Whose Business Is to Die (41 page)

A staff officer arrived without orders from the marshal, but with the suggestion that the Fourth Division should attack. Yet the responsibility was Cole’s and so was the decision, and if he was wrong it might well end his career. The general, who had once competed for the hand of Kitty Pakenham and lost to the then Sir Arthur Wellesley, was too much the soldier to place his own fears before what he knew was right. He made up his mind, gave the orders, but then it took time to deploy the battalions, so it was at almost precisely one o’clock that the advance began.

Dalmas saw the British and Portuguese soldiers forming up and immediately went to report to Marshal Soult. Finding him was not easy, for the marshal had gone forward to urge on the men of V Corps. Two divisions, all told more than eight thousand men in eighteen battalions, had marched over the southern knoll, gone down into the little valley and attacked the lower knoll. Over a
third were now dead or wounded, including all the generals and most of the colonels. Girard and Gazan were both back with the surgeons.

The cuirassier rode through the gun line on the knoll and then between clusters of soldiers, the remnants of the leading battalions withdrawn back from the firing line. It was hard to see much pattern as he went forward. Men stood in masses or as loose skirmishing lines, and there were half a dozen four-pounders among them. All those close enough fired into the smoke again and again, and sometimes they dropped as balls came out of the gloom and found a mark. The French infantry were not giving way, but neither were the English. He passed a brigade commander, propped up against his dead horse and supported by a weeping ADC. The general had at least three severe wounds to the chest and as he tried to call out encouragement to his men he coughed up blood. A Polish officer with a few of his lancers was riding between the groups of men, showing them the six Colours they had taken in the great charge and telling them that the redcoats would crack if only they pushed on.

Soult was unscathed, and had a distant look on his face. He was listening to a report from one of his staff.

‘Tell the grenadiers to advance and press the enemy on the right.’ Soult pointed, even though it was impossible to see the ground through the smoke.

‘The enemy are committing their last reserves,’ Dalmas reported. ‘Seven or eight battalions, some English and the rest Portuguese. They are forming to attack across the plain and strike our left. If we can smash them then the day is ours. General La Tour-Maubourg asks for orders, Your Grace.’

The dragoon regiments had done little. The hussars and lancers were not as fresh, but had recovered enough to play their part once again.

Soult said nothing. A bullet whipped past between Dalmas and the marshal, and neither man blinked. Four soldiers in greatcoats were carrying a moaning officer to the rear.

‘Who is that?’

‘Chef de battalion Astruc,’ one of the men said. The number sixty-four was painted on the light grey cover of his shako.

Dalmas doubted that the officer would reach the surgeons alive.

‘Your Grace, the plain offers us excellent ground for manoeuvre. With support the cavalry can cut the English to ribbons as they did before.’

A staff colonel glared at him. A mere major did not speak to a marshal of France in such an intemperate way.

Soult did not appear concerned. He stared intently into the smoke, and just for a moment a gap appeared and they glimpsed a few redcoats on the crest. Dalmas knew that if the French had suffered so much then the English must be bleeding as well. General Werlé’s strong brigade of nine battalions remained in reserve. Attack with these fresh infantry and the might of the cavalry at the same time and the new enemy attack could be shattered.

‘No,’ Soult said suddenly, as if hearing Dalmas’ thoughts. ‘We cannot rout this enemy. The Spanish have joined them in force and so we are outnumbered.’ That had not been a concern earlier in the day. ‘We will hold what we have. Tell General Werlé to bring his nine battalions and oppose the new British attack. Tell him that he is to defend and not to attack. We will hold here and let the enemy break themselves on us.’ The marshal turned to the cuirassier officer.

‘Dalmas.’

‘Your Grace.’

‘Go to General La Tour-Maubourg, and tell him that he may attack if he sees an opportunity.’

‘Yes, Your Grace!’ It was not quite what he had wanted, but this was something. If the cavalry could ride down the enemy, then the day might still be theirs.

The 106th were formed with their nine companies in column ready to advance. Lieutenant Colonel Myers, the brigade commander, walked his horse along in front of them, waving his hat in the air.

‘Come on, my brave lads, this will be a great and glorious day!’

