Send Me Safely Back Again (Napoleonic War 3)

by Adrian Goldsworthy

‘Sir!’

  ‘Take three men and help the driver unhitch the horses.’ With barely one hundred and twenty men, Pringle could not hope to form a square around the carriage and its team. With the horses standing beside the coach they might be just able to protect them. It would mean keeping the animals calm and so a man to hold each one. Panicking horses might well push aside the redcoats and open up one side of the square. Once the French were close then it would take no more than a brief instant of confusion to let them in and turn a fight into a massacre.

  Pringle, soft hearted by nature and fond of animals in general and horses in particular, resolved to shoot the team at the first sign of trouble.

  ‘French lights, your honour,’ said Lance Corporal Murphy, stamping to attention next to Pringle. ‘A mile away, but coming straight down the road. Two squadrons.’ The tall, lanky Irishman looked almost pleasantly surprised to encounter the enemy. His infant son had died during the retreat to Corunna, and Pringle wondered whether this gave the man a new eagerness to knock over a few more Frenchmen. Mrs Murphy had taken the loss hard, and Pringle was suddenly glad that the companies’ wives had been left with the rest of the detachment back in Lisbon. He had seen enough dead women and infants during the retreat not to relish the prospect of any more.

  ‘Thank you, Murphy, join the company,’ said Pringle. He turned to see Lieutenant Hopwood and the advance guard. The officer raised his arms with the palms down flat to show that he could see nothing. Pringle called them back to the main body. It was good that there were no Frenchmen coming from that direction, but there was no prospect of outrunning cavalry on the road and he could not cut across the fields and risk the coach bogging down.

  Williams loped up, one hand pressed to his straw hat to stop it blowing off.

  ‘Chasseurs,’ he said, confirming Murphy’s report. ‘Two squadrons. Perhaps two hundred or a little less.’

  ‘Anything else?’ Pringle meant whether there was any sign of guns or infantry.

  ‘Just the chasseurs.’

  That at least was something. They might be able to hold off cavalry if the square remained firm. They would also be a dense target and the arrival of even a single cannon or a company of infantry would slaughter them where they stood.

  ‘What is happening, Billy?’

  Pringle had forgotten about Wickham. The man was now leaning out of the carriage window, with that familiar half-smile and careful poise. He had obviously heard the shot and the commotion around him and yet it had taken minutes for him to roll up the blind and investigate.

  ‘French cavalry, sir. Two squadrons coming up behind so I am forming square to hold them off.’

  ‘Good God,’ said Wickham. ‘I’ll . . . I shall be out in a moment.’

  Putting his breeches back on no doubt, thought Pringle sourly.

  The square was formed, with each side composed of three ranks of ten, the front rank kneeling with the butts of their muskets on the ground. The second and third ranks stood. All of the men had already loaded.

  ‘Fix bayonets,’ Pringle ordered. There was something reassuringly determined and a little savage about the metallic clicks as the sockets were fastened on to the muzzles of the firelocks.

  There was barely enough room inside the square for the coach and horses. Wickham stepped down from the coach, and then paused to straighten his sash and adjust his sword belt. His right boot stood squarely in a pile of fresh dung from one of the horses and he looked down in distaste. The animal was barely a foot away from him and he had to look over its back to see Pringle.

  ‘Everything in hand, I see.’ The major sounded almost uninterested. ‘I should not think they will attack.’

  La Doña Margarita appeared in the carriage door behind him.

  ‘Best if you stay hidden, ma’am,’ said Wickham. Pringle was surprised by the hatred in the lady’s expression as she obeyed.

  A horseman appeared on the crest where Williams and his men had been. In silhouette they could not see the deep green of his jacket and overalls, but the wide top of his shako marked him out as a Frenchman. They did not have long.

  One of the carriage horses reared up, and had Ramón not had a firm grip on its reins it would have got free. Men looked behind nervously.

  ‘Dobson, kill the horses,’ said Pringle, amazed that he could speak so steadily.

  Wickham looked shocked. ‘Don’t be absurd, man, that team is worth a thousand dollars if it is a penny.’

