“Firing line! At your best rate. Bring them down, lads, but watch out for our own, they’ll be following, certain sure!”
As the Grenadiers loaded and fired at the best rate they could manage, Carravoy came up and found Ameshurst. He had picked up a French musket and, standing beside his men, was loading French cartridges and encouraging them with promises of a guinea for anyone who could match his rate of fire. It took some time before he noticed his Company Captain.
“Hello Sir. Did you get stuck somewhere? I had a bit of luck, found this ravine.”
Back on their start line, Lacey was studying the assault along his own front, him standing with the two reserve Companies formed up and waiting. When he saw Carr’s men scramble up and deliver their volley, he drew his own sword and began walking forward.
“Advance!”
Besides the Colour Party, Captain Heaviside clenched his Bible for the final time and thrust it into his pocket.
“Be strong, and quit yourselves like men. First Samuel, 4, verse 9.”
The sight of the rocklike Heaviside, quoting text, stern faced and now much in need of a shave, did much to steady the shaking Neape. He gripped the flagstaff and fell into step with Lacey ahead, but that was soon lost on the steep, rocky ground. Lacey, not a young man, was soon labouring, but he fronted his men for as long as he could, until, inevitably, they caught up, first in the shape of Heaviside, who appeared beside him. Lacey had led them up to the point where he had seen Carr going over the edge and, with laboured breath, he gave his orders.
“Captain Heaviside. Captain Carr is above you. I believe he has made the summit. Take your men up and support him.”
In answer Heaviside brought his sword up to his nose and pushed on. Just below the crest he turned to his men, but nothing as mundane as “Come on, boys” emerged from him.
“Let no man's heart fail because of him; thy servant will go and fight with this Philistine. First Samuel, 17, verse 32.”
With that, he was over the top, followed closely by his men.
Carr was stood amongst a growing company of men, his own, some 45th and some Rifles. They could go no further; they were blocked by cavalry, who were being handled superbly by their Officers, making controlled charges to discourage any advance and perhaps to pick off any redcoat not solid amongst his comrades. Carr was grateful that the term “charge” was misplaced. The ground on top the ridge was a jumble of rocks, hillocks, gullies and trees, but the French horsemen were making good use of the spaces available in between. Carr’s men maintained a good rate of fire and the French were suffering but Carr was in a state of intense frustration. The whole French position had now been carried and the French were in full retreat into a valley over to the British left which would provide an escape route, but the cavalry before him with an infantry rearguard were holding the door open to enable their comrades to withdraw from their previous positions on the ridge over to the right and now escape.
Heaviside appeared at his side and there commenced an exchange, absurdly formal, as though on the boundary of a cricket field, ridiculous amongst the mayhem all around them.
“Henry.”
“Joshua.”
“What would you propose?”
“Take your men off to the right, see if you can link with ours, some must be over there, pushing the Johnnies our way.”
As Heaviside examined the ground he would be crossing, Carr continued.
“Where’s the Colonel?”
“Below, or right behind. Whatever, not far.”
Whilst Carr nodded acknowledgment, Heaviside pointed.
“Seems I’ll not have far to go…..”
Carr followed the direction of his arm.
“……seems those are our side, coming over now.”
With that, Heaviside saluted with his sword and in return, Carr grounded his musket and saluted. Although, as characters, they were so very different, between the two there was the deepest respect. Heaviside waved his sword for his men to follow and was gone. What Heaviside had seen were dense crowds of redcoats coming over the farthest hillocks to their right that made up the back of the ridge and he knew that the task was now to kill or capture as many French as possible, before they escaped. Carr looked again at his front; the cavalry were riding away, leaving the infantry rearguard standing steady, whilst a dense crowd of French infantry streamed past behind them. His men were still formed against cavalry, a line three or four deep, but now almost 50 yards long and growing. He yelled above the continued din.
“Reload. Prepare for volley fire, then forward.”
