“You get yourself running, Miles, with the rest. See you do, and your best speed, or I’ll see you on the triangle! See if I don’t.”
Miles was enough of an old soldier to recognise the threat of a flogging and possessed of enough good sense to realise that Ellis was deadly serious and the business urgent. With not another word he turned and sprinted to catch up with Pike and Davey. They ran unhesitatingly across the wreckage of the first French column and their boots soon crunched over the gravel of the track, then they were on the grass slope above the road and there they halted. Below them was a scene of intense conflict. The Grenadiers were halted on the road along the valley floor, still in their column, but fighting furiously against all those that assailed them. The loudest sound of conflict came from further into the village, where the French must be held up by some opposing force, probably at the church, whose tower could be seen, above the thick, clinging smoke. Just below them, the Rifles had already formed a thick skirmish line and were sending their fire into the side of the column, whilst on the far side of the French column more Riflemen were adding their weight to the assault. They must have run down from the high ridge behind Vimeiro.
Carr looked around and saw that his men had kept well together. He held up his sword.
“To me. Wessex Lights. To me!”
Those who saw passed on the order and soon Carr had virtually all his Company gathered around him. He could see little point in adding his men to the already thick Rifle skirmish line, because they were already very effective and any more would provide a target for the French Grenadiers impossible to miss at 50 yards range. He quickly reasoned that it would be better to threaten to cut off the French by closing with the road behind them; the fear of being cut off would, at least, cause the rear of the Grenadier column to retreat, hopefully dragging the rest with them. Doing that would do more to cause the French to retreat than simply adding 70 odd weapons to that of the Rifles already in place and his small Company would just be enough to at least create a level of concern. He raised his voice above the din of the conflict, restricting his words to the very minimum.
“Skirmish line as you go. Form on me. This way.”
He led his men forward, down the slope and to the right, beyond the end of the line of Rifles engaged with the embattled column. Looking at the enemy all the while, even whilst running, he saw a Grenadier Officer waving his own sword and leading some men back to meet them; he had evidently identified the threat that Carr hoped to create. Carr knew that his one Company could not hold back a column two battalions strong, but now, at least, one French Officer was concerned over what was happening and that was all that was needed. The Grenadier Officer led his men back, many others joining, all matching Carr’s Lights for pace. Carr stood and held out his sword for a line above the road, 100 yards up, where his Rifles would be accurate, whilst a French musket not quite so. His own muskets couldn’t miss so dense a target. His Light Company formed a line and immediately opened fire, the first casualty from their fire being the French Officer; many had picked him out. However, they were answered furiously by the French and Carr’s men began to take casualties, but the French Grenadiers, the whole column, was now falling back the way they had come. Whether from Carr’s threat, or another from a different direction, or they had just had enough, their Commander had judged the task as hopeless and they were being assailed from every quarter. The reason was impossible to tell. What could be seen, even through the shrouding smoke, was the mass of Grenadiers now streaming back, still hundreds of men, for they had advanced as a column of over one thousand.
Carr looked left. Halfway down the slope as they were, they would be fully in the way of such a mass and, with it retreating quickly, they soon would be. He grabbed his Bugler.
“Bates. Sound Retire.”
As the last note died, Carr gave the order.
“Fall back. To the top! Form again there.”
Few could hear him, but all conformed to the bugle call and their firing line was again formed at the top of the slope. The mass of Grenadiers poured past, sullenly, many obeying their Officers to stop and form a firing line to answer and to halt their pursuers. Their defeat was obviously not as catastrophic as that of the other French attacks, but, nevertheless, the French were pulling back as quickly as could be, albeit in good order. Carr’s Lights and the Rifles to his left, continued to fire, but soon all the French were gone, save the pathetic wounded, staggering back, using what support they could, and many falling, not from continued British fire, but from the severity of their own wounds.
Carr looked at the wreck of the Grenadier column, the road into Vimeiro almost invisible under the covering of blue uniforms, most unmoving, some still with life inside them. He looked once more, then pondered his own next move and decided; they had no further business there, their own Regiment was back where they had come from, still formed on the ridge. He found his Bugler again.
“Sound Recall.”
As the notes sounded, Carr set out himself for the ridge where he knew the 105th had last been. He felt very tired, three conflicts in but a little over one hour had taken its toll. He glanced back and saw that his men were following, in no particular order, but at least more a column than a line. Drake and Shakeshaft joined him. He felt light headed.
“Hello you two. All hale and hearty?”
Both gave wan smiles from weary and dirty faces, then both heads nodded, but Shakeshaft pulled up his sheathed sword to show a significant dent in the bellguard. Carr recognised the shape; it had been hit by a musket ball.
“Where was the sword when it was hit.”
“Held aloft.”
Carr grinned at the thought.
“Very Lionheart.”
He took the sword himself, to give a better examination.
“You are not to have it beaten out. That….”
He spoke the word loudly to give it better emphasis, and pointed, to give extra potency to his next words.
“……… is something you will show to your Grandchildren. I carried that sword the first time we beat the French in a set-piece battle! The battle of Vimeiro.”
