Run Them Ashore

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  ‘Can you not stand still and dream of all the captains who may get shot before the day is out?’ Ensign Dowling suggested. He and Lieutenant Richardson were under Pringle’s command.

  ‘Thank you for such a kind and disloyal thought,’ their captain told them. ‘Now stop chattering and let me return to dreams of wine, women and song.’

  ‘Cheer up, my lads,’ Richardson said, and Dowling giggled. Major MacAndrews’ recent obsession with ‘Hearts of Oak’ had become a joke in the 106th and now in the Flank Battalion as a whole.

  Pringle glared at him. ‘Haven’t you got a hoop to play with, boy?’ Richardson was twenty, but his curly hair and smooth, innocent face made him look younger. Dowling was only eighteen, was born with heavy jowls and the serious frown of an ancient, and still acted like an infant. Williams knew that Pringle was fond of them both, rather in the manner of an indulgent man who kept puppies.

  It was good to be back with the battalion – or at least its flank companies. The rest of the 106th was half a mile away with Wheatley’s brigade. There had not been much time or leisure to speak to his friends, although Pringle had assured him that he knew of no engagement involving his brother. ‘Would not put it past the rogue to try, but I am positive that Miss MacAndrews has superior taste.’

  A nagging doubt remained, at least when the fatigue and the throbbing in his leg gave him any time to think about the world beyond this hillside and the here and now. His head kept telling him that a battle was likely today, since otherwise he could see little point to the whole expedition. The rest of him felt sluggish, as stiff in spirit as his leg was physically. There was none of the familiar tension, fear and excitement mingling until all a man wanted was for the waiting to be over, whatever the horrors to follow. Hatch, Guadalupe and the months with the partisans seemed distant memories. Williams wished he felt some of Black’s impatience, for at least it seemed to keep the man busy.

  ‘Something’s up,’ the lieutenant said. ‘Bramwell is coming over.’ Even Pringle began to stir.

  ‘Form your companies. We are to move to the top of the hill,’ the acting adjutant of the Flank Battalion told them.

  ‘And what then?’ Black asked.

  ‘Major MacAndrews will inform you once he returns from meeting with General Graham.’ Lieutenant Bramwell of the 82nd struck Williams as a good officer, but he was not an affable man and gave every impression of seeing his new role as a sacred trust.

  The officers walked to their companies and found the sergeants waiting for them, ready to turn their instructions into reality. Grenadiers and light infantrymen stirred, some knocking out their pipes, a few moaning in a half-hearted manner. Many had to be shaken awake, having fallen asleep almost as soon as they lay down on the grass. Within a couple of minutes all six companies were formed up and then the battalion marched to the top of the ridge. They did not have far to go, because the high ground, with its straggling bushes, low trees and red-brown sandy soil, was no great height.

  ‘Hanley tells me the locals call it “Cerro del Puerco” – the Pig’s Hill,’ Williams told Black when the battalion halted near a half-ruined farmhouse on the top of the highest part of the low ridge. ‘It’s supposed to look like a hog’s back.’

  The lieutenant grinned. ‘Typical bacon-bolter of a grenadier to be thinking of food,’ he said. Williams remained a stranger to the Light Company. The light bobs and the grenadiers were the elite companies of a battalion, and existed in a perpetual state of rivalry as cordial as most civil wars. At times they might unite to prove their superiority to the other eight companies of the 106th, just as they would in turn join with those same men to disparage the rest of the army. His orders were obeyed, but a few days was far too little to admit Williams into the family of the company. The men were less free in speaking to him than they were to Black, and he was unsure whether or not he had the confidence of the sergeants, especially Sergeant Tom Evans, the short, heavy-browed man with a fiery temper who was the biggest character in the Light Company.

  Evans was from North Wales, a man whose English was spoken from the back of his throat in the way of those who grew up speaking Welsh. Williams doubted that his being half Scots, half Welsh and from Cardiff would encourage any fellow feeling. There were a few other Welshmen in the Light Company, just as there were only a handful in the other parts of the 106th, in spite of its official designation as the Glamorganshire Regiment. Only one of his fellow countrymen – a rogue with ginger hair named Pryce – belonged to the dozen or so intimates of the sergeant. All were men who fought hard and lived as well on campaign as was permitted through cunning and an utter disregard for the property of anyone outside the Light Company.