  Dobson was already leading one of the horses out the front of the square and did not pause. Nor did Ramón. The redcoats parted to let them through. Two privates, both of them countrymen well used to animals, led the rest of the team.

  ‘We can’t protect them, sir, and cannot risk them bolting and breaking the square.’ Pringle kept his voice level and entirely reasonable, but then raised it so that it carried to all the men. ‘As long as the square remains steady the French cannot harm us.’ The redcoats did not need the explanation, but a statement of confidence never did any harm.

  Seven or eight yards ahead of the front rank, Ramón calmed the horse he was leading, talking softly to it. Then he sliced very precisely through the blood vessels in its neck. Hot blood jetted out in a red stream and the animal’s eyes rolled as it shuddered and began to sink down. The driver still talked softly to the dying beast, guiding it to the ground.

  Up on the ridge, the chasseur circled his horse. Pringle guessed it was a signal, but did not know how the French system worked. Give me a few minutes, he prayed. If the French charged now, then they might catch them before the rear face of the square was reformed. Ramón had moved on to the second horse and killed it with the same gentle efficiency. Pringle guessed some of the men were unnerved by the sight.

  ‘There they are!’ Wickham’s shout was a little high pitched.

  A line of French horsemen now crowned the ridge, looking down at them. They were stationary and Pringle was relieved to see that they were not yet coming on.

  ‘Fifty in the front rank,’ commented Williams in a matter-of-fact way, before Pringle had finished adding in his head. ‘The trick is to count the horses’ legs and divide by four.’ Pringle chuckled at the ensign’s peculiar sense of humour.

  ‘Or you could count their heads and divide by one,’ suggested Murphy, and the laughter rippled along the ranks of grenadiers.

  ‘I bow to superior Irish wisdom, Corporal.’

  The third horse was down, but Pringle did not want to leave the men out any longer.

  ‘Let it go!’ he called. Ramón slapped the remaining horse on the rump and it jerked into a trot, heading off to the right. The three dead animals formed an awkward barrier a short distance in front of the square’s rear face.

  As the redcoats and the Spaniard scampered back into the formation, Pringle felt happier. If only these chasseurs faced them then they ought to be safe barring dreadful ill-luck. They should be safe, but they could not move. It was possible to march in square – or at least a column ready to turn into a square at a moment’s notice. The drill in the 106th was of a decently high standard and he was confident the men could do it, but it would mean abandoning the coach and its suspiciously heavy concealed load. There was also bound to be disorder if they retreated from around the carriage.

  ‘Worth a volley from the rear ranks?’ Wickham scarcely sounded as if he was in command, and yet did not seem concerned about this. It was almost as if he did not feel personally involved in proceedings. ‘Show them that we are not to be intimidated?’

  ‘Better not to waste it, sir,’ said Pringle levelly. The leading French squadron walked down the slope before stopping. They were now some two hundred yards away, and the supporting squadron was just visible on the crest itself. At this range they would be lucky to bring down one or two chasseurs. The rest could cover the ground to them quicker than the redcoats could reload, which meant it was a question of which side flinched. Pringle trusted his men, but saw no sense in taking unnecessary risks. A rally square lack
ed the assurance and strength of a more formal formation.

  ‘As you wish,’ said Major Wickham, as if such decisions were of minor importance. ‘We all know that cavalry cannot break properly formed infantry.’ Pringle was not sure whether the major was trying to reassure the soldiers or himself.

  ‘Well I’m damned.’

  It was so rare for Williams to swear that Pringle spun around to stare at his friend. The ensign had his long glass to his eye. He also had an immense smile across his face.

  ‘It’s Hanley. As I live and breathe it is William James Hanley, Esquire, hale and hearty and dressed like a don!’

  Pringle scanned the slope and saw a handful of horsemen in a cluster to the left flank of the rear squadron. Even with the naked eye he could clearly see the epaulettes and lace of senior officers. One was in light blue, there was a trumpeter in pink, a dragoon officer in a brass helmet and three chasseurs in green. There was also a figure in drab civilian clothes. There was something familiar about the ungainly posture and slightly slumped shoulders of the man in the saddle. It was undoubtedly their lost friend. How or why he had come here Pringle could not even guess.