He smiled in Fatherly fashion at his youngest Lieutenant, then looked back at his men, all looked tired and grimy, but he felt pleased, even proud, his men had fought well, there could be no complaints. A sudden bugle call called him back from his self-congratulatory reverie, this further broken by an observation from Drake.
“Perhaps this is not all yet done!”
He need say no more, nor make any indication, because across their front, a cavalry charge, no less, was in progress. The strident notes of the bugle had sounded “the charge”, and now that was exactly what they were witnessing, a headlong charge by the only cavalry the army possessed, the 20th Light Dragoons. However, it was not the fast canter, in a controlled and ordered line that would take them up to the enemy, to then accelerate at the last minute to maximize impact. This was a headlong gallop, almost out of control, and already beginning to lose formation. Their Colonel was way out front, with a few Officers in close attendance, which was drawing the Regiment out into a loose diamond shape.
Carr drew in a deep breath and sighed.
“I’m no detailed student of cavalry tactics, but that can only end badly.”
He looked at his two Officers.
“Get the men in skirmish line. I suspect we won’t be alone. They are going to need some cover before long.”
And so it transpired. The Dragoons full galloped across the valley, smashed through a light cavalry screen placed there to protect the French retreat and plunged into the disordered and fleeing French infantry. The sight, albeit at a distance, of the raised sabres showed that they were now dealing out some measure of death and destruction, but back on the British ridge, Lacey's thoughts were matching Carr’s concerns. He spoke aloud, caused by his deep disquiet, speaking of what he wanted to hear, that which should come from an proficient cavalry Commander.
“Sound retire. Come
back, you’ve done enough. Retire.”
But the conflict continued and could be seen right up on the crest of the French ridge. Then came what Lacey had been dreading, a counter attack by French cavalry and soon French sabres were being raised amongst those of the British. This lasted but minutes before odd and disordered groups of British Dragoons began to appear out of the scene of confused conflict and gallop back, pushing their horses to the limit, with most pursued by vengeful clusters of French cavalry. Lacey turned to whatever Officers and Sergeants he could see.
“Get the men forward! Out on the slope. Open order.”
Suddenly, all along the line of the 105th, orders were being screamed out and the men were running back over their ridge, to descend down the slope of their recent conflict. They ran into the formation ordered and stood in their ranks, but they were not alone. The ridge slope was covered in Redcoats, all in open order, leaving enough space for any distraught Trooper to ride through to safety. Soon this was the case. The Light Dragoons, from all parts of the French line, made their escape and found refuge amongst their own infantry and the French cavalry did not pursue too far. Although they stood in open order, not a formal firing line, the French horsemen had concluded, from events not long previous, that this British infantry was of the highest quality and not to be trifled with.
Carr stood and watched. He knew that the French cavalry would not even come within range, therefore he had not even drawn his sword. He watched as the fugitives, on blown horses, their faces registering either shock and terror, rode through his own ranks. One came and halted before them, his horse utterly spent, its mouth agape to suck in air. Its rider was slumped over the saddle, his sword dangling from its wrist cord down besides his horse’s right foreleg. Neither horse nor rider could go further, but Carr recognised an Officer’s uniform and concluded that he should intervene himself. He walked forward and quickly saw that blood was dripping from the right sword arm of the cavalryman. Also, he had no helmet and blood was matted in his hair. Carr increased the pace of his approach, afraid that the rider would soon fall.
“Can I, or any of my men, be of any assistance?”
The head lifted to reveal a face streaked in blood and utterly weary, but Carr immediately recognised Captain Lucius Tavender. Carr was himself shocked by the depths of Tavender’s evident pain and exhaustion.
“Tavender! You must let us help. My men will take care. Let us help you off your horse.”
Some life seemed to come back into Tavender.
“No!”
His head slumped back down.
“I thank you, Carr, but no.”
A ghost of a smile seemed to pass across his face.
“It is not that I reject your help.”
He gulped some air.
“I am very grateful.”
He swallowed hard.
“It’s just that, …. that….. I don’t think I can walk.”
The ironic smile returned, matched by the same from Carr.
“I have a wound you see, a lance, in my leg, the right one. Best leave me up here, and get me in. If you’d be so good.”
Carr could not help but notice the extreme change from the arrogant Tavender that he had known before, but he dwelt on that for but a second. He turned to his men.
“Riley, Evans, Thomson. Get Captain Tavender back into our own lines.”
He lifted his own water canteen from his side.
“Here, take some water.”
Tavender lifted himself just enough to make an angle for the water to pour into his mouth, steadying the canteen with his good left arm. Some dribbled from his mouth as he lowered the canteen; he could drink no more, he was so exhausted. He spoke as an exhaled breath.
“I thank you.”
The three Lights were now stood near and Carr instructed them.
“Find him a Surgeon, any, I doubt his own will be easily to hand. And be careful, he is too liable to fall off. Keep him up there.”
He turned to Tavender and had to stoop to see his face.
“My men will take care of you now, Captain. You are in good hands.”
The only reply was a weak raising of Tavender’s left hand as his horse was led forward. Carr watched him go for a brief moment, before looking for more returning Troopers, and there were many, mostly carrying a wound of some kind.
