“Pike! Here, keep watch. If any come our way, I want to know.”
Joe Pike took Carr’s place and looked through the firing slit to see a target he could not miss. He looked into his cartridge box and counted seven.
“John. How many did Mr. Carr say we were to keep?”
Davey fired his rifle, then answered as he reloaded.
“Three!”
Pike reloaded, and pushed his rifle between the boards. The French column was so wide and thick he had but to pull the trigger. He sighted, then stopped. He had lost count of how many he had killed that day and these were no threat to him, nor his comrades, at least not so far. To use the four cartridges would just be a mindless killing, murder of men whose backs were to him. He released the trigger and set himself to merely keep watch. His rage was gone. He thought of Mary and the children they would have, then he pulled out his spare four cartridges and tossed them to four men defending the threatened side of the farmhouse.
Meanwhile, Carr was nothing like as at peace. He had reached the back wall of the ground floor, fixed a bayonet and added himself to the defence of one of the windows.
“Hold them out there, men, it can’t be too long now. The lads above will drive these back! Then I’ll get you all a brandy! Best French, off some dandy Officer!”
A volley of musket balls smashed through two boards, drowning out the faint laughter, then came the musket butts. Carr brought up his bayonet and waited for the first Frenchman to come through.
The 105th were advancing into cannon fire, taking casualties with every yard, but the first ball sent their way by the French gunners damaged no one, bar giving Rushby a huge problem. It severed his Colour shaft one foot below the cloth. Rushby did not hear the passage of the ball, but he felt the impact on the shaft and then the weight leave his arm. The Colour itself toppled back onto the heads of the rank behind, but they soon passed it forward. Rushby looked at Deakin in utter consternation.
“Sergeant?”
Without a word, Deakin drew his bayonet and fixed it to his musket. He reached for the top of the shaft, thrust the point up through the top corner of the cloth, next to the shaft, and then handed the whole to Rushby.
“Just do your best with that, Sir. I’ll find another musket.”
With that he was gone, but he was back within a minute. There were muskets aplenty left on the ground, which were once the weapons of men now dead, or with the Surgeon. They marched on; cannon shot ploughing the ground before them, whistling overhead, or killing men. Their ranks already thinned, the 105th could now leave an interval between files, a gap of less than two feet but the space saved lives.
A file went down on Deakin’s right, but his attention was intent on what had just happened before him. Heaviside was down; the ball that had hit him had passed on to take out the same file. Almost immediately they came to his prone body on the turf and Deakin was partly relieved to see his Officer still alive, but gasping as though his last. Nevertheless, Heaviside managed some words.
“On! Go on, boys. Keep the line.”
Then they were over him and marching on, with the battered Elvina churchtower coming plainly into sight. Deakin looked at Rushby, awkwardly holding up The Colour from the butt of the musket.
“Sir!”
Rushby looked at him.
“You command the Company now, Sir. Now that Mr. Heaviside is down.”
Rushby looked at him in horror.
“Yes Sir. You’re our Senior Officer now!”
Without waiting for a reply, Deakin continued.
“I’ll call up Mr. Farquharson to take over The Colour. He’s just over there.”
Farquharson was called over and seemed delighted with the role he was being asked to play, the exact opposite of the emotion now torturing Rushby, but Deakin had some understanding, as Rushby walked forward to take his place out before the line.
“Just stand with the lads, Sir. In the front rank; that’ll do! After that, they’ll take it on themselves.”
Rushby nodded and drew his sword, but, seeing how much it was shaking when he held it up, he sloped it back over his shoulder.
Lacey was looking all around and deciding. Anson’s Guards were above the uppermost wall, in fact some way up from it. This he did not like, because the French were there and firing at the Guards from cover. Also, and worse, beyond the Guards right flank the French were over that same wall and were advancing up the slope unopposed, in sufficient numbers that would soon force that right wing of the Guards to curve back and “refuse a flank”. This would take men away from firing at the French directly opposite them. These were coming out of Elvina, which must be full of French, such were the numbers advancing up from it and coming on confidently, evidenced by French Officers capering about, encouraging their men to advance into this obvious gap in the British line.
Lacey took his bearings again. The centre of the 105th, that being himself, would come onto the far right of the village, its top corner, so his right wing, commanded by O’Hare would have no opponents. He looked over to see O’Hare in the distance, leading his men and carrying a musket, but he felt able to trust him to wheel his men left and inwards to assault that side of the village. An assault from that direction would do as much to make the French pause in their advance as any amount of fire from the front. On his left, his files would just clear the Guards’ firing line. That was much to the good; however, once past, they must first push the French back to the topmost wall and use it for themselves. He gave his first order.
“Fix bayonets!”
He and his men marched on, bayonets flashing in the dull light as they continued forward, to then increase the height of their line as muskets were returned to “shoulder arms”. His line came to that of the Guards, but progressed comfortably beyond it. Saunders looked over and saw the Corporal who had identified his Regiment earlier, him being obvious from his prominent whiskers.
“Hello, mate! We’ve come up to give you a hand!”
The reply was a black scowl, but Saunders marched on, then he heard, just, Lacey’s first order.
