With D’Villiers, he led his men across the alleyway and into that same house on the other side. The few French in there bolted out the back, he had no need even to discharge his pistol, but a similar look through the back window into the next house beyond revealed a different picture; the French had retreated to now hold that en masse. Carravoy turned to his men.
“This is as far as we go! Get some furniture up to these windows.”
The word “furniture” could hardly be applied to the crude benches and table that sat forlorn on the rush floor, but they were brought up and used to cover the windows, although poorly. As his men took up their firing positions, almost immediately one slumped down to the floor, his head at an odd angle showing that a ball had passed out through the vertebrae of his neck. Carravoy swallowed hard, he knew his orders as given by O’Hare, these being to keep the French sharpshooters away from the cover of the stone walls between the village and their line. Therefore, thus far into the buildings, he was content that he had carried out O’Hare’s wishes, but not at all content with the order to leave the line and enter the village in the first place.
“Hold them there, men. Listen for orders.”
His men were already filling the room with the noise and smoke of their firing, but all had heard the last part. Some wondered what it meant, but Carravoy knew full well. He felt himself to be in a desperately perilous position and resolved to pull back at the earliest excuse. Before being ordered down, from his position on the right of the main line, he had seen a French column alongside the village, inexorably advancing. It was worryingly large, as big as each that they had faced at Vimeiro and if it came much further they would be cut off. He went to a side window to see if the column could be seen and he was dismayed to find that it could not, there were buildings in the way. His fears increased.
On the ridge above Carravoy, O’Hare was of the same mind, but analytically calm as he viewed the oncoming column. It was now only half the width he expected, which drew him to the odd conclusion that the French were sending half of it up through the village! He shook his head, how could the half in the village hold their cohesion, or stay in line with the half outside, when negotiating alleys and back yards? Then he realised, that was why that on the outside was so slow! He drew his telescope to see that the men in the column were almost marking time, but they were yet closer, now only 300 yards down from him and level with the centre of Elvina and still advancing, albeit slowly. His eyes never left their front ranks until a French Officer appeared from the buildings to stand before them, to raise his sword and wave them forward. Their pace increased and O’Hare spoke to himself ‘Happy now, are you? Well, let’s see.’ He turned to his Bugler.
“Sound recall.”
The notes blew shrill and clear, enough for Carravoy to hear, but his first reaction was to curse, they had not been in the village but fifteen minutes. He spoke angrily to himself.
“What good has this done?”
Then much louder.
“Out! Back to the line.”
In a bundle of bodies he and his men exited the building using any likely means, both doors and windows. Once clear of the village he was relieved to see that Ameshurst was, without orders, holding the first wall further up to give them cover. He looked back to see French Light troops creeping out from between the buildings, whilst their supporting column inexorably advanced forward. He heard a yell then a curse behind and to the right, one of his men was hit in the leg, but two raised him up and dragged him back to the first wall as musket balls hummed all about. Once they were at the wall and not blocking the view of Ameshurst’s men, he heard Ameshurst order ‘Fire’, then they were over for all his Grenadiers to fall back and join the end of their main line. Carravoy came within earshot of O’Hare but he lip-read, more than heard, O’Hare’s ‘Well done!’. However, O’Hare himself was now worried, no-one had yet reacted to the oncoming column.
Lacey saw his Grenadiers run back and drew his own conclusions, the French column on that side was now up close. He looked over at the 42nd on the left, to see that they had been pushed back a small distance, but now his own 105th had their own problems. He ran across the front of his men and even as he did so two files, four men, were felled from the incessant cannon fire, but his mind was elsewhere, forming his plan. He found a Subaltern of the Colour Company, who happened to be Lionel Farquharson. Out of breath himself, Lacey gave him the order.
“Get down to Lieutenant Shakeshaft. Tell him to pull back to the last wall and hold there. Keep back their skirmishers for as long as he can.”
Farquharson ran forward and down as Lacey continued his journey over. Soon, to his relief he saw O’Hare, still erect and very much alive. He was even more relieved to see their General Commanding Officer, no less, arriving at the same time through the gap between his 105th and the 4th. Moore was composed and calm.
