“Front rank. Present. Fire.”
The muskets crashed out and all was white smoke. Carr let the smoke clear as much as he dared, but at the first appearance of the enemy line he ordered again.
“Rear rank. Present. Fire.”
Volleys by ranks began, each rank delivered a volley every 20 seconds. The French were not stopped, but they had taken casualties and were not coming on with such leaping confidence. However, they were returning fire and three of Carr’s men were down. The Corsicans had reformed into some sort of line behind, but Carr’s men were heavily outnumbered and the French were using the cover to creep up to the British Line. The range was down to 30 yards and closing. Despite their controlled volleys, Carr’s men would soon be overrun. He made his decision.
“Retreat by files.”
Tom Miles shouted at Pike and Davey.
“I’m reloaded. Get gone.”
He peered through the smoke and when it thinned he saw enough of a Frenchman to make him a target, the man advancing forward, crouched, with bayonet extended. He took aim and fired. The ball took the Frenchman on his left shoulder, throwing him spinning into the trunk of a tree, a red epaulette flying up in the air. Miles turned and began reloading as he ran, blowing clear the priming pan and biting open a cartridge. However, some yards back he nearly fell over the prone figure of Joe Pike. He pulled him over and saw that he was not hit, just badly stunned, but there was a huge red mark on the side of his forehead. His shako was smashed in. Miles shouted,
“Davey, Joe’s down,” then he finished his reloading and fixed his bayonet. The French were coming on, there were two, perhaps three, who were almost upon them. Miles took aim. He shot the first, then met the second, sliding the French bayonet over, before kneeing the man in the groin, then smashing the butt of his musket into his temple. The third man was but feet away with a levelled bayonet and Miles was lowering his own bayonet whilst desperately trying to clear his feet and regain his balance, when a Baker rifle went off alongside his shoulder. The man collapsed, a hideous gurgling sound issuing from his throat. Davey appeared alongside and remained en garde with bayonet fixed while Miles dragged Pike to his feet and lifted him over his shoulder, but the French were up too close. Davey swept aside a lunging bayonet and swung his rifle butt into the side of the Frenchman’s head, but hope of escape was fading.
“Tom!”
Miles dropped Pike and turned, levelling his own bayonet, then he heard a voice he recognised, reassured by the loud clear order.
“Miles. Get Pike back and clear.”
Carr had returned with Ellis and others. Carr shot the nearest Frenchman with his pistol. For the next he deflected his bayonet with his sword, but a glancing blow from the musket butt of another Frenchman lost him his own shako and re-opened his Madelline wound. Carr was first to disengage his weapon and smashed his sword pommel into the side of the Frenchman’s head, then cut him across the neck with his sword. Somehow the first Frenchman had disappeared, perhaps the work of Ellis who was fighting nearby. It was Ellis himself who shouted,
“Sir, they’ve got round us.”
“Fall back.”
All fought their way back in Medieval style, no one had the chance to re-load, neither British nor French, but the crowding French surely were going to take them. Then it was Carr’s turn for relief, when came a sturdy English voice.
“At ‘em, lads. Huzzah for the 35th!”
Redcoats were swarming around and past him, ‘35’ on their crossbelt badge, with the reformed Corsicans mixed in. Seeing some Corsicans running from the woods and the retreat then confirmed by Major Greelish, Kempt had sent in the next Light Company, that from the 35th, to support. Carr looked up to see the French running back, the fresh British troops meant that they had had enough. It was not long before the redcoats returned leaving the Corsicans to hold their position. Their Captain came over to Carr and extended his hand.
“Smart, 35th. Kempt wants our return, if you can manage it.”
“Carr, 5th Provisionals. Thanks for your timely arrival. Things were becoming very sticky. But, yes; thanks once again. Who were those French, do you know?”
“They call themselves Voltigeurs. Light troops, just like us, only better dressed.”