Pringle’s grenadiers at the head of the column cheered him with great enthusiasm. They were in the centre, with the 1/7th Fusiliers on their left and the 1/23rd on their right. Enough space was left between each column for them to form line when they were closer to the enemy and so deliver the greatest weight of fire. Lines moved slowly, for in so wide a formation the dressing was bound to become ragged and disordered, so that it needed to stop and reform at frequent intervals.

‘This will be a glorious day for the fuzileers!’ Pringle heard Myers call out to the 1/23rd, his own battalion, and heard them reply with a great roar. The battalions were formed in echelon, with the 1/7th some way ahead, then the 106th, and the 1/23rd back from them. The Portuguese brigade was to their right, and their four columns were also staggered. It meant that if necessary they could readily form a continuous line facing to the right, towards the French cavalry. More protection was offered to the vulnerable right by MacAndrews’ temporary battalion formed from the Light Companies. These would march in hollow square on the right of the Portuguese. Beyond them were the six guns of the KGL artillery attached to the division and four more from the Royal Horse Artillery. General Lumley’s heavy dragoons and some Spanish squadrons came forward and covered the flank of the guns. On the less vulnerable left wing, a battalion of the Loyal Lusitanian Legion, Portuguese light infantry and the most experienced of the Allied units in the division, were to the left of the Fusilier Brigade in close column.

‘The brigade will advance.’ Myers shouted the order, warning them that they were about to go forward.

‘The One Hundred and Sixth will advance.’ The sergeant major’s voice carried easily to the men at the very rear, but even so each company commander repeated the instruction.

‘At the quick step, march.’ Lieutenant Colonel FitzWilliam shouted the order as the entire division began its advance. They were aiming at a stretch of the ridge somewhat to the right of the dirty smoke blanketing the high ground. Pringle reckoned
that they had over a mile to march in this complicated formation. With his company at the head of the 106th, he could see the squadrons of French cavalry waiting over to the right. If the Fourth Division lost its good order, or anyone panicked or became confused, then the French would ride them down and slaughter them like sheep.

Some of the grenadiers looked pale as they marched, muskets on shoulders, towards the distant enemy. Their destination looked no closer, and it seemed as if they were walking in soft sand or through thick mud. Pringle’s legs felt heavy and sluggish, each movement a great effort. It would change when they got closer, but waiting was always terrible, especially when the enemy was in sight.

A horseman appeared, riding across the front of the brigade until he came up to FitzWilliam. Pringle heard a whisper run along the front rank and then realised that it was Williams.

The Welshman saluted, touching his battered hat, the plume no more than a broken stub. For some reason Williams seemed able to ruin the smartest new uniform in a remarkably short time.

‘Lieutenant Williams asks permission to fall in, sir.’

The colonel returned the salute. ‘Certainly, Mr Williams. It is a pleasure to see you.’ FitzWilliam offered the subaltern his hand.

A cheer went up from the grenadiers, spreading to the companies behind, even if they had no idea what it was about. Williams walked his horse around the two ranks of Pringle’s marching men. He freed his feet from the stirrups and then jumped down, slapping the beast on the rump so that it walked off. Pringle noticed that its tail was undocked, which meant that it was a French horse, but he could see that it was smaller than the one Williams had had before.

‘Where did you get that?’

‘Took it from a lancer who did not need it any more,’ Williams replied.

‘Damned pirate,’ Billy told him.

Dobson was in place behind the company and grinned broadly. Pringle could sense that the distraction and the arrival of a
familiar face had lifted the spirits of the grenadiers. Williams beamed at them happily.

‘Have you deserted your post, young Bills?’ Pringle asked.

‘The colonel did not need me for the moment, and when I saw you fellows advancing I asked him if I might ride over to join you.’ He raised his voice. ‘Thought you might need a hand.’

‘On the run from the magistrates more like.’ The voice came from the ranks.

‘I believe that we are all aware of the adage about a bad penny!’ Truscott called. His company was directly behind Pringle’s.

