The fastest of the French soldiers to escape reached the cavalry, which had come to a full stop at the sight of such a debacle, going helter-skelter through the drawn-up horsemen. In the meantime, the British artillery resumed firing with bursting shot into that fleeing horde, creeping their fire up to the cavalry units, too, and forcing the elegant French horse to wheel round and retire from the field at the walk, or at the trot, their usefulness dashed.
“By God, the other column is broken, too!” Captain Ford cheered, turning to the men of his Light Company. “See that, lads? That’s the way to deal with a column!” and his soldiers gave out a great, mocking cheer to see the French on their way.
“It’s hard to tell with all the smoke, but I do believe that the other column fared no better than this’un,” Lewrie said, pointing further West at another amorphous blob of blue-coated soldiery which was retiring in rapid order, leaving a long bloody trail of dead and wounded, great heaps of dead where it had been shot to a stop, and the survivors stampeding over the long trail of bodies that they had left in the wake of their approach, pursued by the irregular Crump! of shrapnel shells bursting over the largest concentrations.
The British regiments which had launched that bayonet charge were now drawn up in good order and retiring to the crest of the ridge; unlike British cavalry, they had kept their heads and not gone far in pursuit, once the French had broken and run. They herded some whole prisoners and walking wounded along with them, ignoring the pleas from badly wounded Frenchmen who lay where they had fallen and would not be tended to ’til either night had fallen, or the battle was won, one way or another.
“Well, I thought columns made no bloody sense, and it appears they don’t,” Lewrie summed up, bringing his borrowed canteen round to un-cork and take a welcome sip. “What a horrid waste of soldiers!”
“I’d not speak too soon, Captain Lewrie,” Ford cautioned, “for it seems it’s our turn, next. See there? Two more columns are forming a bit to the left of our direct front. Care to go down the slope with me and my company, sir? Pot a few Frogs with your musket?”
“Tempting,” Lewrie mused, “but, that’d be askin’ a sailor to walk too much. I think I’ll watch it play out from up here.”
Orders were being shouted, the regiment’s line companies were being brought forward to form up on the crest, with the bulk of the unit still in shelter. A runner came to Ford’s side with orders for his Light Company to go downslope to take up skirmishing positions, as he had expected.
“Have it your way, sir, and take joy of the excitement,” Ford bade him.
“And the best of good fortune go with you, Captain Ford,” Lewrie offered, extending his right hand to shake with him.
There came the thuds of hooves from several horses together, and the snorts and pants from a group of mounts being urged along the ridge’s crest, and Lewrie turned to look. It was that Wellesley fellow and some of his staff, coming to the scene of the next French attempt. This morning, General Sir Arthur Wellesley was not wearing the gilt-laden red coat of a British officer, but a plain grey coat that fell to his knees and the tops of his boots, with a gold-laced belt round his middle that held his sword. He drew rein to survey the enemy columns that would come against this part of the ridgeline, using an ivory pocket telescope. There was a stern scowl on his face, one that turned even harsher as he swivelled about and espied Lewrie. One quizzical brow went up as he peered down that long, beaky nose, then turned his gaze away to matters at hand, and urged his horse to pace further East along the ridge to the other regiments.
Lewrie thought he heard a “Hmmph!” from Wellesley over his presence on a battlefield, but could never swear to it in later days. Struggling, thrashing artillery teams, pieces, caissons and limbers, came tearing by to take up quick emplacements further along the ridge, and Lewrie wandered in their wake over to the nearest line company, unslinging his Ferguson off his shoulder and resting the butt on the ground.
“Come to see the show, sir?” an infantry Lieutenant joshed.
“Something like that, aye,” Lewrie replied with an easy grin.
“It won’t be long coming,” the officer said, perking up to the thin, distant sounds of cheers as the French steeled themselves for an attack. The infernal drumming began once more, and two pristine columns lurched into motion, Summer sunlight flashing off shako badges and bayonets, and dust rising round the columns’ front and flanks like seawater disturbed by a rowboat’s motion, spreading outward from their passage, and hanging low in the air.