  ‘What’s for dinner today, Pryce?’ Black asked the light infantryman as he and Williams walked along the rear of the company.

  Pryce shook his head.

  ‘Sorry,’ Black said. The officers kept going on their way to report to MacAndrews. ‘Oh, that is bad,’ the lieutenant added when they were further along. ‘If that parcel of rogues are going without then I dare say we officers will fare even less well. Let the men rest, Sergeant.’

  ‘Sir.’ Sergeant Evans was in his place at the far left flank of the company’s line.

  ‘Light Company!’ His voice did not sound as loud as that of many NCOs, and yet the words carried clearly. ‘Light Company, fall out.’ Two ranks of redcoats turned to the right as one man, and then their shoulders slumped and each shape slipped from the formality of parade. The same order was being given to the other companies and soon the five hundred men of MacAndrews’ battalion sat or lay on the ground, a low murmur of conversation rippling along like a light wind through the grass. Within minutes a good third of the men were asleep. They were wise to regain as much strength as they could, but even so Williams never liked to see soldiers asleep in the daytime, for unconscious men too easily fell into postures very much like those of the dead.

  Major MacAndrews waited for his officers not far from the old farmhouse, the sunlight gleaming on the great sweep of blue Mediterranean over to the west. The major stood beside his horse, nuzzling its head.

  ‘As you can see, our battalions are now setting out to follow the Spanish,’ he said. Most of Wheatley’s brigade had already vanished under the cover of the pine forest ahead of them. Dilke’s brigade was following, a succession of scarlet columns threading along the track into the trees.

  The major stepped past his mount’s head and pointed down the coast. ‘They are moving to take up a new position there, where you can see that spike above the beach. That is another of these towers.’ A round tower, its top decayed with long years, stood on the slope of the hill near the sea. ‘This one is the Torre de la Barrosa and that is the Torre Bermeja. Beyond that is the road to Chiclana and beyond that is the Isla and Cadiz itself. General La Peña’s Spanish have driven the enemy back from their works nearest to Cadiz. Some of the garrison of that city have thrown a bridge of boats across the inlet and joined up with our vanguard. The French – from what I hear, about a division in strength – have retired along the road to Chiclana to a stronger position, and thus the path to Cadiz itself is open.’ He paused, looking from face to face to gauge whether or not they had understood him. Since no one was disposed to ask a question, he went on.

  ‘For the moment, the baggage of the entire army is in front of this hill, waiting to follow when the tracks are clear. The cavalry under General Whittingham protects them, and guards the coast road and our own flank. Two Spanish regiments, the Walloon Guards and Ciudad Real, are here, waiting with us on Barrosa Hill, although for the moment they will stay on this northern slope. Gentlemen, we are the rearguard. This hill is the strongest position for miles around, and if anyone put guns up here they could dominate the plain and the coast road. Our guns have gone, so we are to stay here and make sure the French don’t try putting some of their own pieces up on top. I am assured that three more Spanish battalions are on their way to reinforce us.’

 
This time when the major stopped there were questions.

  ‘How long will we be up here?’ a captain from the 9th Foot asked.

  ‘Until they tell us otherwise. I was unable to gain more information and apparently the situation ahead of us remains uncertain.’ The major put sufficient emphasis on the last word to make his low opinion of such vagueness very clear.

  ‘Any news of food, sir?’

  ‘I regret to say no news and no food.’

  ‘What about the French?’ said the commander of the 82nd’s Light Company, and from the expression on his face it was obvious Billy Pringle had been about to ask the same thing.

  ‘With the exception of the troops forced back by the Spanish, no one appears to have any idea where the rest of them are. Hence General Graham’s insistence that we hold on to the high ground.