He waited until all were at the “make ready”. He could only hope that his men could decide for themselves how best to follow his orders.
“Front two. Present.”
A pause.
“Fire!”
A loud crash amidst the clouds of smoke, heard above the din of the ongoing conflict.
“Rear ranks. Present.”
The muskets came down besides the heads of the front ranks, these all now waiting with bayonets “en garde”.
“Fire.”
He did not wait for the rear ranks to recover.
“On! Come on! Charge! Follow me.”
They plunged into the smoke and soon were amongst dead and dying Frenchmen, but none were standing in their path, the line had withdrawn; an experienced Officer must have seen the British prepare, but Carr did not hesitate.
“Forward. On!”
All that remained of the French army were stragglers running over the hills at the back of the ridge, chased on by a thickening cloud of redcoats. Carr led his men down and to the left, to the bottom of the valley and onto a track, which the French were using to escape upwards, but once there, again he held up his sword and called halt. To his left, in the valley bottom, the French cavalry had reformed, leaving enough of a space for their fleeing infantry, but ready to charge into the flank of any pursuing British. Carr could do no other thing.
“Firing line!”
His men, now an even bigger variety of Regiments, obeyed and held their ground. Carr now looked up the valley and felt even more justified at halting his men. Some French battalions had rallied and reformed, blocking any advance, certainly against so small and polyglot a force as his. The Officers of the Redcoats who had chased the French across from the right were of the same opinion, as they were also coming disorganised off the ridge and onto the track leading up the valley. They had no choice, same as he, but to attempt to get their men grouped into some kind of fighting formation. However, at least Carr no longer felt alone and also there were trees on the far side of the valley which they could get into and, from there, give the cavalry an unpleasant time from their musketry, especially from his men and the Riflemen, both with their Bakers. Running to the end of his line, he waved his sword and lead them over.
Lacey, with the Colour Party, had climbed the ridge and had also now descended onto the valley track, where he suddenly found himself surrounded by horses, but one look up found him staring into the face of General Wellesley. It was Lacey alone who saluted; Wellesley had more urgent thoughts.
“Lacey. Are your men in some sort of order?”
Although uncertain of the accuracy of his reply, Lacey gave it anyway.
“Yes Sir.”
Wellesley looked over at Carr’s position.
“Are those yours, over there?”
Lacey looked and recognised Carr, him giving directions to place his men in their firing positions.
“Yes Sir. Those are my Lights, with some add-ons, of course.”
“Right. Get yours over and reinforce what’s there now. Push up that side of the valley. Expect Ferguson to come in on your left.”
Wellesley sat stock still, waiting for his order to be obeyed. Lacey anxiously looked around and was grateful to see so many uniforms with the bright green facings and some Officers he knew. His men had kept together, so he took a deep breath.
“Prince of Wales Wessex! Follow me. Form
column as we go.”
From all around, Lacey’s men ran forward, Officers and NCO shouting instructions for their men to form column on the run, the final achievement of which did not go unnoticed by Wellesley and his Staff. Lacey came up to Carr and, from some place, O`Hare and Simmonds also arrived. Carr’s men were already causing casualties amongst the cavalry as Lacey spoke.
“Carr. Take your men forward. Firing line but open order, then wait for another Company to file on through you. Push them out of there, they won’t stand.”
As Carr led his men forward, Lacey turned to his two Majors.
“Get the men into three Companies and we’ll take one each. We’ll push up behind Carr and file through. Wellesley wants us advancing up this side and we can expect reinforcements from the left. Ferguson!”
Three minutes saw some form of order established and they advanced on, but against increasingly disintegrating resistance. The affair was practically done. At first the rearguard battalions and the cavalry held back their pursuers, but, as the valley narrowed, the fugitives and the rearguard became increasingly desperate, especially when it narrowed to a defile merely yards wide. Many French were cut off on the right, by the British still coming over from the back of the ridge, but when all the French were through that were going to get through, Wellesley sent an aide-de-camp around his pursuing and now victorious army. The 105th, still on the far side, were the last to receive the message to halt, but Lacey had already halted his men. Ferguson did arrive, his men all fresh and eager, and they had vigorously joined in, at which point Lacey concluded that his men had done enough; there were now more than enough British pushing up to the defile.