What happens over there, out of range, is exciting, Lewrie told himself; but what comes right at you can frighten the piss out of you.
The French looked to be coming straight at him, and he felt the need to pee.
* * *
The French artillery opened up a minute or two later after he had come back to the crest, their roundshot howling and moaning overhead, tweetling up the musical scale as they approached to go silent as they drummed into the ridge below the crest, and one or two lucky shots skimming the crest to pluck unfortunate soldiers away as they stood two ranks deep, and it was British sergeants who bawled out for the survivors to close ranks, this time.
Then British guns barked when the range had fallen to about six hundred yards, and the shrapnel shells began to Crack and Crump over the French columns spreading death in all directions.
“Wonder what it feels like,” the Lieutenant said with a touch of nervousness to his voice as the French columns kept up their implacable advance. “Surely, they must be able to see the fuse trails coming at them, knowing they’re going to burst above them!”
“I’d expect they’ve very loose bowels, and wouldn’t trust their arseholes with a fart,” Lewrie hooted, raising a titter of laughter from the officer’s company. “The French have never experienced bursting shot before … never come up against British soldiers before, and must be in dread, by now, after what happened to the first attack.”
“We’ll maul them!” the Lieutenant declared, sounding confident, but Lewrie noted how white his fingers were round the hilt of his scabbarded sword.
“Damn right we will!” several soldiers barked in agreement.
“Silence in the ranks, stand steady,” the company’s Captain growled, casting a dis-believing eye on Lewrie for a second.
The nearest column looked as if it would reach the ridgeline about one hundred yards East of where Lewrie stood, thinned though it was by the artillery fire. The drums were urging it on, the French were shouting praise of their Emperor in unison, and they were nearing, within about four hundred yards. Lewrie slung his Ferguson on his shoulder and made a point of ambling down the company’s front as if he had not one care in the world.
I’m such a sham, he told himself; but I’ve gotten good at it, play-actin’ for people’s benefit, by now. They all are, he thought, glancing down the company front to see how the soldiers were taking the French approach. Everyone in sight, even the French, were playing bold and brave! There were some pale faces, some gulps of awe, and some fondling of talismans, but they looked ready.
What a damn-fool idea this is, he further thought, shaking his head over his stupidity for coming ashore; this is the last time I take part in a shore battle! By choice, I hope!
He reached the left flank of the infantry company, into open ground where one of the sheltering companies would form when called up to the line. It felt very lonely and vulnerable to be out there on his own, of a sudden, and he understood a common soldier’s assurance of having others at his sides, and his rear-rank man backing him up.
Boom-boom-boom, buh-buh-buh-boom-boom-boom “Vive l’Empereur!”; it was very close now, the nearest column panting and gasping for air as it struggled to climb the slope to the British lines. Musketry erupted downslope from the skirmishing companies as they fired, then fell back, re-loading on the go. The front of the column looked to be about two hundred yards away, and Lewrie nodded, then un-slung his Ferguson, looked for an officer to target,
and put the butt to his shoulder, looking down the barrel.
There! He spotted a French officer with a dark red sash round his waist, his sword out and waving to urge them on. He had one of those long mustachios. Lewrie drew his weapon back to full cock, and took aim. The late Major Patrick Ferguson, inventor of his rifled musket who had died at the Battle of King’s Mountain in the American Revolution, might have intended long-range accuracy, but he hadn’t done much by way of improving front and rear sights to achieve it.
Lewrie held aim above the officer’s shako, drew a breath and let it slowly out, then pulled the trigger, just as the officer turned to face his men and march backwards to say something to them. The bullet, fired downhill, didn’t follow the usual descending arc, and struck him square between the shoulder blades, punching the Frenchman facedown dead.