“Report Lacey.”
“Sir! The 42nd are being pushed back and I’ve come over to see what should happen here, Sir. You can see for yourself, we’ve got our own column.”
Moore nodded.
“The 4th must fight on two fronts, one wing to face down into the Monelos valley. There’s another French column coming up from there. The remaining wing will support you. With them I want you to hold that column. With the 4th positioned, I’ll go and rally the 42nd, they’ll be your flank on that side, but you must hold above the village. That column, Lacey, is yours!”
With that he spurred on his horse and rode over to the 4th, on their right, the beginning of whose files could just be seen down the slope of the Monelos valley. Lacey looked at O’Hare and quickly gave his orders.
“First, there’ll be a thick screen of sharpshooters. Battalion volley for them, then half company volleys for the main column.”
“Yes Sir, but one extra thing. With the column, these walls will break their formation. We should close to under 50 and hit them as they try to come over, when they’re in disorder. For the sharpshooters, I’ll tempt them forward and up to us, so’s they can’t use the walls for cover. Then our volley.”
Lacey nodded.
“You handle your wing, and I’ll do mine,”
He then ran off. O’Hare did not even look to see if Lacey had gone but looked at the advancing column now under 250 yards away and its Tirailleurs even closer. There was only one order to give.
“Time to meet our guests, boys. Advance!”
With his sword over his right shoulder, O’Hare led his men forward. He looked across to his left, at his line stretching into the centre. All were in step, all with their muskets neatly at “Shoulder Arms.”
Lacey had regained the centre of his Regiment, the Colour Company.
“Raise The Colours!”
Rushby and Neape lifted the heavy flags and set the butts of each shaft into the leather holder. Lacey looked across to see O’Hare’s wing already advancing down, so he drew his sword, held it high and then swung it forward. His line advanced behind him.
Carr was busy with a spare rifle firing from the side of the house. Whilst looking through his firing slit, he saw what he had been expecting, the first files of the column emerging from the houses of the village, but in some disorder. He ran to the front to see little other than what he took to be Voltiguers, merely a few dodging about.
“Every other man! Side wall! There’s a column advancing up. Give them all the fire you can give, Officers and NCO’s first.”
He ran back himself to the side wall and took careful aim himself at a leading Officer.
O’Hare had halted his men at 100 yards from the uppermost stonewall. He had seen what Lacey had predicted, this being a now reinforced screen of Tirailleurs, which had gathered before the column. O’Hare knew that he was right, that they must not give these elite troops the option of using the wall as cover which they would do at a range of 50 yards. At 100 yards distance they would be forced to come over the wall to make their fire effective. As the first of them did so and advanced on, O’Hare gave his order.
“Make ready!”
Beginning with the Grenadiers behind him, muskets were raised to the vertical, which order ran all along the line. Men who had been quivering for almost two hours in anticipation of being hit by a cannonball, now felt some relief. A French column, up close, would actually give some cover, as the French gunners would not risk hitting their own men. They held their muskets vertical, butts almost level with their armpits, muskets raised so high that the flintlocks were before their faces. They could smell the gunpowder in the firing pans, but the steel of the barrel felt cold. Fingers flexed nervously around the wood and mouths became suddenly dry, many wishing that they had taken a last swallow of water, but O’Hare strolling about quelled the terrors of many. He now walked calmly back to the ranks of the Grenadiers picking up a musket as he did so, then he spoke, almost conversationally.
“It’s you’re turn now, Grenadiers!”
Just as he came to their ranks, just down the slope he saw the 4th take position beyond his Grenadiers, a welcome reinforcement. Moore had carried out his promise. Then O’Hare gave his next order.
“Full volley!”
He turned and placed himself into a gap, then spoke to the soldier on his right.
“Sure, would you be minding if I had a share of your cartridge box?”
