“Follow me!”
He ran to the road, stood in the middle of the flow and bellowed his orders, but first at his small command.
“Middle rank of a square, across the road. I want your rifles ready to give fire.”
His pitiful command of seven soldiers looked at him in puzzlement, but Ellis seemed to know what he was doing and so they lined up across the width of the road, rifles at the make ready. Meanwhile Ellis was yelling at all and sundry, those approaching, passing, and even gone.
“Form square, on them!”
He pointed at his small line, almost a caricature of his belligerent self.
“On them! Front rank fix bayonets! Move! Move! You dozy lot of dead-brain bastards! Move!”
The sudden appearance of this fiercesome Sergeant, yelling orders, shocked many out of their state of single minded self-preservation and then the drilled in blind obedience, reinforced by fear of the lash, took over. All who could, began to build the square. It included several wounded, but within minutes it was substantial enough to withstand cavalry.
Ellis ran up and down the front of the square; all was not as it should be.
“Call yourselves soldiers. All you kneeling in the front rank, fix bayonets! Back two make ready. Christ! You’re in a defensive square, not a choir for a singsong! Sort yourselves out! Face up! Receive cavalry!”
The stunned soldiers fixed bayonets or loaded their weapons, but Ellis, stood out beyond the front rank, was now looking at the beleaguered group further on. He turned to look at his now solid square, with the front rank kneeling, bayonets extended.
“Stand up!”
The front rank did.
“Advance!”
The side nearest to him shambled forward, then the other three sides, suddenly finding themselves detached, followed in the same direction. Ellis knew that he had to take his men forward to draw the cavalry away from the surrounded Redcoats further out and soon it had the desired effect. Ellis’ square, advancing to offer battle, was soon noticed, the first sign being what seemed to be an Officer raising his sabre and detaching men from the attack. They rode down upon Ellis, in substantial numbers, but in no set formation. Ellis resumed command.
“Halt!”
The whole shuffled to a standstill.
“Front rank kneel.”
The obeying of the order ran around the square to meet in the centre of the rear side, but they were soon ready. Ellis entered the square to take his place in the centre of the middle rank of three. He had to rely on their training, there was no time to issue instructions.
“Middle rank. Present!”
Around him, at least, men were acting as they should, the front rank kneeling, their bayonets forming a protective hedge, middle rank at the “present”, third rank at the ‘make ready”.
“Fire!”
The front of the square exploded with fire, followed by the weapons along the sides, as the cavalry parted and lapped around down both flanks. There were many French dead and riderless horses, but there yet remained scores of cavalry all around, still so many that the other “square” could not be seen. Ellis continued.
“Rear rank. Present.”
The rear rank’s muskets came down around him.
“Fire!”
Again the explosion and again, when the smoke cleared, they could see the effect. The disorganised French attack had suffered significantly.
“Independent fire!”
All around, his men reloaded and fired at the cavalry milling around before them, but Ellis could only hope that someone in the other square would see what was happening and begin to pull back, now that they were in less peril from so many surrounding cavalry. After about two minutes Ellis was relieved to see exactly that happen, for, like some cumbersome reptile, the mass of Redcoats began to shuffle back, still holding together and still offering resistance to the cavalry all around them. It took almost ten minutes before they reached Ellis and then continued on, to finally reach a point back beyond him. ‘There must be at least one good lad in there’, he thought, because, when they were 50 yards beyond, they halted. They were going to cover his withdrawal, which he now began.
“Pull back. Slow! Keep together!”