Here, that’s cheerin’! Lewrie told himself as he opened the breech and tore a fresh cartidge open with his teeth. In a trice, he was loaded again, seeking a new target, and finding one, this one a senior officer with lots of gold-lace on his coat and a fore-and-aft bicorne on his head, adorned with egret plumes. He aimed smaller, this time, taking advantage of the flatter trajectory of a round fired downhill, holding only a foot above the egret plumes and firing. He hit the officer full in the cheek below his left eye and saw the back of his head explode into his soldiers’ faces!
A very young junior officer stepped forward to lead, and he went down with a bullet in his chest; then it was a great, hulking older sergeant who stepped out in front, bull-roaring defiance and courage loud enough to be heard over the din of gunfire, and Lewrie shot him just above his shirt collar and neck-stock, driving the man to his knees in surprise, and fountaining gouts of blood from his mouth.
“Up, form line, odd-numbered companies!” some senior British officer was shouting. “Up, form line and stand ready! Front ranks will kneel!”
The skirmishers were back on the crest and taking their places at the left flanks of their regiments. Grenadier companies were forming at the right ends, and the line companies were now shoulder-to-shoulder. Lewrie got off two more quick shots as the French got within one hundred yards, and beginning to swing out into a firing line.
Haven’t shot this well in years! he congratulated to himself as he tore open another cartridge; I may take up duck-hunting, next!
He’d run out of obvious officers in front of the French column, so he settled for a tall soldier in the centre of the first rank, and dropped him with a shot just below his brass cross-belt plate.
“Get out of the way, you bloody damned fool! We volley, and we will cut you down!” someone was shouting behind him.
Lewrie assumed that that was addressed at him and spun about to realise that he was looking down the muzzles of over six hundred levelled muskets. “Oh, shiiitt!” he yelled as he hastily flung himself to the ground!
“Front ranks … fire!” came a second later, and all Hades erupted. The whole ridge roared with noise, and spurting powder smoke blanked out his view, from an ant’s level, of an entire regiment delivering a massed volley. “Second rank, fire!” and by then all that he could make out were trouser legs and boots below the smoke pall.
He could hear the balls rushing overhead like a swarm of bees, screams and shouts from the French down-slope, even the meaty thumps of bullets tearing into enemy bodies.
“Front ranks … level!”
He stayed where he was, wishing that he could dig deeper, for though British troops were the only ones in the world who actually practiced at live musketry, the Tower musket, “Brown Bess,” had even more rudimentary sights than his Ferguson, and the command was “Level,” not “Take Aim.” Rapidly delivered massed volleys at sixty to seventy-five yards was the desired effect, “shotgunning” fire in the foe’s general direction! And, as he’d seen at the firing butts at Gibraltar, some soldiers did not even bother to aim, turning their heads as far from the flash and smoke in the priming pans as possible, with their muskets pointed in the general direction. He heard one ball hum disturbingly close to his head, just inches above him, and squirmed to make himself flatter.
He also had another desperate urge to pee!
“Regiment will … advance!” some senior officer bawled out. “Fix … bayonets.”
Captains of companies shouted their own orders for the first ranks to stand, and to fix bayonets, and close ranks.
“Regiment … twenty paces forward … march!”
Marching men weren’t likely to be shooting, or so he thought, so Lewrie warily got to his feet, still lost in the powder smoke fog, hearing the swish of boots through grass, and the tramp of marching men in lock-step, the pace being called out by sergeants.
He wanted to be out of their way, but had no clue as to where to go. An instant later and he was blundered into by a young Private who let out a screech of fright, almost dropping his musket.
“Frog!” the soldier squeaked, “A Frenchie, roight ’ere!”
“British officer!” Lewrie shouted back, almost nose-to-nose.
“Sykes, ye silly sod!” his Sergeant yelled. “Pick up yer damn musket!”