Carr grinned, then felt the trickle of blood down his face, but Ellis was pulling out a bandage, and Carr quickly bound his own wound. At a rapid walk they returned to the edge of the wood, where Miles was examining Joe Pike.
“How did you manage that, you clumsy bugger. What gave you cause to hit your head with that tree?”
Joe Pike sat up and was grateful for the water that Davey had fetched from the river in his own canteen to bathe the smarting wound.
“Something hit my left foot, and I fell over, into a tree.”
Miles looked down and roughly hoisted Joe’s left foot, causing him to topple over, spilling the water over him.
“Looks like you’ll be wearing Frencher footwear before I do, boy. You’m lucky, the ball just took away the heel of your boot, and your shako took the hit from the tree.”
Joe brought his foot up for his own examination and nodded. Just then Ellis re-appeared.
“You lot. Up and over here. Re-form, and quick.”
All ran back over the river, Joe hobbling but keeping up. Kempt had brought the Sicilians up into the line alongside the 35th, extending it, and so the 5th Lights had to form up with many of their right-hand files standing in the river. On reforming and seeing the approaching French line, Carr stood with Nat Drake.
“What price lines against columns now, Henry?”
“None at all. This is man for man. Who’s best with their muskets. So here we go. Good luck, Nat.”
“Good luck, Henry.”
They shook hands and parted.
The British had advanced no further and before them were two four pound guns in action against what was now a clear target. The French line was 300 yards away and closing, and the sight was both magnificent and chilling. The whole line was Voltiguers, the yellow and green plumes and tassels clear on their shakoes, also the red epaulettes and the bright white crossbelts. They were coming on with lowered bayonets, steady and relentless, drumbeats pushing them on, with Officers out front waving their swords and encouraging their men. Tom Miles was not impressed, nothing to do with the French, just with where he was.
“Why be I stood yer, up to my ballocks in freezing water, and on top, something is biting my arse?”
The voice that came from behind was that of Ellis.
“You’re here because you’re ordered, Miles, and what’s biting your arse is not any kind of fish, nor nothin’, it’s my bayonet. So hold your noise and watch your front!”
Carr heard the argument and grinned. Looking ahead he saw that the French were away from the river, and that he should curve his line around which would get most of them out of the water. He gave the order and dressed the line himself.
“There you are, Miles. Perhaps some plunder this time, eh?”
“Could be, Sir. Them Frenchers look well set enough.”
The French seemed to be three deep and they were taking punishment from the British artillery, not least from the two before the Lights, firing from further up along the riverbank. The British stood with shouldered arms and all watched intently. None could move their gaze to anything else. The two guns ceased loading round shot and began loading canisters of thin metal sheet.
“What are those they’re putting in the guns, Tom?”
“Case shot, boy. Very nasty. They burst open and out comes large balls, bigger than you puts in your musket. That’ll do them Frenchers a lot of no good, wait and see.”
French cannon balls were passing just over their own heads, doing damage behind the lines perhaps, but not to them. The two guns roared out and, when the smoke had cleared, there were two clear gaps in the French line, but they closed up and came on. It showed the veteran quality of the advancing French.
Capitaine Rouol Linois fel
t very confident out before his men. This was no different from Marengo, soon the British line would, as had the Austrians, crumble in the face of this inexorable advance by his Voltigeur Brigade. The levelled bayonets, the persistent, determined march forward, would soon have an effect. However, in the next second his confidence took a heavy knock.
Carr, in the front rank, gave the first order.
“Rear rank. Lock on.”
Linois saw the space between the British heads fill with more heads and all was steady, as if on parade. He heard a shouted order.
“Make ready.”
Again, as if watching a parade, he saw the muskets rise as one to the vertical.
John Davey knew his role. Find an Officer and bring him down. He said to himself,
“There’s one, that stiffbacked jaunty bastard. He’s for me.”