  ‘We may as well take full advantage of the chance to rest. I want a corporal’s piquet from each of our three corps alert and on the far slope. Mr Williams, you will arrange that and stay with them until relieved. Keep a good watch, and report if you see hide or hair of a Frenchman. I’ll come and inspect you presently.’

  As the officers dispersed, they saw a column of Spanish infantry coming back down the coast road to reinforce them. MacAndrews was especially pleased to see a half-battery of guns moving with them.

  By half past twelve Williams had his line of sentries stationed in pairs along the edge of the ridge looking back the way they had come. It was Pryce of the Light Company who first spotted the French dragoons.

  ‘Cavalry, sir!’ he said in a voice that was oddly high pitched.

  They were at the end of the ridge, furthest from the sea, and the horsemen had emerged from the fringe of the great pine forest, some way to the east. There were only a few of them, a thin line of vedettes scouting for the main force, but they trotted out from the trees and soon a formed body of a squadron emerged.

  ‘You.’ He turned to the other redcoat. ‘Run back to Major MacAndrews and tell him that there is at least a squadron of French dragoons coming towards us. Stop,’ he commanded, as a second column followed the first. ‘At least a regiment in strength.’

  The man ran off.

  ‘Well done, Pryce,’ he told the Welsh soldier.

  ‘Sir.’ The man seemed unmoved by the compliment, but Williams was sure men served better when their officers knew them by name, and were as ready to praise as reprimand. He wished he had his long glass, and thought for a moment how upset his mother would be at the news of its loss. She had saved from her meagre funds to buy it from a pawnshop. It was intended to be mounted on a tripod, and in truth was too big and bulky for a soldier to carry, but Williams had grown used to it and come to appreciate its high magnification.

  The French cavalry were out in the open, easy to see on ground broken by a few folds and dotted with occasional pines and cork trees. They were not coming closer to the ridge, but feeling their way towards the coast road. A third squadron had followed the others, and Williams guessed that there were some three hundred and fifty to four hundred of the green-coated cavalry advancing to the sea. These days many dragoons had taken to wearing cloth covers over their brass helmets, hoping to hide the glint of brass and so make it easier to surprise wary Spanish irregulars, but this regiment was not hiding itself today. Even without his glass Williams could see the light catching on well-polished Grecian helmets, the long black horsehair crests streaming behind whenever a man pushed his horse into a trot. This regiment had red fronts to their dark jackets.

  MacAndrews arrived, and with him were Whittingham and two Spaniards in the dark blue and heavily laced coats of senior officers. Yet the Englishman outdid them for gaudiness, his collar and cuffs a riot of gold embroidery, the white plume running along the top of his cocked hat thicker than theirs, and his horse a good few hands taller. Whittingham wore the red cockade of Spain rather than the black of Britain, and Williams wondered what rank he had held in King George’s army before he was elevated so high in the Spanish service.

  ‘They’re trying to get around behind us and cut the coast road,’ the general said in English, and then repeated the words in Spanish for the benefit of his colleagues. ‘We must move smartly, very smartly indeed, to prevent it.’

  Whittingham had six squadrons of cavalry under his command, two of them KGL and most of the rest the Spanish troops he had raised and trained. From what Williams had seen of them they looked well mounted and disciplined, and greatly outnumbered the dragoons – at least the ones they had seen so far.

  ‘Major MacAndrews, what do you intend to do?’ Whittingham asked, once again speaking in English, and this time not bothering to translate for his Spanish colleagues.

  ‘Do, sir, do?’ The Scotsman frowned, and Williams was unsure whether he was genuinely surprised or hoping to remind the general of his duty. ‘What do I intend to do? I intend to fight the French.’

  Whittingham stared at the French through his telescope, and when he took it from his eye it was clear that his mind had not changed. ‘You may do as you please, Major MacAndrews, but we are decided on a retreat.’

  Williams was not sure the Spanish had been consulted, for he heard one ask what was happening, and so he began to translate for them.

  ‘Very well, sir.’ There was a pointed emphasis on the last word. ‘I shall stop where I am, for it shall never be said that Alastair MacAndrews ran away from the post which his general ordered him to defend.’