Williams bowed, then had to step quickly to catch up. Like the other battalions in the brigade, the 106th was in column at quarter-distance and stepping out at the quick pace of one hundred and eight paces a minute. The sky had gone dark once again, and flurries of rain kept blowing into them. They could no longer see the high ground, but they could see Lieutenant Colonel Myers. FitzWilliam followed him and they followed FitzWilliam.

A lieutenant should be behind the two ranks formed by the company, but for the moment Williams strode alongside Pringle. Billy could see his friend’s scarred uniform and thought it better not to ask too much about what had happened.

‘We are holding them,’ was all Williams would say. ‘But it will take the Fourth Division to break them.’

Pringle did not press him and for a while they marched on in silence. A horse trotted across the field ahead of them, most of its jaw gone and blood on its haunches. Even at fifty yards Pringle could see its huge eyes and felt that they were watching him.

‘Someone shoot the poor beast,’ one of the grenadiers hissed.

‘Quiet in the ranks.’ Pringle was not sure which of the sergeants had spoken, but suspected that it was the officious Fuller rather than Murphy or Dobson. Thankfully the poor creature ran on and he no longer had to witness its agony.

The rain slackened and they could see the ridge ahead of them. Up on the knoll the French artillery saw them coming
and the batteries shifted the gun line, the crews wheeling each piece into a new position.

At three-quarters of a mile the first shot struck them. One twelve-pound ball bounced a few yards from Pringle and then sped on so that it struck Truscott’s company, cutting a redcoat in two at the waist. Its path was at an angle so it missed his rear rank man, but ripped the arm off the soldier next to him and then disembowelled the sergeant marching as file closer.

‘Dear God,’ gasped another sergeant as he stared in horror at his friend. ‘Close up! Close up!’ he shouted quickly, and rubbed off the gore and fragments of flesh spattered across his face.

They marched on.

Another shot shattered the heads of two grenadiers just as Pringle was casting his eye along the line. One moment the men were marching, the man in the rear grinning at some joke told to him by his neighbour, and then there was a smear of bone, flesh and inner matter spraying across the men around them. The company marched on, but the two headless corpses stood for what seemed an age, even if it cannot have been much more than a second or so. The one in the rear fell first, dropping back, and then the other slumped forward. Pringle found himself wondering why in an effort to ignore the horror. He had seen such things many times, but it only made it a little easier.

‘Close up!’ That was Murphy this time.

Another grenadier stepped out of the ranks, blood pouring from his cheek, which had been struck by several teeth and part of the jawbone of one of the dead men.

A shell burst and flung muck on to FitzWilliam, but the aristocrat rode on, flicking debris from his sleeve with an elegant gesture.

Williams was still walking alongside Pringle. ‘I had better go to my station.’

‘I would not have dared make the suggestion to a staff man,’ Pringle said, and then the urge came to him to speak because he wondered whether he would ever get another chance. ‘Before you go, old fellow, there is something I must say.’

‘If it is that my plume is sorely hurt, then I already know,’ Williams replied cheerfully.

‘No,’ Pringle said, ‘it is not that.’ A little voice said that he should not bother, for either or both of them might be dead in half an hour and so it would not matter, but his mind was made up. He must speak, even if these were some of his last words – indeed, perhaps especially if that proved so.

‘Mr Williams,’ he began, for this ought to be done properly. A shell interrupted him, a big piece of metal flying through the air and embedding itself in Private Jenkins’ chest. The grenadier staggered, his face going pale. His musket dropped to the ground with a clatter.

‘Close up!’

‘Mr Williams,’ Pringle repeated, and he could see that his friend was puzzled. ‘I wish to inform you that it is my intention to seek your sister’s hand in marriage.’

‘Oh,’ Williams said, looking genuinely startled, and failing to match the solemnity of the question. ‘Which one?’ He must have seen Pringle’s expression. ‘Oh, it must be Anne.’

Shells exploded in the companies behind them and they heard the screams.

‘Close up, close up!’

‘Have you expressed your ambitions to Anne?’ Williams asked.

Ahead of them they could see French infantry moving forward to face them. They looked fresh and in good order, and there seemed to be plenty of them. They could see the cavalry more clearly now, with a front line formed of dragoons in green jackets facing the Portuguese.