Llewellyn glanced at his two subalterns, who stood one to either side. 'Well, sir, as the company was bivouacked, I took myself into Talavera for a glass of wine. I saw you on the road, sir.'
'Aye,' Hill agreed. 'But when the shooting started I seem to have got back here the faster, eh? You're to congratulate your sergeant major, Captain Llewellyn. He had his men well in hand.'
'Oh, indeed, sir, there is no better sergeant major in the army than Smith.' Llewellyn cleared his throat. 'What orders have you for us now, sir?'
'Why, sir, to stand fast. This hill is where you are, and this hill is where you'll be, God willing, this time tomorrow night. I'll bid you good-night, sir.'
He walked down the slope. Llewellyn produced a handkerchief and mopped his brow. 'Gad,' he grumbled. 'How was a fellow to know? Sergeant Major Smith, will they come again, d'you suppose?'
'Not this night, sir.'
"Then you'd best fall out the men."
'Very good, sir. If I may suggest, sir . . .'
'Yes, yes, go on.'
‘It wants only three hours to dawn, sir. No one is going to sleep now. So we may as well make ourselves comfortable. I'd like to send a party for the rest of our gear, sir. And I'd also like to detail a squad to roll these corpses down the hill; if the frogs don't come on at first light there's going to be an awful stink.'
'My word, but you're right. See to it. Sergeant Major. See to it.'
Roger supposed after all that he had dozed off. In two hours the hilltop had been cleared of most of the corpses, which now formed a mound at the bottom, half in and half out of the brook; from above they looked like a heap of bluebottles—he could hear the buzzing of the real things as well. And his men were fully dressed and armed. And blooded now, as well. He was pleased with them. They'd play their part. Then what had awakened him? It was dark, with the chill blackness of the hour before dawn, and there was no movement from in front of him.
But behind him. He leapt to his feet, listened to the creaking and thumping, the snorts of the horses, the muttered curses of the men and the whispered commands of the officers.
'Fall in the guard,' he said, and stepped forward, as Llewellyn also sat up and hastily reached for his sword. 'Who comes?'
'Friend,' said an English voice. The general wishes this hill held at all costs.'
He blinked into the darkness, saw the caissons trailing behind the horses, made out the gold and blue jackets. A battery of horse artillery. His own regiment, before his world had come to an end. He wondered if in some way this was an omen for his impending death; however many battlefields he had shared with these men, this was the first time he had been commanded to fight next to them.
The noise had awakened most of the battalion, the men were sitting up and making themselves a hasty breakfast, as dawn was so obviously close at hand. But now there was a rustle through the entire force, and people scrambled to their feet, as Sir Arthur Wellesley himself, accompanied by four staff officers, came to the top of the hill, and sat his horse there, peering into the darkness. 'Mark me well, Hill,' he said, his voice clear in the stillness. This will be the critical point. If we lose here, we lose everywhere.'
'Weil hold,' Rowland Hill replied.
'I'm relying on that.' The general looked around him. 'I'm relying on you all,' he said. 'Good fortune.' He turned his horse and walked it back down the slope, his officers jingling at his heels.
'Sergeant Major,' Corcoran whispered. 'When will the battle start?'
'As soon as you've had your breakfast, lad,' Roger told him. 'So you'd best eat up.' He pointed at the sudden lightening of the sky behind the eastern mountains. For now the light came on apace, and he could hear the sharp intakes of breath from the men to either side of him as the French army was revealed, already arrayed in order of battle, more than forty thousand of the finest soldiers in the world.
Close at hand, just on the far side of the Portina Brook, there was a swarm of tirailleurs, waiting the command to advance. At the rear were squadron after squadron of cavalry, their casques gleaming in the first light which also illuminated the many coloured pennants and picked out their lanceheads. In between were the solid masses of blue-coated infantry, bayonets already fixed, drummer boys waiting expectantly. And it was perfectly easy for the British watchers to see that while the country opposite Talavera and the Spaniards was thinly held, the main body of the French was concentrated against the twenty thousand British and Portuguese holding the allied centre and left, just as the main part of that concentration was below the Cerro de Medillin.