“Full volley!”
Lacey heard the order being passed down the line and he then gave it time to travel. The French before them were disordered but numerous, many discharging their muskets at them, but not from effective range. Lacey took a deep breath. His tiredness allowed his emotion full rein.
“Right up to them, boys! Right up! Then a volley, let’s see if they can take it muzzle to muzzle. Then the bayonet!”
From the far right O’Hare looked over and had divined himself what Lacey intended. O’Hare had seen that he did not have the density of numbers before him as those that were outflanking the Guardsmen but the French were fanning out before him and so that made them entitled to his finest offering. He turned to face his men, causing him to walk backwards as he encouraged them on.
“We’re going right up to shake hands, boys! To see how well they’ve shaved!”
He looked at Carravoy and D’Villiers, just behind him, but plainly neither appeared too reassured. O’Hare marched on, his men following.
Before Lacey, the French had halted their advance when they finally realized the threat of the long firing line advancing towards them and now their Officers were screaming at them to form one of their own. Lacey watched carefully, he wanted close range but priority was to hit them when they were reloading. French orders rang out. Lacey saw them come to the present, but at nearly 100 yards. He decided to himself, ‘we’ll take this, then get right up into their faces.’ A French Officer raised his sword then brought it down. The volley was thin and ragged, but he heard grunts and screams from behind him and a sudden pain in his own left arm. He checked that it still worked and it did. He looked both ways and saw no change in the firm rhythm of his line’s advance, they were still moving forward. ‘That won’t help their peace of mind.’ He took his men on until they were even in the French smoke. His orders came quickly and were quickly obeyed.
“Hal
t.”
“Present.”
“Fire.”
The shortest of pauses after the fearsome crash.
“Charge!”
He ran forward, sword aloft.
“Charge, boys, charge! Right into them, boys! Right in. Show ‘em they’re not welcome!”
His line surged up to him and carried him forward. Immediately they were through their own smoke and amongst the French, stepping and jumping over the dead and wounded. The French, having suffered a crippling blow from the volley at such short range and with so many down, both Officers and men, turned at the first sight of the bayonets emerging from the smoke and ran, taking back with them those that were immediately following. Lacey led on his men in pursuit. The French must be given no chance to reform.
Rushby checked that The Colours were following, then ran forward, following Lacey, his men either side. It seemed that the French had halted, yet his men pitched straight in with butt and bayonet, straight into what seemed a dense mass, but this was because the French were trapped against the wall. It was now an obstacle that many could not surmount in time to escape. Any who surrendered were hauled out, disarmed and thrust to the rear. Rushby had used his sword but once and that blow had been parried, but now he had the stonework at his chest. He looked over to see beyond a mass of French, disordered but still standing to put up a fight.
Saunders was five yards from the wall, but could not see it. The French were massed before it, not in an ordered line, but here the French were thickest and preparing to defend themselves, even before the wall. He heard Shakeshaft give an order.
“Halt! Reload!”
The line halted and all reached down for a cartridge, but men were still dropping from French fire whilst they hurriedly reloaded.
“Make Ready!”
The muskets came up and cocking hammers were pulled fully back.
“Fire!”
An explosion of sound, then again all was smoke. Saunders needed no order, what came next was obvious, to get to the wall and hold it. Through the thinning smoke he fought his way to the wall, using his height and great strength to smash the butt of his musket into any French face standing before him. There were but few remaining after their volley and soon he was stood at the bloodied stonework, then the order came along the line from the centre, ‘Half Company volleys’, so he reloaded quickly, then stood at the ‘Make Ready’. Byford and Bailey were ‘locked on’ behind him. Almost immediately he heard the rolling volleys come down the line towards him. Shakeshaft shouted, ‘Present’, then ‘Fire’, then he pulled the trigger to have his face singed yet again by the exploding firing pan and the musket butt to yet again kick heavily back into his bruised shoulder. He dropped the butt to the ground and began another reload, biting into a cartridge to have the grains of powder add to an already raging thirst.
Over on the far right, O’Hare was leading his men in a turn, wheeling left to close with his side of the village. Against him the French had not even stood to receive a volley, but fell back at the sight of the line of bayonets, parade ground straight, steadily advancing with irresistible intent. Here there were fewer walls for cover and O’Hare bade his men advance towards the houses, but from within the village the French before him had been quickly reinforced, so, O’Hare held his men within the jumble of structures on the outskirts of the village; huts, pig sties, animal pens and garden walls. He allowed his Officers to direct their own fire and, as the small volleys crashed out, he took himself down to his far right to see if any threat was coming up from alongside the village, but instead came a very welcome sight. Running towards him was a Captain of the 4th, with a good number of that Regiment behind him. The Captain halted and saluted formally.
“Captain Bentridge, Sir. 4thFoot. I have three Companies. Sorry it took so long, Sir, it’s just that our own Colonel has been wounded. Where would you like us, Sir?”
O’Hare grinned openly in reply.
“Form on my right, please, Captain, and hold the French within the village. Do not try to enter, not yet, and watch your right, some more may arrive.”
Bentridge saluted as O’Hare continued.