The defeat of the cavalry, although inevitable, left a sour taste in some of the army, “some” being mostly the Officer Corps. Amongst the men, however, now was the time to see what could be gathered from amongst the fallen of the French. Few Officers stopped what was almost traditional and, besides, it made sense. A French army lived off the land and every knapsack on every fallen Frenchman would contain food of some kind, meaning less food being required from their own Commissariat. In addition, why let it go to waste, although, all knew that the local peasantry would be out, come the night, and it was arguable that, with their crops now wrecked under a battlefield, they had a better claim.
Miles, Pike, and Davey were out amongst the French dead, those of the first column, because to go further over to the site of the Grenadier defeat would require too far a “wander away”. The experienced Miles was directing all.
“Once you’ve got a backpack, look for boots and buttons. ‘Specially on an Officer, an’ provender too, don’t forget that. ‘Specially brandy!”
Chosen Man Davey rose up and gave Miles a “Go teach your Granny to suck eggs” look, but Miles was too busy to notice, for he had looked around and saw what he especially desired. Soon the buttons and buckles were removed as were the coins in the purse, but Officers carried no food, but this one did have a flask of brandy. With this now safely stored in his knapsack, he looked at the feet and shouted, still examining.
“John! You got a good pair of boots?”
The reply came from behind him.
“I have.”
Miles looked for Joe Pike.
“Joe. There’s some good boots yer, Officer boots, an’ he’s about your size.”
As he helped Joe pull off the boots, suddenly firing erupted again, but distant and far to their left. Most stopped, whilst Miles gave it but a glance, but soon all were looking at the high ridge behind Vimeiro. They knew it to be the site of Ventosa farm and there they saw what had become of at least one of the two French Divisions that had marched off to their left, prior to the attacks upon themselves. One Division was at the top of the long slope up to the farm and under intense pressure. Having made the long, direct climb up the hill, the observers down on Vimeiro ridge could see that it been formed into four columns, but these were now opposed by a long British firing line, which had, itself, split into four, the better to wrap around the heads of the French columns. It was not long before they saw the French break and run, just as those had which they had fought. The firing died away and they saw the French, as a white shape, streaming away up the valley, pushed by what looked like, from the distance, to be two British battalions. Tom Miles returned to rifling through another knapsack.
“That’s that, then!”
But within five minutes the firing began again. This time little could be seen of the conflict, but it was fierce, possibly more so that of merely minutes previous. All looked anxiously, whilst nothing could be seen but the smoke of the conflict and the rear of a red line atop the ridge. Next, what looked like a whole battalion of their men was doubling around behind the British line and it swung up right to join the British left and disappeared over the ridge. Anxiety still held sway on Vimeiro ridge far below and they waited, listening only to the sounds of the fighting, which seemed ferocious, but soon this also died away and the red of British uniforms could still be seen holding the ridge top above Ventosa farm. Many asked themselves the question, “Surely that’s the end?” and it was. The last act of the battle may well have occurred between Lacey and O’Hare.
“What time do you have, Padraigh?”
O’Hare’s watch was already in his hand, he had asked himself the same que
stion.
“10.32.”
“Hmmm. A veteran French army, seen off between a late breakfast and an early lunch. That hasn’t happened anywhere in Europe for a very long while!”
The battle of Vimeiro had, indeed, now ended. A hitherto undefeated French army had been completely shattered, a large part of it left lying on the fields around Vimeiro, the remainder, in shock from a defeat hitherto unknown, was streaming back South on the road to Lisbon. Veterans of a dozen victories could not, when they closed their eyes, avoid the image of a parade steady, long line of Redcoats, before there came the memory of a horrific experience of smoke, volleys and the sound of their comrades falling dead and wounded both left and right. Junot himself knew that his four attacks on the British line, perfectly launched according to Napoleon’s own regulations, had each been dismissed, almost swatted away, in no more than ten minutes. He was wholly at a loss as to what to do next, other than to fall back on Lisbon, when some reinforcements may be obtained.
***
They had but two hours to recover and prepare from the battle before Gibney and all other Sergeants were coursing about the ridge bellowing to form column and be ready to march. All was swiftly prepared; transport, camp followers, Colours and all, to stand, then sit, all afternoon in order of march. As the sun Westered, all in the army were stood fretting, and many spoke.
“If we’re to march, let’s be on, if not, then make camp, prepare for night.”
Lacey and O’Hare sat on the slope, privileged on chairs brought from a nearby house. Both were anxious for their men and for the camp followers, all being required to remain in position ready to obey the simple order to join the column of march. Genuine dusk was falling when Fane rode up, alone and plainly in some distemper.
“Stand down, Lacey. Make camp.”
He did not dismount, clearly he had others to inform, but he paid them both the compliment of adding more..
“Sir Harry Burrard has arrived and is now in command. They’ve been arguing all afternoon, him and Wellesley.”
He took a deep breath, which he released slowly in exasperation.
Close to the Colours (105th Foot. The Prince of Wales Own Wessex Regimen Book 2) Page 15