His square began to move, the front rank now pushing at the others, but the noise of the musketry was incessant. Drop outs and marauders they may be, but they were all veteran infantry and could manage at least three reloads a minute, so any French Hussar that came within five yards of either square was blasted out of his saddle. Ellis took his square to 50 yards beyond the other, then halted to cover their retreat. Then they pulled back to halt once more, as did Ellis, by which time they were at the buildings of Betanzos where the cavalry could not operate, but their attacks had by now lost all of their ferocity and much of their confidence. Expecting easy prey at first, the French horsemen had been demoralised by the determination of the resistance, which had caused many casualties and, what was worse, it had been dealt out by what had been, at first, a disorganised mob. As the squares neared the buildings, the Hussars held off, hoping for an opportunity at broken infantry, but that never came, for Ellis was not done. The street up to Betanzos’ central square was wide, wide enough for a cavalry charge, and so as the squares broke up he ran around seizing some men and pointing at others, allocating them to a pair of thick skirmishing lines. As the first one formed up, he found John Davey.
“John! Take charge here. I’ll make another 50 yards back.”
As Davey ran to command the line that was already forming across the road, rubbing clean his Chosen Man stripe as best he could as he went, Ellis ran back, yelling at everyone. Many from the two squares, now feeling themselves under orders, had not run back through the town but remained to take part in what came next, which was the forming of the two lines. Davey looked at the French on his front, who, thankfully, now seemed thoroughly intimidated and were holding off, then he looked back at Ellis’ line further into the village. It was formed.
“Fall back! Reform beyond.”
The line dissolved and they all ran back, Davey looking over his shoulder at the French to see, worryingly, that they were now trotting forward in the hope of targets. He ran on through Ellis’ line to become part of his own that was rapidly forming 100 yards behind. It was not long before Ellis and his men did the same and so they progressed through the town. Not one shot more was fired. The French had had enough; the British, somehow, as the Hussars saw it, had formed themselves into too tough a nut to crack.
Beyond the town both lines, now near the bridge, with the Rifles on the far side, and now feeling themselves safe, dissolved to cross, then to climb the slope and join the ranks of their army, now growing on the summit above. Amongst the last remaining in the village, Ellis’ five 105th found each other again, but Spivey and Verrity had disappeared, having run on to cross the bridge and join their own comrades of the 95th. The six Lights approached the bridge, but it wasn’t long before they heard their names being called, Zeke Saunders first, him being the first recognised because of his height. Ellis stopped and looked over to the right to see arms waving on the far bank. Against orders, but feeling himself safe, Carr had led his men right down to the river, so, as they set foot on the bridge, Ellis turned to Davey, at his side.
“I think that’s some of our lads over there.”
Davey peered through the crowd and nodded.
“I think you’re right, and that’s as good a way to go as any!”
His answer was for Ellis to immediately turn right and walk off towards the shouts and waving and it was not long before faces were recognised, most importantly Ellis recognising Carr. Ellis nudged Davey.
“I’d better go first to the Captain!”
Davey nodded as Ellis marched off to present himself before Carr, rifle grounded and held by his left hand, whilst saluting with his right.
“Myself and five men, reporting back. Sir.”
Carr was grinning like Ellis had never seen him before.
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“Welcome back, Sergeant. You’ve been missed. What have you been up to?”
“Beggin’ your pardon, Sir, but it’s quite a story.”
Some yards away, Byford and Miles were in the middle of a knot of 105th Light Company climbing back up the hill, Miles using the advantage afforded him by their return for all it was worth.
“Now we b’ain’t sayin’ not one single word till we’ve had some grub. Like now, straight away, some biscuit and water from you lot; we’n bleedin’ starvin’. Nothin’ till we’ve got somethin’ inside. An’ a drop of summat won’t come amiss, neither!”
It was only when they slumped down amongst their comrades that the five realised just how close to exhaustion they were, so that after merely a few mouthfuls of stew, which they could barely chew, they rolled themselves in their blankets and slept, al bar Joe Pike. He lost no time in running to the mess line and enquiring the whereabouts of the followers and many, recognising him, were eager to direct him to where they knew he was desperate to go. It was the imposing figure of Nelly Nicholls that he recognised first and he increased his speed to get to her, knowing that Mary would be near. Nelly soon noticed his hurrying figure.