Lewrie turned sideways to sidle ’twixt the soldiers of the first rank, then their rear-rank mates, all of whom were laughing at their unfortunate companion.
“Silence in the bloody ranks!” an officer demanded.
The two-deep line of troops seemed to be marching into clearer air, so Lewrie ambled along behind them a little way as the regiment began to descend the crest of the ridge.
“Regiment will halt! Load cartridge! By platoons, level … fire!” a senior officer ordered very loudly. Lewrie looked around to see a Colonel near him, a short fellow who was on his tiptoes, hopping in the air to see downslope past his soldiers, which Lewrie found a funny sight.
The regiment, and the others on that part of the ridge, opened fire down on the struggling French column, and any hope of a view of the results was blotted out. The platoon volleys rippled down the regimental line, four rounds per man per minute, from the Grenadier Company on the right to the Light Company on the left, repeated as soon as the right of the line was re-loaded. Now and then, one better-trained company’s volley didn’t sound like a long crackle, but a muted Chuff! as every trigger was pulled at the same second.
That Colonel bulled his way through the ranks of his taller soldiers, drew his sword, and cried “Cease fire! Poise bayonets, and … Charge!” as he rushed out ahead of his men, whirling his sword about and shrieking like a banshee. With wild, feral howlings, his troops raced down the hill with him, and Lewrie was left alone at the crest of the ridge, again.
“Bugger that for a game o’ … soldiers,” he said aloud, wishing no part of the melees to come.
But, it was an awesome sight to see. The French drummers were whacking away on their skins with urgency, but the column was having no more of it. The front six or seven ranks, thirty or so men across, had been shot to a reef of dead and wounded against which the French behind could make no progress. There looked to be an attempt to fan out from column to line and respond with musketry, but that had also been shot to a halt, and when the British regiment began its charge downhill with wickedly sharp bayonets, all order dissolved, and the French turned their backs and began to scramble over each other to get away, some tossing aside their muskets in their haste.
What Lewrie had seen through his telescope of the first two-column attack to the West was being repeated close up here. It was an un-controlled rout, a stampede of survivors, that ran back downhill. Off to Lewrie’s left, the other column that had come uphill alongside this one was also retiring, though in better order. Over there, the British troops had not launched a charge, but had kept up a steady rolling fire that stopped that column in its tracks and decimated it, convincing its surviving officers that staying and dying was futile. Those French soldiers were skulking off to the rear, defeated, and pursued by derisive cheers and curses from the victors.
Downslope, now that the gunsmoke w
as clearing, the regiment had stopped its charge, having run out of Frenchmen available to skewer, butt-stroke, or shoot. They were coming back to the ridgeline laden with quickly snatched souvenirs; shakoes or brass regimental shako plates, the short infantryman’s swords, the sabre-briquets, bloodied epaulets torn off dead men’s shoulders, pipes and tobacco purses, and what little solid coin they could find in dead Frenchmen’s pockets, no matter how officers and sergeants railed against the practice.
Young subalterns were crowing and congratulating each other in high spirits, passing leather or metal flasks of brandy to toast their success. Lewrie had not brought any of his aged American corn whisky, so he had to settle for several gulps of water from his borrowed canteen.
“Saw you, sir, potting away at the Frogs,” one Lieutenant brayed. “Get any?”
“A few, thankee,” Lewrie replied, “just before I had t’throw myself flat so I’d not get shot, then nigh got trampled. So much for the French and their famous columns.”
“By God, you’re right, sir, absolutely right!” the young officer crowed. “Why, I can’t recall the French ever being stopped so surely.”
“I’ll thankee for my flask back, Snowden,” another young man grumbled. “Stopped? Here and there, rarely, on a part of a battlefield one of their attacks might have been held off, but never like this. Let them keep it up, and we’ll slaughter the entire lot of them by sundown, hah hah!” he boasted, then took a deep sip from his flask.
Kings and Emperors Page 27