling with the darkness. Equally unconvinced, Lacey and O’Hare took some supper and went to bed, which meant being rolled up in their blankets fully clothed, lying amongst their men.
***
The following day proved to be a bright one, perfect for Wellesley’s attempt at his “coup d’oeil”. To become almost the last battalion in the formation, the 105th watched and waited as the rest of the army marched past to take up their positions. All were immaculately turned out, with perfect dressing of their ranks, Colours brave, prominent, and eye-catching, reaching out above the ranks in the good breeze. The army marched in column for about two miles, through Obidos and then deployed. The 105th had but little to do, other than to march out to their left and position themselves behind the 91st Argyllshire Highlanders. ‘Scots girlies’ according to Miles.
Caitlin Crauford galloped up with a small Staff. This was the first time they had seen him and he reminded Lacey of an angry gamekeeper, accosting a group of wayward picnickers.
“Lacey?”
“Sir.”
“Keep up close.”
With that he was gone and, with all arranged and resplendent, the army advanced, down the floor of a “horse-shoe shaped” valley, with hills on both sides. Officers and NCO’s were soon screaming about alignment and dressing, as the ranks broke up to negotiate the variety of obstacles; buildings, paddocks, and ponds. As they pressed on, with shouldered arms and maintained step, from time to time, they could see, off to their left, in the hills, the red columns of Ferguson and Bowes, but Fanes Rifles, although closer to them, were blending with the dark green hills of the background. For almost an hour nothing happened, then white smoke burst out on the near hillside, finally revealing the whereabouts of Fane and his men. At that moment, coincident with the sound of musketry, O’Hare, on a burnished horse besides Lacey, noticed a substantial group of houses appearing on their right.
“I do believe that to be Rolica. Shouldn’t we have done some fighting, to get up to here?”
“I feel you’re right, but look over yonder; you can see Ferguson. He’s come in from the hills to spring a trap that didn’t work, but, if I’m not mistaken, he’ll b
e sent back out. Johnny’s not been taken in, he’ll now be pulling back to a better position. No guesses, Padraigh, but I’d say that one, right ahead.”
O’Hare looked in both places, the first to see Ferguson marching back to the hills, the second to see a formidable ridge, split, but only far up, by four small gaps or ravines. Through these, blue uniforms could be seen filing up and in, taking up positions in a position wholly formidable for defence. A windmill stood on the lower heights of the far left, presumably hurriedly abandoned by its miller owner, its sails still mournfully turning, waving it’s distress at what had come upon it, in all its destructive power.
“This, I don’t like! Sure, that’s the same as a fortress, only twice as high!”
The order came to halt from a rather distraught aide-de-camp, riding up on a huge horse and, as he departed, Lacey gave the order.
“Stand down, make a meal. There’s going to be some changes.”
The morning had been wasted, the French had stood for just so long, warily suspecting a trap inside the shallow valley, and then they had expertly pulled themselves out, leaving the British stood as bachelors at a dance with too few partners. The men sat and lounged around their fires and, after eating their stew, they cleaned again what was already clean and drank water flavoured with wine. Officers sat on whatever could be found, most often furniture brought from the houses of Rolica. Somehow appearing both strained and at leisure, they drank tea after consuming their own stew, but, for them, there was the addition of fruit, picked from the trees all round. However, both men and Officers had one thing in common, they looked with foreboding at the French position, from which could be seen the Frenchmen’s own campfires. Joe Pike was sat alongside John Davey, each mirroring the other’s position, each had their rifle erect between their knees, hands grasping the barrel just far enough up to support their chins, but Davey’s outside his right cheek, Pike’s outside his left. Neither would leave their precious Baker lying in the dust.
“Will they be sending us up there, John?”
Close to the Colours (105th Foot. The Prince of Wales Own Wessex Regimen Book 2) Page 7