  ‘Perhaps the French made him a better offer than King George!’ he said.

  Williams roared with laughter, relief washing over him with the knowledge that their friend was not dead.

  Then a trumpet sounded and the chasseurs began to advance.

  12

  The leading squadron walked for a few yards then speeded into a trot when the trumpet sounded again.

  ‘Steady, boys,’ said Williams to the grenadiers in the rear face of the square just before Pringle could say the very same thing. The captain smiled, and glanced around at the two companies. Hopwood was behind the rear face and Hatch just where he should be on the left. Wickham stood with one hand on the hilt of his sword and the other bent at the elbow, fist pressed against his hip as if posing for a portrait in the heroic style.

  ‘We must show the men we are unafraid,’ he whispered, noticing Pringle’s gaze.

  ‘Well, hurrah and three times three,’ muttered Pringle beneath his breath at such an obvious statement, and then turned all his attention to the French.

  ‘Hold your fire, lads,’ he called.

  The chasseurs were close, barely eighty yards away and surely soon to surge forward into a canter and then a gallop to sweep over the little square.

  He did not hear the order or trumpet call, but suddenly the line split in the centre and those on the left wheeled away in that direction, while those on the right went to the right.

  ‘Hold your fire.’

  The men on the ends of the two wheeling lines came as close as forty yards to the square, offering an enticing target.

  ‘Hold your fire, boys,’ said Williams over the thunder of hoofs and clinking of harness. It would take only one man to pull the trigger and the shot would surely prompt everyone else to do the same.

  Pringle dragged his attention away from the wheeling chasseurs and saw that the supporting squadron had come up behind and was heading straight at them. This time he heard the trumpet and saw as the horses began to run, and then men stood in the stirrups, holding their curved sabres so that the tips thrust forward.

  ‘Steady, lads, wait for the order.’ Pringle’s throat was dry and he would have given anything for a drink.

  The chasseurs were close. He could see each man’s face, mouths open under their drooping moustaches. The horses looked wild eyed, their teeth bared as they pounded through the long grass.

  ‘Fire!’ yelled Pringle, and all four sides of the square exploded in a cloud of dirty powder smoke, blotting the enemy from sight. He had not meant for everyone to fire, but in the excitement had forgotten to give a more precise order.

  Through the thinning smoke Pringle saw two more dead horses piled against the corpses of the coach team. A green-coated chasseur lay beside them and another man staggered away. The French stopped, horses refusing to press on, no matter how much the riders urged.

  ‘Third rank reload!’ called Pringle. It was better for the second rank to be ready to support the first with their bayonets than to be fumbling with cartridges and ramrods. If the French came on then it was just possible they could overwhelm the little line. All it might take would be one man flinching, or still worse a wild or dying horse pressing on and crushing the ranks to tear them open.

  ‘Vive l’Empereur!’ A chasseur officer managed to jump his horse over the barrier of the dead animals and came forward, knowing that the fight was balanced on a knife edge. No one followed him, but it was as if British and French alike were holding their breath. The only sound was the footfalls of his horse as the man came right up to the front rank and then raked back his spurs to make the animal rear up, hoofs thrashing in the air. The tips of the bayonets kept the horse back too far to reach the men holding them, but even so the two closest grenadiers ducked instinctively.

  Pringle remembered that he had a pistol and reached to pull it from his sash. Williams had already unslung the musket he carried and brought it up to his shoulder. The French officer was edging his mount a little closer into the gap where the two grenadiers’ bayonet points had dipped. One lost his shako as a hoof passed perilously close to his head. Still the other chasseurs hung back and Pringle could not understand why because they were so close to winning. Men in the second rank jabbed at the horse with their bayonets, but could not drive the big bay or its rider back.

  Williams fired over the heads of the men in front and the ball struck the French officer on his chinstrap, driving up through his mouth and into his brain. He died instantly, his body slumping limply, sabre falling from nerveless hand to hang on its wrist strap. The corpse dropped to the left, and perhaps this turned the horse away from the staggering line of British soldiers. The other way and it would surely have barged through even if it died in the act.