“And you’re very welcome!”
Meanwhile, at his wall above the village, Lacey stepped back to see where the Guards were and was pleased to see that they had advanced forward to align themselves with his own men. Satisfied, he stepped into a gap in his own ranks to look over the wall, to see that there were now fewer French; the volleys being sent their way were doing their work. He looked over to see O’Hare’s men closing from the right, then he noticed Rushby shouting his head off and now on the far side of the wall, waving his sword towards any group of French that were good targets. ‘Time to join him’ Lacey thought. ‘One more push should do it.’ He found a foothold in the stonework, and then pulled himself up to stand on top.
“Come on, boys. The walls are ours to take, one at a time!”
He jumped down followed by his men and ran forward, sword raised. Butts and bayonets cleared away those before them, until they reached the next wall, then, using it for cover, his men began firing again. Soon he saw that the French were falling back and soon there were none to be seen, even between the houses and the last wall. He looked both left and right, to see the same. Everywhere above Elvina, the French had fallen back. Lacey knew that they must now get into the village, but to take it all was asking too much and too much of a risk.
“Reload. Hold you fire!”
The order ran down the line. Lacey waited for his men to reload, then he climbed the next wall and advanced on, climbing each in succession with his men. They entered the village and advanced cautiously down through the alleyways, now choked with both French dead and their own from earlier in the day, until they again saw threatening blue uniforms. Lacey held his sword aloft, although it was seen by but few of his men.
“Halt! Hold here.”
O’Hare and his Captains had thought the same. They had penetrated until contact was renewed and then halted. Some bickering fire began, then died away, both sides had had enough. With the fading of the light, then the cannon fire that had caused so many British casualties, itself finally died away.
***
Carr was sat on the stairs. He had a raging thirst and his head ached, as did his upper right arm, from a part of the house hitting it. Also, for some reason, his left eye was closing and there was a buzzing in his left ear. He picked up his rifle, examined the firelock absentmindedly, then stood up, just in time to see his men open the back door, having cleared away the stone that had held it shut. As it opened, in came a figure, incongruously clean and immaculate, as though he were stepping into a ballroom rather than into a building that had been the centre of intense fighting throughout the full course of a vicious battle. However, a welcome waft of fresh air pushed back the screen of smoke and then the figure spoke.
“And you are?”
Carr hefted his rifle back onto his right shoulder, to look disdainfully upon this less than gracious newcomer.
“Carr. Light Company. 105th Foot.”
He paused.
“You?”
“Von Witberg. First Foot Guards.”
Carr exhaled, emptying his lungs. He was more than a little annoyed.
“Is that the Von Witbergs of Baden Baden?”
He was talking nonsense and he knew it, but he was not, in any way, going to allow either his men or himself be treated haughtily by some overblown Guards “aristo”. However, things then changed, for Von Witberg exited through the door, but remained within earshot, as Carr could hear.
“I think I’ve found him, Sir.”
Then through the door came a full Colonel, followed by much more, a Brigadier.
“’Shun!”
All his men came to the attention, as did he, but the Colonel was advancing forward, hand extended. Carr saluted, then took it.
“My name’s Anson. First Foot. Felt the need to convey my thanks to you personally. Your fight here saved many o
f my men. Made our job easier, I can tell you.”
He was still pumping Carr’s hand and grinning openly.
“Well done, Carr! To you and to your men!”
With that Anson turned and was gone, before Carr could say anything, only to be replaced by a Brigadier, who did not introduce himself, but merely began speaking.
“My thoughts also, Carr. I endorse that fully. Your stand here broke up their attack. Attacks, even!”
He nodded, then released Carr’s hand.
“Well done! Now, try to get some rest. We’ll be embarking soon.”
Carr was still bone weary and what came next was from a dulled mind.
“So we won then, Sir?”
The Brigadier grinned, then his face fell.
“Indeed we did, but at a cost. Moore’s been killed. He was hit up on the ridge, just above you.”
With that he also turned and left, leaving just Von Witberg, who looked around.
“A hard business!”
Carr nodded.
“Can’t remember much worse.”
He took a deep breath, then sighed.
“Who was that? The Brigadier, I mean?”
“Bentinck.”
Carr nodded acknowledgement, then Von Witberg grinned.
“Well!”
He paused.
“Hoorah for the Hundred and Fifth!”
Then he actually saluted whilst fully at attention. Carr returned both.
***
Within minutes, the 105th in the village were relieved by Anson’s Guards, amongst whom casualties had been surprisingly light. Thus, with their relief, the 105th trudged back, but with every step came realisation of what the day had cost them, every body in a red uniform that they came to had their own green facings. So, they set about their mournful duty, to carry them up from the buildings to then be arranged in a long line between the walls so bitterly fought over. Meanwhile a burial party began the next task; to dig the first grave. The village was now completely in British hands and so the bodies recovered included Simmonds, found in the field on the French side. The four soldiers carrying him approached Carravoy, busy trying to divest his boots from contamination within a pigsty.
Close to the Colours (105th Foot. The Prince of Wales Own Wessex Regimen Book 2) Page 49