Corcoran spat into the dust, looked from right to left. The hill was also held in strength, no fewer than six battalions of the 29th and the 48th, the Northamptons, with support from the King's German Legion as well as the artillery batteries placed during the night—but they were terribly few compared with the mass in front of them. 'Will we beat them, Sergeant Major?'
'Weil bloody well try,' Roger grunted. Now the moment was at hand, irrelevant thoughts, of past or future, had drifted away. Only the present need concern him. He was here to do a job of work, as they all were, and nothing else could interest him until afterwards.
'Look there,' someone called. From the middle of the French army a single puff of smoke curled into the sky.
'Wait for it,' Roger snapped as the men commenced to rustle. But he had no sooner finished speaking than every gun in the French army seemed to fire at once, a tremendous rolling explosion shrouded in huge clouds of black smoke. Almost before he could turn his head there was an enormous whistling sound, and a chorus of curiously abbreviated cries; he looked to his left and saw two huge scythes cut right through the lines of redcoats, sudden gaps composed of mangled arms and legs and heads and trunks, all suddenly without meaning.
'Back, fall back,' came the order, and Roger turned his head in surprise, to see Sir Arthur himself, with his staff, coming up the hill.
'Damme, Arthur,' shouted Rowland Hill. 'You told me to hold it.'
'And I am still telling you to hold it," Wellesley replied. 'But there is no need to expose the men. Have them lie down behind the brow. Smartly, now.'
The redcoats withdrew, while the French cheered and their skirmishers started to cross the brook.
'Down you get,' Roger commanded. 'On your bellies.'
Those fellows make a target, Sergeant Major.'
'You'll have your targets. Down lads.'
'Funny way to fight a battle,' Corcoran commented, nestling on his stomach.
Roger rolled on his side, to look at the regimental standard behind him, at Hill and Wellesley and the staff officers, at the cannon balls which continued to come bounding over the hilltop, but now doing very little damage. He watched Wellesley give a brief nod and then ride away, followed by his staff. The moment was at hand, and now, indeed, he could hear the rat-a-tat of the drums and the shouts of 'Vive L'Empereur,' coming closer. His blood began to tingle, and he found that his hands were wet. He wondered what the French thought as they approached an apparently empty hilltop. How they must be hoping that the British had indeed withdrawn. And how unpleasantly surprised were they going to be.
And there was Wellesley again, returning up the slope, having satisfied himself that the rest of the line was holding. Now he took in the situation at a glance, and raised his hat. 'Now Hill.'
'Up lads,' Rowland Hill bellowed, his voice rising even above the mutter of the drums.
The 29th will rise,' shouted Captain Llewellyn, and similar orders rippled down the line. The men stood shoulder to shoulder, gazed at the massed French column, officers in front, proceeding as if on parade and scarce a hundred yards distant.
The 29th will take aim,' called the captain.
'Straighten up there,' Roger snapped, marching down the line, behind the men, tapping the laggards on the shoulder. 'Close up.'
The 29th will fire,' Captain Llewellyn shouted, and the muskets crashed in unison. The French column halted, the leading men on their knees or already on the g
round, muskets thrown away and shakoes rolling in the bloodstained dust.
The 29th will load,' Captain Llewellyn said. 'Haste now, lads.'
'Haste there, haste,' Roger snapped. The French were beginning to recover, their officers were waving their swords, and the drums were again starting to beat.
The 29th will take aim,' Llewellyn said.
Roger reached the end of the line, pointed his staff. 'Careful now, lads,' he said. 'At this range you cannot miss.'
The French were very close, their bayonets bristling in front of them, their faces contorted with anger and hate.
The 29th will give fire,' said Captain Llewellyn. Once again the same orders had been issued at the same moment in every company of every one of the six battalions. Now the enemy were only fifty yards away, and not even Napoleon's moustachios could withstand that hail of lead. Once again the heads of the column crumbled, and this time the dense masses behind lost their cohesion. Gaps appeared and some of the men started to look over their shoulders.
'Now, Hill,' Wellesley called.