He then waited for the order. The range was down to under 200 yards and the cannon were loading and firing case shot as fast as they could sponge, load, and prime, urged on by their young Artillery Officer. Kempt was stood just out in front of his men, in the centre, stiff as a ramrod, sword resting on his right shoulder, Greelish 20 yards beyond him. Using a space between the cannonade, Kempt turned to encourage those near, at least those that could hear.
“Steady, Light Infantry, wait for the word. Let them come on.”
Barely a quarter of his command could hear, but all were indeed, “waiting for the word.” Joe Pike and John Davey were in the front rank, with Tom Miles locked on behind. Joe was frightened. His head hurt, and his left leg felt unsteady.
“Tom, Tom. I be scared. How’re we goin’ to stop them?”
“You looks good enough to me, boy. Just get a bullet into that line, that’s where it starts. See, their crossbelt, aim above where it crosses. If we give ‘em enough of that, we’ll see ‘em off. Then we’ll get you your new pair of Frencher boots.”
Joe grinned and gripped his musket tighter, if that were possible, bringing the warm wood up against his right cheek. The range was 100 yards and below, 90, then 80. It was Carr who called back the artillerymen; Kempt was too far away. Now there was nothing between the Voltiguers and the British Lights. Kempt gave the order and Carr followed.
“Present.”
Linois saw every musket come down level as the order moved down the line. He was close enough to see the open muzzles and suddenly his confidence melted. For his first time as an Imperial Officer, he felt seriously afraid, a fear made worse from its sudden arrival. Death or injury could come in a moment.
“Front rank, fire!”
A pause.
“Rear rank, fire!”
Davey’s rifle ball hit Rouol Linois just below and to the left of his sternum as he turned to his men. The ball detached his windpipe from his left lung and smashed a vertebrae out of the back of his jacket. His legs collapsed and he began choking on the blood entering his lungs. He was not alone, the impact of the volley was appalling. Lying on his side he could see that all along the French line men were down, dead or injured, screaming, choking or pleading for help. However, there were no gaps. The third line came up to fill the spaces and the line marched on, stepping over their fallen comrades, but almost all their Officers were down. However, like the veterans they were, they broke into a run, eager to close before the next volley.
Carr looked both ways, along his men. All in the front rank were at the “make ready. The range was down to 40 yards.
“Front rank, present. Fire!”
Another explosion of noise and smoke, paper cartridges fluttering down. The front rank lowered their muskets and began to reload. Carr gave a pause.
“Rear rank, present. Fire!”
They fired. He waited another 10 seconds and saw that his front rank had almost all returned to the “make ready” The French could have that, too.
“Front rank, present. Fire!
Again the appalling din, almost as intimidating as the impact of the bullets.
“Fix bayonets.”
The smoke cleared and what had been a terrifying and seemingly unstoppable French line minutes ago, was now bloody ruin. Dead, dying and wounded were everywhere slumped on the ground, 20, in some cases 15, yards from the British line. Any who survived were turning to retreat. Carr looked along his line; all bayonets were in place. He took himself out from the line and waved his sword.
“Charge, boys, charge. Huzzah for the 5th! Huzzah for the King!”
His Company sprang forward into a run, bayonets extended. They may not have been the first Company into the charge but if they were, they were soon not alone. Kempt himself was leading from the centre and Carr led his men on. Their backpacks protected the French from his sword, but not so the bayonets of his men. Many thrust powerfully forward to bring down yet more French. The last thing that Rouol Linois saw in this life was his men running back in panic, with the pursuing British with levelled bayonets, then a boot thudded down onto his chest to end his life.