The 105th sat calmly on the warm, dry, grass of the hillside, drinking water and eating biscuit from their pockets. Their main rations were in their packs, left behind in front of the ridge, but for a while this was ignored as they watched three captured French guns being manhandled back down the valley and a large column of prisoners. However, soon hunger asserted itself and Lacey, feeling his own appetite, ordered them to form up and retire, this time in proper Company order; he was determined that they would return in the proper style. The order was to return to their start line and eat, but, as they walked over to fall in, Miles, as hungry as anyone, as usual made his feelings known.
“Food! Yes, if some bloody peasant hasn’t made off with our kit!”
It was Byford who replied.
“It must be your optimism that keeps you going!”
Many laughed, but Miles simply looked puzzled and annoyed, pondering the meaning of “optimism”. He obtained no answer from within his own vocabulary, but the moment for a reply had passed. Then Ellis caught up with him
“Miles! No headgear. Get that put right; come rollcall.”
Miles, unsurprisingly not yet calm from the fever of the battle, would have hit him there and then, but John Davey saw all the danger signs and grasped one of Miles’ crossbelts and pulled him away and then on down, further down the valley to the others of the Light Company, now forming up.
“Come on, Tom, I ‘spect it’s still up where that Frencher stuck his bayonet through it. Let’s go see.”
***
Chapter Three
“A Field of French Ruin”
For greater or for lesser, after a battle, all survivors are casualties. From the controlling General, him perhaps regretting the mistakes of the battle, right down to the lowliest private, now a casualty and barely conscious in a wagon of similarly wounded. Him still in shock from his time with the Surgeon, unable to flick away flies from the stump of a limb, or a weeping wound, but hoping that he will be amongst the lucky that avoid gangrene, and will still remain alive to join the beggars of London, Bristol and a dozen other cities where a maimed soldier may earn an existence rattling his tin cup. However, the severest casualties, most of all, were the surviving wounded, neither yet discovered nor moved to safety, being pillaged, killed or further maimed by marauding peasants, cloaked by the night for their pitiless deeds.
Exactly the same for the British army after Rolica. Wellesley sat regretting the misfire of his plan to outflank the French, and also chafed over the number of their army who escaped. Beneath him, the survivors of his Battalions now stood in line, still whole and hale to a degree sufficient to answer their roll call, but mourning lost comrades; then down to those who were filling up the casualty carts, awaiting the start of a hideous journey back to the coast. Then finally, the dead, now being brought down from the ridge for formal burial. The battle had begun for real in the afternoon and now the sun was setting, mercifully reducing the fierce heat which so many of the wounded and dying were forced to endure. After roll call, all Colonels allowed their men to merely sit at their campfires, except those whose men were sent out to guard against a French return, these being justifiably the Regiments that had taken little or no part in the fighting. There they cooked their rations and talked in hushed tones about the day and the fate of those now gone from their Mess. Just so the Officers of the 105th; Carr and Drake, both now relieved at the recovery of Shakeshaft, thanks to Morrison’s ancient remedies for concussion Similarly Carravoy and D’Villiers, each alone with their unspoken Devils called up by the memory of their own indecision and being so evidently outshone by Ameshurst.
Jed Deakin and Joe Pike sat by the evening campfire more cheery than most, for word had spread that the camp followers were coming up and would be with them, the day after tomorrow, or even late tomorrow; yet even they could be more accurately described as being quiet and subdued. Also, after a while, whilst the evening rations were still cooking, Joe Pike started shaking. Jed Deakin gave him a drink of hoarded rum, this within the permanent keeping of Zeke Saunders, and then lay him down, to cover him with a blanket, despite the warm August night.
