Send Me Safely Back Again (6 page)

One of the Spanish staff officers was down, but the man
quickly kicked himself free of his dead horse and jogged forward. D’Urban was unscathed. Sergeants yelled at the grenadiers to close ranks. Their officers urged them on, their swords pointing at the enemy, who were now so very close. The battalion recovered as men closed to fill the gaps left by the fallen. At an order muskets dropped down to the charge. The men cheered and the cheer turned into a scream of rage as the grenadiers charged, bayonets reaching out for the gunners who had hurt them so badly.

Perhaps it was instinct, a sudden blur of movement glimpsed out of the corner of the eye, or just blind chance, but Williams turned and saw that the French dragoons were moving forward to threaten the right of the attack. A glance in the other direction showed that the green-coated horsemen were also advancing against the left. Squadron followed squadron and he judged that there were four or five regiments aiming to counter the Spanish attack.

The general realised the threat and, leaving much of his staff to steady the infantry, the old man galloped over to the brigade of cavalry which formed the far left of his own line.

‘That’s where it will be decided,’ said Williams, and without fully knowing why he urged his mule to follow the Spanish commander. Baynes was surprised, for he was still watching the grenadiers surging forward to reach the French guns, D’Urban riding among the leaders.

‘Come on, sir,’ said Dobson, and he and the merchant went after the ensign.

‘Not too close, Mr Williams!’ called Baynes. ‘You have no duty there.’ The three of them halted some hundred yards or so to the side and watched as Cuesta went to inspire his cavalry. Unlike the infantry they were formed in two lines of squadrons. One regiment wore bright yellow jackets and tight yellow breeches with cocked hats worn squarely east-west. Other dragoons were in dark blue. It was the closest Williams had been to the Spanish cavalry, and for all the bright colours there was much to prompt concern. Horses were of all sizes and
shapes, and many looked scarcely broken, stirring in the formation, and snapping or kicking at their neighbours. Some of the riders seemed just as inexperienced. A few had no stirrups, or old bridles where the leather was tied together. There were dragoons without high black boots, wearing simple civilian shoes or even barefoot.

The French dragoons were walking their horses forward, their lines silently immaculate. Spanish officers urged their men on, but the commands were often lost in the noise as many of their troopers shouted praise of the king or hurled abuse at the French. The front line of squadrons went forward at a walk, and instantly the lines were ragged as the untrained horses refused to stay in place. Officers raised their swords and then swept them down as the trumpet sounded for the trot.

Their men abruptly halted. Then some began to turn, while others yelled encouragement and tried to persuade their comrades to go forward together. Officers joined in the shouting. The French dragoons kept on at a walk, their straight swords resting on their shoulders.

General Cuesta rode between the two lines of his cavalry, calling out in his deep voice for the men to remember their country and drive the enemy back. Williams could not understand the words, but the force of the man’s determination was obvious and for a moment infectious. The leading squadrons began to walk forward again.

Trumpeters, riding grey horses and keeping station just behind the colonel of each French regiment, sounded a new call. The dragoons went faster and the Spanish resurgence died as nervous riders and horses panicked.

Both lines of Spanish horsemen fled. Williams saw the general bawling at them to stop, and then the old man was surrounded by a mass of his own troopers, barging and pushing as the herd ran from danger. The general fell and was lost from sight. Then Williams thought he caught a glimpse of him lying on the ground, beneath the scrimmage of horses.

‘Take Mr Baynes to the rear, Dob, and look after him,’ said
Williams, and swung down from the mule, unslinging his musket. He did not look back, but ran straight towards the spot where the Spanish commander had fallen. Sprinting to a pair of unkempt vine trees, he crouched down behind one and began to load his firelock. Most of the Spanish cavalry were streaming straight back along the riverbank, but some veered to pass near him. The men stared blankly ahead, hunched down in the saddles.