“Jesus, Joseph, and Mary, Mother of God!”
She turned to find Bridie, working behind her.
“Bridie. It’s Joe! Come back! He’s not dead!”
Bridie saw the look on Joe’s face and recognised immediately his extreme anxiety. She ran forward to stop him and Nelly followed. Between them they managed to halt his progress, but it was Bridie who began talking loudly and urgently, holding firmly to his arm.
“She’s not dead, Joe, she’s fine, just fine, but Joe, there’s something you’ve got to know.”
She seized his crossbelts and shook and pulled him to make him look at her.
“Joe! She’s lost the baby, Joe!”
Whilst shock and dismay entered the face and eyes of Joe Pike, tears welled up in hers, the words coming in a torrent.
“’Twas the cold and the hunger, Joe. She was suffrin’, so far down she went that we thought we’d lose her, but we didn’t. She couldn’t hold the baby, Joe, her body gave up, to keep her alive, her body let go. ’Twas no surprise, Joe, and for the best. It was lose the bairn or lose both. Joe!”
Joe Pike was recovering from the shock as he listened, but he became so sunk in depression that both women thought that he was about to collapse and Nelly saw the need to put her arm under his.
“Joe!”
There was no reaction.
“Joe!”
This time he did manage to pull his face around to hers.
“Joe, but she’s fine! Sad, like you, but fine, as are we all. It’s not the end of the world, you’re young and you’ll make more, sure you will. I’ve got three left, from six, six! Two I lost and one died of fever. It’s how it goes, Joe, for the likes of our sort, but the sadness don’t last forever. It fades as life goes on, especially with more children.”
Bridie now seized his crossbelts again to gain his attention.
“She needs you strong Joe, not some mopin’ spineless sop! You’re the man, you’re to carry it through, for you both!”
Joe Pike seemed to straighten slightly, then he took a deep breath, but said nothing. Nelly still had his arm.
“You’re back, safe’n well, and she’s up and about, an’ copin’ like the rest, now the provender’s come up. You’re both all right and together now, praise be to the Good Lord above.”
Bride tugged again at his crossbelts.
“Sure now, isn’t that the right of it?”
Joe was expressionless, giving no reaction, but at least he did not shake his head. Bridie was encouraged.
“Come on, let’s go find her.”
He allowed himself to be led forward, past the cooking fire and the children feeding the mule, to then see Mary sat on a log, mending her coat, sat with Eirin. She glanced up at the arrival of the red coat then screamed as half recognition made her look again to see the full figure of Joe. She was up in an instant to run to him and he dropped his rifle to run forward to her. She sprang into his arms and both fell to their knees, each to hold the face of the other, their tears mingling as their faces pressed together. Both Nelly and Bridie dissolved into weeping themselves and searched in vain to find something to wipe away their own tears, so they gratefully returned to their cooking pots. Finally Joe was able to speak, but the tears still gushed down his face as he searched for the best words to say.
“It’s all right. I know, they’ve told me. It wasn’t your fault, none of it. It’s all right and I’m back. ’Twas nature, and none of your doing.”
She clung to him with all the strength her arms could muster and they clung to each other for almost an hour or more, the arm of one, at least, always around the shoulders of the other and, for Joe, sleep did not come for a long while.
***
The day wore on, in anti-climax after the drama of the morning. The Reserve Battalion went about its business whilst the last Regiments of the main army moved off, but not before Paget had passed his judgment on the ‘dregs and the dross’, as he viewed them. None who had emerged from Betanzos were to be allowed through the Reserve Division lines until they had been searched, but Carr’s presence meant that his six were not included in the round up. The 91st and 20th were allocated to the task and soon there came a large pile of pillaged and stolen objects; brass candlesticks, bent double, bundles of knives of all types, copper saucepans and every type of kitchen utensil, almost all of negligible value. Deakin and Halfway wandered over to watch and they soon noticed the growing pile and went over to examine it. They stood for a minute, then Deakin spoke, his voice weary and resigned.