  The line had held and Pringle finally felt he could breathe.

  ‘Well done, Bills,’ he said, and then louder, ‘Well done, lads.’

  ‘Vive l’Empereur!’ The shout was loud and from behind him, and this time it was taken up by dozens of chasseurs as another officer led them against the right rear corner of the square. Corners were weak spots because it was hard for men to aim their muskets to the right and so few could bear. Pringle ran the few paces to the spot, but Sergeant Probert already had things in hand.

  ‘Present!’ he called, and the men in the third rank levelled their firelocks, pointing the muzzles through the narrow gaps between the men ahead of them. Pringle was amazed that they had loaded so quickly.

  The French officer saw the movement and swerved, leading his men away.

  ‘Hold your fire! Hold your fire!’ called Probert, who had spotted ten more chasseurs coming in from another angle towards the same point. ‘Wait for the order.’ Once again the French did not press home against loaded muskets.

  There was a lull for a good ten minutes as the French reorganised. The men of the 106th were all able to reload and dress the ranks. Pringle paced around behind the lines, complimenting his officers and NCOs and encouraging the men. As he passed the carriage he noticed La Doña Margarita standing in the opened door. The lady had a small pistol heavily decorated with silverwork.

  ‘Hope we won’t need that, ma’am,’ said Pringle, raising his hat to her. ‘Although I am most glad to know that we have you in reserve, should the need arrive.’

  She smiled and he could not help thinking how uncommonly handsome she looked today.

  ‘It will not, my lady,’ added Wickham, who never wandered more than a pace or so from the coach. ‘I am sure Captain Pringle will agree that we have seen the French off and should have no more trouble with them.’

  ‘I believe they will attack again soon,’ said Pringle, feeling no need to hide the truth from either a heroine of Saragossa or a British major.

  ‘Then never fear, we shall drive them off as smartly next time.’ Pringle was not sure, but felt that Wic
kham’s expression was a little strained. He walked on to check the rest of the square.

  Williams looked cheerful. Having seen to his men he was now finishing off loading his own musket. He spat the ball down the barrel and then grinned at Pringle as he drove it down with his ramrod. ‘Good to see that Hanley is unscathed.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Cannot help wondering what he is doing here, though?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘I wish we could . . .’ Williams left the thought unfinished.

  ‘I know you do, but we cannot think of going out to get him.’

  They were interrupted by a new trumpet call. Parties of fifteen or so chasseurs walked their horses into positions facing each of the corners of the square and no more than a long musket shot away. Two larger bodies of some fifty men apiece were back about two hundred and fifty yards facing the right and left sides of the little formation. Individual skirmishers came forward with carbines ready between the formed groups.

  ‘It is always somewhat disillusioning to meet a clever cavalryman,’ said Pringle.

  The first of the skirmishers fired, the ball going high over their heads.

  ‘If he was genuinely clever he would dismount some of them,’ said Williams.

  ‘Always hard to separate a cavalryman from his horse.’ Pringle spoke more in hope than expectation. ‘Ah well, work to do. Select one man from the second rank to return fire, Mr Williams. No one else is to fire unless they make a charge and then only under orders.’

  ‘Sir.’

  Pringle went around the other sides of the square giving the same instructions. A man from Three Company was down, with a carbine ball buried in his left shoulder close to the joint. He hissed in pain as he was pulled inside the square, and yet rallied when he saw Pringle.

  ‘I’ll be all right, sir, don’t you worry,’ he said. The man’s face was pale and his eyes glazing.

  The chasseur skirmishers continued to squib away. The nominated redcoats periodically fired in reply without hitting anyone. The French fared little better, but in spite of several near-misses there were no more casualties for five minutes. Shots struck the carriage repeatedly. La Doña Margarita no longer stood in the doorway, but when Pringle continued his walk around the square he was surprised to see the lady bending over the wounded man to give him a drink. Her servant tied off the bandage, working with practised skill.