For an answer the Grenadier grinned and pulled back the flap to reveal the rows of cartridges. As O’Hare loaded his weapon; he waited for a range of 50 yards and was pleased to see some of the French Light troops, as they struggled over the awkward stone walls, being picked off by Shakeshaft’s Section firing obliquely across. There, Farquharson had at last found Shakeshaft.
“The Colonel wants you behind the last wall and to hold there. He said something about keeping the skirmishers back. For as long as you can.”
Shakeshaft nodded.
“Very good.”
Then he raised his voice above the din, so that his men could hear.
“Fall back. Fall back. To the top wall.”
As his men obeyed, he looked at the fresh-faced Farquharson, a face that had not yet felt a razor.
“You stay with us. Pick that up.”
He pointed to a Baker Rifle, now orphaned, but with the bayonet strap and cartridge box beside it.
“You can load a musket?”
Farquharson nodded dumbly.
“That’s not so different. Sergeant Fearnley will give you instructions.”
Farquharson picked up all three items.
“Now. Let’s hurry.”
Behind the last wall, Farquharson, having laboriously loaded the Baker, was now training it over and Fearnley gave his last instructions.
“You’ve got a back sight and a foresight, Sir. Get both lined up with your target and then pull the trigger. Slowly.”
Fearnley adjusted the sight for 50 yards, then Farquharson sighted on a French Voltiguer, but, as he pulled the trigger, the sound of his own discharge was drowned by the roar of full volley, from higher up the ridge. Fearnley tapped him on the shoulder.
“Time to be off, Sir. Back to the Colonel. If we stay here, we’ll mask his fire.”
Farquharson, suddenly thoroughly enjoying himself, hefted his rifle and sprinted back with the others.
O’Hare had waited for but 40 yards range, before hitting the Tirailleurs who had come up to disturb his line. Now almost none remained. He walked forward to place himself at the head of his men and raised his sword.
“March on, boys!”
O’Hare was taking his men to within 50 yards of the uppermost wall.
Lacey looked over at the sound of O’Hare’s volley, to see almost no Tirailleurs and O’Hare’s wing advancing, level with his own. He looked forward to see his own opposing French sharpshooters, now revealed by Shakeshaft’s Lights running off to the side. These French were also scaling the wall to close the range. He lifted his sword high and his men halted.
“Make ready!”
Muskets were fired from amongst the Tirailleurs, ragged and desultory, but they were too far away for their fire to be destructive. They advanced closer; they had to if they were to damage Lacey’s line significantly.
“Full volley! Present!”
Every musket came down to level. He waited until the French were almost all over the wall and the nearest under 50 yards. The Tirailleurs were still firing and a scream came from behind him, followed by another.
“Fire!”
The noise of the simultaneous discharge of half his battalion, close to 400 muskets, was ear shattering. Lacey let the smoke clear and, as had happened with O’Hare, almost every Tirailleur had been downed, the few survivors now scrambling back across the wall, to run the gauntlet of Carr’s fire from the farmhouse, but they were fairly safe. Those in the farm were giving all they had to the exposed flank of the column, now fully emerged and formed above the houses. It was the only firing that Lacey heard as he led his men forward once more to the 50 yards he wanted from the nearest wall. He looked across to O’Hare to see that now the whole Battalion was formed together and waiting, muskets now reloaded and at the “Make Ready”, barrels high in the air.
Cannonballs buzzed above them, but they were now more protected by the village and the proximity of the French column. He walked over to the Colour Company at the centre of his line and took a deep breath.
“Half Company volleys!”
He heard the order being passed down the line at either side by his Officers. He half turned to look behind him.
“You’re first, Heaviside!”
He heard the acknowledgement come from behind him, the order to “Lock on” then “Make Ready” and then he stood waiting, but not for long. Soon he saw the shakoes of the leading ranks of the French column approach the wall, would they stop and use the wall for cover? The brief moment of anxiety soon passed as the first rank scaled the wall, a column was a shock tactic, not one for attrition. He retreated to stand beside Neape, as Heaviside gave the order, “Present.” Lacey watched as the first two French ranks jumped down on his side before the wall, with the third now climbing it.
“Now, Heaviside.”
“Fire!”