“Shock, is what the Medicals calls it. Shock, from what he saw, up there, in front of that ridge.”
He took a sip of the rum himself and then passed it on. None spoke; all knew that Jed Deakin had more to say.
“That were a bad go. I’ve seen the like, but not often, and Joe here, not at all. I’ve heard tell that our Generals is pleased with the low casualties in takin’ such a place, but they can tell that to the folks of Nottingham and Worcester. Seems the Colonel of the 29th took his lads forward too far and led ‘em straight up. Got half of ‘em killed or captured, but we’ll never know ‘is story, ‘cos ‘ee’s dead too.”
He took off his shako, pulled off the bandana knotted beneath and wiped his face; all sat waiting for more words, but none came. The pork and peas were eaten and then the veteran Deakin eased himself down off the log until it supported his neck and he went to sleep, despite the still bright sun. At this, the rest turned themselves to their own affairs, including Tom Miles, who was assessing the need for final stitches in the two bayonet holes in his shako. Concluding that more were needed, he set to and, being an acknowledged expert wood carver, he was equally adept with needle and thread. He took a final look and mumbled out loud, more to himself than others.
“There! That’ll serve, even for that fault findin’ bastard Ellis.”
The night came and wore on, but even with the emergence of dawn, wounded were still being discovered and carried back down from the ridge, for some had fallen into the numerous holes and crevices. Also, some had been severely wounded in the fight amongst the thick gorse and brush, to also lie undiscovered until daylight. Joe Pike woke refreshed, the rum and the sleep had completed its work, but his hand went immediately to the side of his face, it felt as though there was a deep burn. He turned to Tom Miles, showing him the painful side of his head.
“Tom. What’s that? There?”
He pointed with his finger, but didn’t need to. Tom could see enough. He chuckled his reply.
“Seems like you’ve been grazed by a bullet, boy. It’s made a nice plough furrow down the side of your head. That’s the end of your good looks, I d’reckon!”
He chuckled some more as he ladled out th
e breakfast porridge to the discomfited Pike.
“We shall have to see what your Mary thinks when she comes up. Perhaps she might take exception to takin’ up with a cove as’ve got a slot full down the side of ‘is head!”
He chuckled some more, until silenced by Jed Deakin.
“One day, Tom, that tongue of your’n will see you six foot under and some poor sod swingin’ off the crosspiece for it!”
A genuine reprimand from Jedediah Deakin gave them all pause and Tom was no exception. He fell silent and consumed his own food, whilst Joe, after his porridge was eaten, set gingerly about the business of shaving and not aggravating his wound, preparatory to the arrival of Mary. This happened in the late afternoon, when the camp followers of the whole army arrived to do their best to find their men, by wending their way through an army allowed to rest and re-supply itself. Bridie saw the group first, but it was Mary who arrived first, running forward to fling herself into Joe’s arms and kiss him fiercely. She took one look at his now livid wound, kissed him again, then she looked up into his eyes, worried, almost terrified.
“Joe, I’ve got some news. Can we go off aways?”
Joe now looked equally as worried as she and allowed her to take his hand and lead him off to a group of trees, currently occupied by tethered horses. Jed and Bridie kissed affectionately, then Bridie automatically began the process of cooking the evening meal, carefully assembling all the necessary utensils and ingredients from the children, who were then, each in turn, kissed by “Uncle Jed”.
“Uncle Jed” had seen Mary and Joe walking off and detected the signs of an event of great import.
“What’s all that about?”
Bridie looked at him and there was no joy in her face.
“Mary’s expectin’. She’s pregnant.”
Jed repeated the word stupidly.
“Pregnant?”
Bridie looked at him impatiently.
Close to the Colours (105th Foot. The Prince of Wales Own Wessex Regimen Book 2) Page 9