Baynes saw the expression on the veteran’s face. ‘I can take care of myself, Corporal Dobson.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Dobson with a nod. ‘Would you please take care of this for Mr Williams?’ He unhooked the long telescope from the mule’s harness and handed it across. ‘Obliged to you, sir.’

The veteran jumped down and ran after his officer. Baynes shook his head, and then turned his horse and spurred into a canter away from the battle. French dragoons were already among the stragglers of the Spanish cavalry, stabbing at the backs of the fleeing riders.

Williams crouched down, still not quite sure what to do, but happier now that he had a loaded musket. Dobson was expertly charging his own piece as he knelt beside him. The little vines were not enough to conceal them, but as the French dragoons swept past none of them was inclined to trouble much over the huddled redcoats when there were so many mounted enemies to chase. There was too much noise to speak and little need for it. Dobson strongly suspected that the officer had no real idea of what he planned to do and had simply felt an impulse to help.

A yellow-coated cavalryman dropped from his horse, arms flung out to either side, and tumbled on to the ground beside them. Williams dragged the Spanish trooper behind their modest shelter so that he would not be trampled. Blood pooled underneath the wounded man. Dobson looked at the wounded soldier, and then glanced at Williams, and there was no need to say that there was no hope.

They could see little, but then the press of horsemen rushing
past and around their sanctuary began to thin, and a little after that the dust started to disperse. Williams guessed that most of the French cavalry would be wheeling to take the Spanish battalions in the flank and roll up the whole line. There was nothing to stop them.

He peered out from behind the branches of the stunted vines. Trumpets sounded as the general’s escort squadron arrived at last and charged the French. A whirling melee broke out as they threaded in among the enemy cavalry, blades clattering against blades, and men grunting with effort and screaming in pain as the blue-coated cavalrymen mingled with the dragoons in green. A few riders managed to force their way through the French and headed towards the spot where the general had fallen. Bodies were scattered there and almost all were in Spanish uniform. One was in dark blue, and Williams glimpsed heavy gold lace on the sleeve when it stirred.

The officer tapped the corporal on the arm and the two redcoats emerged from their cover and went cautiously forward. One of the Spanish horsemen fell, a dragoon’s sword thrust between his ribs, but the French trooper struggled to free the blade and was quickly hacked from his saddle by another of the Spanish officers. A shot – clearly audible over the cries and metallic clashing of swords – and the Spaniard was staring blankly forward with a neat hole above his right eye. He slumped to the side, hands lifeless, but sword still suspended from the strap around his wrist.

There were some ten skirmishers in the same deep green jacket and buff equipment Williams had seen on the corpse. Tall green plumes with yellow tips decorated their shakos and they had the epaulettes of an elite company.

There were more shots, but the two remaining Spanish officers rode on unscathed. Three French dragoons were walking their horses through the debris of the routed Spanish wing. A sergeant with a red stripe on his sleeves carried a captured standard, its crimson flag hanging lifeless in the still air. It was a trophy that would guarantee praise, reward and promotion, and
the dragoon assumed the officers were riding to recapture the symbol of their pride and turned to carry it to safety. The other two Frenchmen stood to cover his escape, their swords ready. By chance their horses were just a yard or two ahead of the fallen Spanish general, who had not stirred again. The skirmishers came on, lured by the prospect of fresh corpses with full pockets, and Williams was relieved that the men who had fired did not bother to reload. No one paid any attention to the two scruffy redcoats, walking slowly on.

There was heavy firing away in the direction of the main line of Spanish infantry, followed by a great, almost unearthly moan unlike anything Williams had ever heard. Then there were screams, individual voices lost, but together joining one long, extended cry. The two Spanish officers reached the French horsemen and now the noise of steel on steel was closer.

Several of the green-uniformed skirmishers knelt down to rifle bodies. One of the fallen Spaniards moved and cried out in pain, but the infantryman ignored his complaints and lifted him so that he could pull off the man’s tunic. He laid the man down again with some tenderness, but ignored his scream of agony, and started to run one hand along the seams of the coat, feeling for any coins sewn into the lining.