'Advance the 29th,' shouted Hill. 'Advance the 48th. Clear me this hill.'
Roger threw down his staff and drew his sword.
'Charge those fellows,' shouted Captain Llewellyn, also drawing his sword. He and the two lieutenants put themselves at the head of the line, Roger kept his place at the end, to maintain dressing, and the whole mass surged forward, yelling at the tops of their voices.
'Sauve qui peut.' The cry was begun by a single faint hearted throat, and then taken up by others. The redcoats crashed into the blue, the bayonets scythed against each other. A thrust went under Roger's arm, tearing his coat and his flesh as well, for he felt the sting of pain. But he knew he was no more than scratched, and his own blade had sunk deep into the belly of his assailant. Down he went, and Roger tugged at the sword, saw another blue-coated man lunging at him, reckoned he was about to be at least seriously wounded, saw Corcoran thrust in turn with his own bayonet, parrying the blow and turning it up, swinging his musket as he did so to catch the Frenchman a blow across the chin with the butt, throwing the man backwards with a sickening crunch.
'On the 29th' bawled Captain Llewellyn, sword bloodied and face flushed. For now they were descending the far side of the hill, driving the French in front of them. They scattered down the slope, splashed into the shallow brook, turning the water brown and red with their blood and the dust on their feet.
'Halt there,' bellowed General Hill, having dismounted to accompany his men. 'Fall back.'
But the battle was ended, for the moment. The French had returned to their original positions, and the English were gasping and panting, suddenly aware of the heat, for although it was just eight of the morning, the sun was already high and hot, and the hillside was covered with corpses.
'Water,' Corcoran grunted. 'I must have water.'
Several of his comrades were already kneeling. On the other side of the brook, not twenty feet away, a few of the French were also drinking, scooping the bloodied liquid in their hands and conveying it to their mouths.
Roger looked back up the slope. Not all of his men had broken ranks to drink; most were pulling over the dead and dying, some calling for stretcher bearers, others out to discover what they could.
'Come on lads,' he said, tapping Corcoran on the shoulders. 'Up you get. We can't stay here all day.'
'Look what I've found,' bubbled Lieutenant Portman, more excited than anyone at the outcome of his first engagement. He held out his hand, showed two crosses of the Legion of Honour. Took them off a dead officer up there. Must have been a rare hero, eh?'
Llewellyn glanced at Roger, slowly took the two medals.
1 beg your pardon, sir,' Portman objected. 'The spoils of war, what. They belong to me.'
They belong to the French, sir,' Llewellyn said, and waded into the stream, hands outstretched. After a moment's hesitation a French officer came to meet him. 'Pour vous,' Llewellyn said, uncertainly.
The officer gazed at the crosses for a moment, then took them. 'You 'ave the thanks of France, monsieur,' he said, and saluted.
How hot it was. The sun was past noon high, and scorched the field. There had not been time to bury the dead, and they were already starting to bloat as they were assaulted by a fresh horde of flies. The 29th and the 48th had regained their hilltop and stood to their arms, as did the rest of the army on the plain between them and the town. And as did the French on the far side of the brook. The only noise, apart from the humming of the insects, was the occasional crack of a musket from away to the south, where the French skirmishers were pot-shotting at the Spaniards.
'What are they waiting for?' Corcoran wanted to know.
'Why don't they go away?' someone else demanded.
'Ah, they ain't going,' said a third. They still have us by two to one.'
Or more, Roger thought, as he walked by the group. Perhaps they were waiting on Soult to debouch from the mountains in the British rear. Just as Sir Arthur Wellesley was certainly waiting for the arrival of Black Bob Craufurd with the three regiments of the Light Brigade, hurrying over the roads behind them. The battle was a long way from being over.
And there it was again. Another puff of smoke, immediately enveloped in a rolling black thunderclap. Take cover,' shouted Captain Llewellyn, hurrying back from an officers' conference. 'Behind the hill. Smartly now.'
