Kings and Emperors (36 page)

Boom-bub-buh-buh-boom
, then the pause and the shout of
“Vive L'Empereur!”
, louder now as those two columns got closer, and Lewrie could begin to make out details, the brightly polished metal shako plates, and the differences between them from one regiment to the next, even the large brass numbers, the stiff plumes that rose from the sides of their shakoes in different colours. He could almost make out individual faces; tanned as brown as sailors from weeks or months in the field, coated with dust stirred up by their own boots, and the abundance of short beards or long mustachios among the soldiers.

“Scruffy lot,” Lewrie muttered, half to himself, and thinking that there was a great difference between the Sunday parade ground and the field. The French wore ragged, faded, and patched uniforms, stained and dusted, whilst a quick look down the line of the ridge showed the British troops still in mostly new-issued and clean kits.

“When's our bloody artillery going to—?” Ford grumbled, cut off by the first, welcome, shots from British guns. Thin and sketchy trails of smoke marked the passage of their shot as they descended in quick arcs onto those massed columns.

“Shrapnel shot!” Lewrie crowed with delight when he realised what he was seeing. The fuses of the shrapnel shells, ignited by the explosions of the gunpowder in the artillery's barrels, left those thin trails. A second later, and they burst, some at ground level among the French soldiers, but most exploded above their heads, scattering irregular chunks of the shells, and the musket balls packed inside them, to strew death, dismemberment, wounds, and consternation in a wider burst radius.

The French columns staggered and reeled for a second or so, but the insistent drums forced them onward, and ranks and files came back together, shoulder to shoulder, stepping over their casualties at the same implacable pace. Far behind those columns, the elegantly clad French cavalry units still came forward at a nervous, head-tossing gait, waiting their chance 'til the infantry had punched through, so they could charge into the confusion and exploit the breach in the British lines. A pair of artillery guns showed them some attention, too, emptying saddles and scything down screaming horses with their bursting shot, but it was the columns that were the guns' main targets.

“What do they do when they get close?” Lewrie turned to ask Ford. “Do they just tramp straight on, or what?”

“Well, at some point, they bring the rear ranks out to form line, three or four deep, and open fire with musketry,” Ford told him. “'Til then, no more than the first two or three leading ranks … ninety men or so … and the men in the outer files down the flanks, can use their weapons.”

“Don't make good sense, t'me,” Lewrie commented with a shake of his head. “'Til then, the columns are just big, walking targets.”

“They've worked for the French, so far, sir,” Ford replied. “Perhaps they think that they've such a large army that they can replace all their great losses. It's brute and crude, but columns have broken everyone in Europe, even the Prussians.”

The few British guns with the army continued their cannonading of those two columns, the gunners stoically shrugging off the French guns' attempts to silence them with solid shot. More shells burst over the columns, knocking down more soldiers in circles under them. Much like dropping pebbles into thin mud, the circles quickly disappearing as the French stepped over and round their dead and wounded comrades and marched on, to the harsh orders of the French version of “Close Up, Close Up!” Those two columns got a little shorter, and a bit thinner than thirty men across the front ranks, but still they came on as if nothing in the world could ever stop them.

Lewrie lifted his pocket telescope and scanned behind those columns, and what he saw put a wicked smile on his face. There were dozens upon dozens of bodies strewn in their wakes, fallen in roughly circular blots where the shells had exploded practically on the tops of their shakoes.

Now, he heard the thin crackle of musketry, and turned to scan the face of the ridge, where powder smoke was rising from long-range Baker rifles. A quick look at the head of the nearest French column showed officers and sergeants out in front, waving their swords to encourage their troops onward. Here and there, Lewrie could see those officers struck down. He could barely make out where the riflemen were positioned among the scrub, and surely the French could not see them, either, but they were being shot down by ghosts, out of the blue. Red-coated soldiers of the various Light Companies could be seen, but not the Rifles, firing volleys then retreating up the ridge, shooting beyond the effective range of their muskets but with those columns such broad targets, even their fire was taking grim effect, and the front of that nearest column was now stumbling and stepping over their own casualties.

“Lord, they're almost up within musket shot!” Captain Ford fretted, his own telescope glued to one eye. “
Is
there no stopping those snail-eatin' shits?”

The crest of the ridge before the French columns was suddenly full of British troops, hastening to array themselves two ranks deep from their shelter behind the crest. The men of the skirmishing companies were rushing to join them, out of the line of fire, then, at less than one hundred yards, they opened fire.

“Oh, just lovely!” Ford chortled.

Over three thousand muskets opened up, the first rank kneeling to shoot, followed a second or two later by the discharge of the rear rank soldiers who stood behind, and Lewrie jerked his gaze to the column's front, which looked as if it was simply melting away! French soldiers were tumbling down in windrows, taking those punishing volleys from the front and both flanks, trying to spread out to form a matching line and employ their own muskets in reply, but they were dying too fast for that to prevail.

The first ranks of the British infantry volleyed again, then the rear rank men fired theirs, and the insistent French drums were silenced, at last. Then, with a great, screeching shout, British regiments were dashing down the slope with bayonets fixed, howling like so many imps from Hell!

It was too much for the French. The men at the front of that column turned their backs and tried to run, shoving rear rankers out of their way and spreading panic that twitched down the long length of the column. Somewhere in that mass, a bugle was braying the call to retire, but any hope for an orderly retirement was out of the question; it turned into a terrified rout! Frenchmen in the rear were bowled over by the ones in the middle, the men in the middle were trampled by the ones that had borne the brunt of those volleys, and were scurrying like witless chickens to get away from those wickedly sharp bayonets. Some Frenchmen were trying to melee with their own bayonetted muskets, but they were being swamped over and skewered, and some who could not run fast enough were throwing aside their weapons and kneeling, their arms raised in surrender. British blood was up, though, and not all of those who gave up survived, bashed in the head with heavy musket butts as British soldiers raced past them, or bayonetted.

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.