The NCO leading the skirmishers noticed the two British soldiers. He called out in a language Williams did not understand, but knew was not French.

‘
Amis
!’ called Dobson, before the officer could think what to say.

The NCO looked suspicious. He reached back to draw his bayonet from its scabbard and said something to his men. It was awkward to load and aim a musket when the bayonet was fixed, and so most skirmishers preferred not to attach the blade until absolutely necessary. Several of the closest men also drew their own blades. One slung his musket and instead reached for the short sword carried by the French elite companies and known as the
sabre-briquet
.

Dobson stopped, raising his musket so the butt was snug
against his shoulder. Then he fired, the noise appallingly loud just beside Williams’ ears, and shot the NCO through the throat. The man’s unfixed bayonet and musket dropped to the ground and he clutched at his collar as his knees gave way and he slumped forward.

Williams followed the veteran’s example. He saw one of the skirmishers pulling back the flint to cock his musket and guessed that the man was loaded and so aimed at him. He made himself wait, hoping to steady the weapon, but then pulled the trigger more strongly than he should have. The powder flared in the pan and an instant later set off the main charge, but by the time the musket slammed back against his shoulder the muzzle was pointing a little down. The ball slapped into the skirmisher’s left thigh and the man gasped in pain as he was knocked from his feet.

Dobson was screaming out a challenge as he charged, musket down and bayonet reaching hungrily forward. Williams followed a moment later and wished he had time to draw his sword as he no longer carried a bayonet.

There was a shot, and Williams felt a ball pluck at his sleeve, but there was no pain and he ran on. One of the French dragoons had vivid red blood spreading over the pink front of his green jacket from a great cross-bodied slash. His companion cut suddenly, slicing the fingers off the left hand of one of the Spanish officers. The man hissed in pain, and his horse reared, thrashing its hoofs and forcing the group apart, as he let go of his sabre and grabbed the reins with his right hand. There was time and space for the dragoons to turn and break away, following their sergeant, who could now be sure that his trophy was safe.

Dobson beat aside the thrust of one of the skirmishers and then flicked his bayonet back to jab under the man’s ribs, twisting the blade to free it as the man yelled and fell. Williams came against the greenjacket with the short sabre, and brought his musket across his body to parry the slash which carved a notch in the wood. The officer’s instincts took over and he kicked the man in the groin before the skirmisher could raise his short sword for
another attack. Then Williams reversed his firelock and slammed the butt into the face of the doubled-up greencoat.

Williams ran on. The uninjured Spanish officer cut down at one of the green-uniformed men, but the blow was stopped by his shako and the man simply sagged before pushing away from the ground to run off. Dobson was standing over the general, his bayonet ready, and none of the enemy chose to challenge the large, grim-faced man. The skirmishers retreated, for there would be other bodies to loot. Two of them took the arms of the man wounded in the leg and supported him as they went back.

The man Williams had knocked down rose up on all fours. Blood was streaming from his nose, broken by the blow to his face. The officer slung his musket and lifted the man, giving him a shove in the direction of his friends. ‘Clear off,’ he said, and then felt a fool for saying such a ridiculous thing.

Thankfully none of the enemy was still loaded and they seemed willing to escape. There were no other enemy infantrymen near by, and he guessed that this file of men had gone far from their supports.

The wounded Spanish officer walked his horse to stand guard facing the French. He hid his pain, and from a distance no one would know that he was incapable of fighting. The other Spaniard dismounted and was crouched down beside the general. Williams joined him as Dobson began reloading.

Don Gregorio de la Cuesta was conscious, but he said nothing and his eyes stared blankly. He was badly bruised, and his almost bald head shone, as his wig had fallen to the ground, but as the Spanish officer gently ran his hand over the general’s limbs it seemed that no bones were broken.