  By the time he reached this point in his translation Williams could sense that the Spanish officers were unhappy, but they were also under Whittingham’s command. Even so one asked the Englishman to leave some support for MacAndrews’ men. The general agreed.

  ‘If you will not come with us, but wish to retire on General Graham’s brigades, I shall give you a squadron of cavalry to cover your retreat,’ he said.

  MacAndrews did not acknowledge this, and simply wheeled his horse and went off at a canter back to his battalion. Whittingham and the Spanish set off a moment later.

  Williams waited to be summoned back.

  ‘Do you hear that, Pryce?’ he asked a few moments later. There was a burst of shouting from behind them, as the Flank Company formed up and the Spanish prepared to move off. They waited until there was silence again and Williams began to wonder whether he had imagined it. Then it came again, a faint tinny sound of music drifting towards them. The enemy was marching with a band playing.

  ‘Cocky fellows, aren’t they,’ the officer said, and was rewarded with the faintest of smiles. Williams saw the head of a column of infantry appearing from under the shelter of the trees.

  They were called back to the battalion and found it formed up next to the farmhouse. MacAndrews had deployed into three sides of a square, with the fourth made up by the stone building.

  ‘If there is time, I’ll have the wall loopholed,’ he told Williams.

  The Welshman reported seeing the French infantry and hearing their martial music. He looked down the far slope and saw the rear of the Spanish columns already some distance away. There was a good deal of confusion as the mule train was chivvied to the rear.

  By this time the dragoons had reached the coast road, and one squadron had already wheeled to face them. It came on slowly, with a screen of skirmishers trotting ahead of the main body. A second squadron moved to support them on their right and echeloned a little back, and within a few minutes the third conformed to the new advance. They came on steadily, the skirmishers already almost within musket shot. Then the regiment halted as their colonel decided what to do. It did not take him long, and soon the flanking squadrons extended from column into line – lines which extended to either side of the square.

  ‘Damn it,’ MacAndrews said softly. ‘They have guns.’

  The teams were visible, still some way back, but throwing up plumes of dust from hoofs and wheels as the drivers flogged the horses forward. Further to the left, the blue ranks of French infantry were pressing on towards them. William
s could see one battalion wholly out of the shelter of the trees and another was following.

  MacAndrews turned to his adjutant. ‘Mr Bramwell, get the men out of the farm and form the battalion into column at quarter-distance.’ The major stared down at Williams and gave a thin smile. ‘And now you will see Alastair MacAndrews running away from a post his general ordered him to defend! Back to your company with you.’

  The men of the Flank Battalion ran quickly to their places. A column at quarter-distance had one company behind the other, separated by only a short gap. It was a dense formation, and if the men on the flank halted and turned outwards it was almost as good as a square to fend off cavalry, but if the enemy brought their cannon within effective range, then the column would be a death trap. As they formed up, the dragoons were still busy extending their lines, but the infantry kept coming. Williams counted three battalions and was sure that there were more.

  ‘Forward march!’ Bramwell called out the order and walked beside MacAndrews as the major rode at their head, taking them down the hill towards the track which the rest of Graham’s troops had followed. None of them was in sight.

  Williams marched in his place behind the Light Company, close to the middle of the column, and even with his height he could see little. They stepped off briskly, and at least the rolling ground and trees dotting the hillside would help to slow the cavalry down. Near the bottom there was a gully, and although it caused a brief disorder as men scrambled down one side and up the other, it was another awkward obstacle to horsemen. As he clambered up the bank, Bramwell appeared.

  ‘Williams, take ten men and form in loose files to cover the left rear corner of the column.’ It was not quite an order from the drill book, but the sense was clear. He called to the end five files to follow him and jogged ten yards out from the formation. Further would have placed them at great risk if the French charged, for they might not be able to run back to the shelter of the column. Isolated men on foot were at the mercy of fast-moving cavalrymen in the open. So was a column, if it lost order and began to break up or scatter. Ahead of them was an open field with hundreds of yards to go before they came to the shelter of the trees.