Roger used his staff to hasten men into moving, get them away from their canteens and their salted meat, out of sight of the artillery. But apparently the French were no longer interested in the Cerro de Medillin. Few cannon balls came up here, as the main weight of the coming assault seemed to be directed at the men on the plain. Roger stood with Llewellyn and Portman to watch the French surging forward, to watch the Fourth Division, commanded by Major-General Campbell, charging in a counter attack and actually overrunning three French batteries before being recalled. This was worth a cheer, but nearer at hand, almost at the foot of the hill, things did not go so well. Here the First Guards Division and the Hanoverians took their bombardment with admirable courage, held their fire as the 29th had done, and then rushed forward with the bayonet to disperse the attacking French in fine style. But they had not been kept on as tight a rein as the Worcesters, and continued their charge even across the brook.
'Great God Almighty,' remarked Rowland Hill, coming to stand with the other officers to watch the disaster looming below them. Those fellows will suffer for it.'
Roger watched, and felt his belly roll. The disorganised mass of redcoats was commencing to break up and straggle, just as a compact column of blue-coated French was launched against it in a counter attack. Now he realised what their own assault must have looked like, seen from a distance. Only this time the roles were reversed. The Guards attempted to form line to meet the assault, and were scattered by a devastating volley. The Hanoverians simply dissolved; Roger watched their commanding general riding his horse into the midst of a melee and tumble from the saddle to disappear. The rest fled every way. The Guards were retreating in better order, but a good third of their men lay scattered in and out of the brook, and behind them there was a great gap in the British line.
'Can't we get down there, sir?' Portman begged. 'The army will be cut in two."
The battle will be equally lost if we abandon this hill, Mr. Portman,' Hill said. 'Pray do Sir Arthur the credit of having allowed for such a misfortune.'
There, sir,' Roger said, pointing, and they watched General Mackenzie's reserve division hurrying towards the break in the line. How few they were, hardly two thousand men, while at least ten thousand French were marching on the gap. But the three regiments of the reserve, the 24th, the 31st and the 45th Foot —the Warwickshires, the Huntingdonshires, and the Nottinghamshires—took up their places and began delivering volleys with deadly haste and equal accuracy, while staff officers scurried around to shepherd the retreating Guards and the remnants of the Hanoverians back to their positions.
'Nobl
e lads,' Rowland Hill said. 'Noble lads.'
'Will they hold, d'you suppose, sir?' Llewellyn inquired.
Roger stared down the hill at the thin red line. Many of them were not even properly dressed, were still wearing the uniforms of the militia regiments from which they had so recently been drafted. But they were showing no signs of fear. And now there came the clatter of hooves and the 14th Light Dragoons hurled themselves against the French flank, swords flailing, helmets gleaming in the afternoon sun.
"Stapleton Cotton, by Gad,' Hill cried. 'There's a cavalryman.'
'Now Hill,' Sir Arthur said from behind him. "Send the 48th.'
Roger and Llewellyn turned in disappointment, but the orders had already been given, and the Northamptons moved down the hill in line, sending volley after volley into the French flank; the
Worcesters had to watch the French column wither and start to ebb back across the brook.
'Oh, gallant Northamptons,' shouted Rowland Hill.
‘It should have been us,' Llewellyn muttered, and judging by the scowls on the faces of his men, the rest of the 29th felt the same.
'We should give them a cheer, sir,' Roger suggested. 'They'd do so much for us.'
'Of course you're right, Sergeant Major,' Llewellyn agreed. Three cheers for the Northamptons, lads. Hip hip . . .'
The Worcesters tossed their hats in the air. Surely the battle was finished. Surely the French, having been repulsed wherever they had attempted an attack, would call it enough. But even as the cheers broke out from the hilltop, fresh firing commenced on their left, at the extreme end of the British line.
'Stand to your arms,' General Hill commanded. They'll be here next.'
'Form line. Stand to.' Roger hurried through his company, slapping exhausted men to attention, paused at the far end to gaze down the valley, where two French divisions had crawled up the ravines in their attempt to turn the British left. He watched staff officers galloping away from Wellesley's side, and a moment later saw the 23rd Light Dragoons together with the 1st Hussars of the King's German Legion moving forward to charge the as yet disorganised French.
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