The first rank of the Colour Company delivered their volley to be followed but a second later by the front ranks of the two Companies left and right. For a moment all was smoke, then it thinned for Lacey to see the effect of their continual fire. It was as though the French were marching into some kind of mincer, for as they mounted the wall they were blown back over, whilst on Lacey’s side, were left none but dead and wounded. The noise was appalling, as intimidating as the incessant fire. His timing had been perfect and, with few French Officers now remaining to order a halt, the column simply kept on coming until those following, seeing the heaps of dead at the wall and also thoroughly intimidated by the continuous noise, at last halted. At that moment, Lacey heard a voice that he had come to recognise, that of Moore.
“Go on, Lacey, up to the walls. They won’t stand. Over and clear the village. The 42nd are with you!”
Lacey took a deep breath.
“Maintaining fire! Advance!”
Lacey was asking his men to load as they walked, but he was confident that it would make little difference to the impact of their fire, nor the cohesion of their volleys. He walked forward himself, the Regimental Colour at his elbow, and his men followed him, still firing and advancing down to contest the wall itself. Faced with such a potent and inexorable advance as a long line of Redcoats, the French fell back even further, scrambling back over the lower walls between them and the village. At the first wall, Lacey halted.
“Fix bayonets.”
Within 10 seconds every musket had its bayonet.
“Over and amongst ’em, boys!”
He led his men forward, up and onto the wall, treading on the pile of bodies, but for a moment he stood alone on the wall urging his men on.
“Charge, boys, Charge! Hurrah for the King! Hurrah for the One-Oh-Five!”.
Once over, be
ing more elderly than most around him, he was soon overtaken, but his men had gone over the wall like a red wave, yet they did not get close enough to bloody one bayonet. Already halted and confused, assailed both from the front and from the side from the farmhouse, the men in the column turned and ran, leaving their dead and wounded stretched on the winter grass between the rows of stonewalls, all the way back to the houses of Elvina.
Lacey’s Captains led their Companies on, running down through the empty alleyways and roads, for the French did not attempt a stand at the top of the village, nor even attempt a delay. On the left, Shakeshaft led his men down to accompany the advance, but he did not neglect a cheery wave to the Lights in the farmhouse as they passed them by. Neither did Saunders, Bennet nor Byford, but their salute was more two fingered, especially when they heard a deep insult, delivered by the unmistakable voice of Miles, shouted through an open window.
The whole of the 105th, bar Carr’s Section, ran in fierce pursuit down through the alleys and through the gardens, pushing the French on and out. Some veteran French, encouraged by a brave Officer, tried to make a stand at usable walls and houses, but those that tried were surrounded and killed or captured after fierce hand-to-hand fighting. What faced both Ameshurst and Heaviside was not untypical, a line of French across a road or an alley, but the 105th were too close on the heels of the French to give them time to become steady. Backed by their men, both these Officers, with swords drawn, crashed into the half formed line to bayonet those who stood and then chase on after those who fled. Between the narrow streets and alleys of ancient stone the fight was quick, fierce and brutal.
Soon they reached the Church, then the last houses and last walls, some newly built by Lacey’s own men, and eventually this point was reached by him, keeping up as best he could. He came to the wall built by Davey, then he stopped and looked over, but what he saw shook him deeply. Some of his men, led by Major Simmonds, had gone beyond the village, either from losing their bearings or over eagerness, but they were down the slope and out in the open field with the ejected French now quickly reforming on their own unbroken troops who were advancing up the slope to support the first attack. Worse, the sounds of the ongoing conflict between the 42nd and their column were now increasingly intense. That French column was still engaged on Lacey’s left, and it sounded further back up the slope in relation to him, meaning that the 42nd had halted earlier that his men. On top of that, the French gunners now saw red uniforms amongst the buildings and had lowered their aim and the first hit was on the church bell tower. These guns could now be seen by Lacey and he judged them as being at almost point blank range. He immediately gave his orders.
Close to the Colours (105th Foot. The Prince of Wales Own Wessex Regimen Book 2) Page 46