Miles joined in with gusto, John Davey not far behind, whilst Joe Pike could only hobble up in the rear. The whole Light Battalion were pursuing the French like lurchers onto a hare, but Carr thought more of where his men were going, perhaps too far? Would they be cut off? 300 yards on, he shouted to reform. His call was taken up and passed on by all who heard and his men came to order. They gathered and held their ground, and Carr awaited developments. He looked back to his own line, over to the ground where they had come. In the space between he saw Miles, Pike and Davey. Miles was pulling the boots off a dead Frenchman who looked to be about Joe Pike’s size. The dead Frenchman looked to be an Officer and Davey was pointing at his rifle and then at the prone body.
oOo
Charles Carravoy could just make out the sound of the Light Battalion beginning the fight over on his right, for the noise was almost drowned by the rhythmic firing of the three guns to his front, but beyond them was the reason why he would soon be involved. Several lines of cavalry were advancing on Acland’s Brigade, who had for some time been suffering from the attentions of French artillery; there was a steady stream of men falling out behind their line. Carravoy looked over to see their Colours being returned to the safety of the ranks and the young Highlanders of the 78th Foot and the 81st Lincolns were hurriedly forming square. Would the cavalry come his way? It would seem not, Mallory looked unconcerned. He was right, the cavalry attack was not pressed home in the face of some long range musketry and they turned to gallop off, across his front, back to the French right. What worried Carravoy most was what could now be seen approaching Acland through the dust thrown up by the disappearing cavalry. Across something like a two battalion front, came a line of infantry, the battalion on his side wearing claret, the other a combination of dark green with a broad red section down the centre. Acland’s men had quickly reformed as a firing line and he was leading his men forward to meet what Carravoy could see, it seemed to him to be the French centre brigade. At something just over 100 yards, Acland opened fire and the greens and reds turned and ran, they had seen what had happened to the Voltigeurs to their left, but not so those in claret, they marched on resolutely. At a range of over 100 yards little damage had been done. Their uniform looked familiar and Carravoy looked back to Oswald’s Brigade. Half of his men wore the exact same uniform. They must be Swiss, then surely allies. Carravoy started shouting, to no one in particular.
“It’s a mistake. They’re Swiss. Don’t fire, don’t fire!”
The 78th Highlanders, or at least their Officers, seemed to be in much the same mind, for they, too, ceased firing. The Swiss came on and at 50 yards levelled their muskets and gave the Highlanders a volley. Carravoy kept shouting,
“It’s a mistake. Don’t fire. It’s a mistake.”
His anxious shouts were soon ended. Mallory galloped up, in a flaming temper.
“Carravoy! Why is that enemy line not feeling your fire, damn you? Take a turn to your right front and support the 78th. At your best speed if you please!”
“B
ut Sir, aren’t they Swiss.”
“Swiss or not, they stand with the French. You give them whatever fire you can.”
Carravoy gave the order and his Grenadiers wheeled around to face the French Swiss. It was over 100 yards, but he ordered volley fire by ranks and the muskets crashed out. The 78th also arrived at the correct decision and had begun their own volleys, supported on the far side by the 81st. Met by such concentrated fire, some at 50 yards range, the Swiss stopped and courageously held for 10 minutes, but then, alone and unsupported, they fell back. Acland’s men marched on.
Far over, on the left of the British line, Cole and Lacey were in anxious conversation. Having angled over to their left, they were close to the scrub covered hillside, and the whole was filling with Voltigeurs, creeping forward through the cover and beginning an accurate fire on the end of the 5th Provisionals’ line, and even more threatening, also moving on and past their front. Should they send one or perhaps two Companies out to clear the Voltiguers? However, French cavalry were also massing in support of these French Lights, the two Companies could be cut off and ridden down and, alongside the cavalry, more French infantry could be seen advancing in line, with individual sharpshooters out in front, already attempting shots at long range. To make matters worse, French artillery could be seen arriving through the murk. Lacey made the suggestion.
“Sir, if I reform two Companies back at a right angle to our line to face the skirmishers that will at least answer their fire, and give us some protection on our flank from the cavalry”
Cole had realised that if the advancing French did close, his Grenadiers on his far right would not be in action; they were too far over.
Worth Their Colours (105th Foot. The Prince of Wales Own Wessex Regiment.) Page 37