“Does this pile of stealings here, look familiar, Toby, at all?”
Halfway nodded, the picture of a similar mound in a Lisbon road coming quickly to mind, then both turned and walked away.
The ‘dregs and dross’ now much lighter in their loads, were allowed onto the main road to march on in the hope that they would then attempt to rejoin their Regiments. As the last received his cuffing from a NCO of some level of rank, Moore had his army drawn up, not to offer battle, more to intimidate, for all that could be seen of the French were the cavalry, in force, these being those that had failed against Ellis’ “square” but were now well occupied with rounding up yet further British stragglers, crossing the hills beyond the village.
The night was spent eating because another supply column intended for La Romana had arrived some hours before. All of both soldiers and followers were now supplied with food and the soldiers with ammunition, so that, come the dawn, all of Moore’s army, including those which Paget had called the “dregs and dross”, and the followers of all Regiments, had moved off with their own haversacks bulging full with flour and salt pork, even some dried fruit. The remaining Reserve Division were left with more stores than they could carry away, also three thousand muskets and five guns. The muskets were not needed and the guns had no horses to pull them, so these were all spiked and Carr’s Lights, still watching over Betanzos, were entertained by them being cast down the slope to roll into the river, then to watch parties of the 20th inflicting the same fate on armfuls of muskets which they had to carry down to consign to the water. However, they were unmolested, for Betanzos was deserted of troops of all colours. The French cavalry had pulled back, French infantry had not arrived and the British were more than content to remain on their side of the river.
The only activity on their side of the town, and that was on the outskirts, where the Engineers were preparing to blow the bridge. D’Villiers and Carravoy, sat on an empty musket crate, watching from afar the barrels of gunpowder being manhandled under the bridge. D’Villiers was feeling more cheerful than of late, as were they all, now being well fed, but Carravoy remained morose and surly. However, D’Villiers felt inclined to be positive.
“A pipe of claret to a bottle of Spanish brandy, that that bridge remains standing.�
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Showing a stony face, Carravoy turned to him.
“Which are you betting?”
D’Villiers retained his good spirits; he saw no reason for gloom.
“I’ll bet the claret if you bet the brandy!”
Carravoy exhaled noisily through his nose, his ill temper remaining paramount. He did not answer. Thirty minutes later they heard the explosion and walked back to the ridge top to see.
“That’s a pipe of good claret you’ve lost. You should have taken the bet.”
The partially destroyed bridge had to be guarded for the rest of the day and the task was given to the 105th, who were building a reputation as the ‘specialist part destroyed bridge watchmen’. Thus they sat the ridge above the river whilst the rest of the Reserve Division marched off. In the growing gloom Lacey’s men observed the growing number of French campfires in the hills beyond Betanzos, which meant that French infantry were arriving. Carravoy was still in a foul mood over nothing that he could specify, other than his detestation of General Moore, and so he wandered the lines alone, picking his way between the sentries and the various mess fires. He came across Carr and Drake standing at their most favoured place overlooking the river and he felt much inclined to deliver a barbed remark, whatever the consequences, as he passed by.
“I hear some of your deserters have returned to you, Carr.”
Carr swallowed the mouthful of dried apple that he was enjoying.
“Deserters! That’s a bit strong, Charles. They’d been cut off, but they fought their way back and came in with all equipment. Hardly desertion!”
However, Carravoy had not paused in his ill-tempered perambulation to argue the point. Having delivered the comment, he wandered on, face grim, hands clasped behind his back, walking further into the growing dark. Drake, now with a mouth empty of dried something or other, watched him go.
“What’s wrong with him?”
Carr, just prior to pouring some raisins into his own mouth, gave a short reply.
Close to the Colours (105th Foot. The Prince of Wales Own Wessex Regimen Book 2) Page 38