The young ADC had made a mistake, but there was no time to do anything about it now. An hour before dawn, when he had passed on the orders to the brigade major, he had told him to form left in front. The formation should have been by the right as normal. By the left meant that all dispositions were reversed. The 106th formed ahead of the 82nd and both battalions had the Light Company at the front of their column and the grenadiers at the rear. For Hanley and Trent with the colour party it made little difference. They were still in the centre of the battalion, but were now looking at the backs of a different company. Pringle and Redman were in place behind the flanks of the Grenadier Company and so were at the very rear of the 106th. Pringle raised a quizzical eyebrow at the adjutant riding beside him.
‘These are the orders,’ said Thomas in response. ‘Something must have changed.’ He had seen the general’s orders issued the night before, which specified that the brigades would march right in front. That allowed a rapid deployment into the normal fighting line either to the front or to face the right flank. Marching left in front made it easier to turn instead to the left. ‘I had better check, though.’ Thomas could dimly see a cluster of horsemen and hear raised voices. He spurred his horse over to join them, but before he could reach them the group broke up. Moss came towards him, surging ahead of the two majors.
‘We go as we are,’ he called to the adjutant. ‘It’s wrong, but puts us closer to the enemy, so I shan’t complain.’ He did not stop, but rode quickly back to the head of the column. Toye looked nervous as he passed. MacAndrews just shrugged. Before Thomas had reached his station he heard Sergeant Major Fletcher’s voice booming across the open plain.
‘’Talion will advance.’ A pause and then ‘Forward march!’ The drums started and the band began to play ‘The British Grenadiers’ as the 106th moved off.
‘They’re not bothered about surprise, then,’ whispered Williams to Dobson, who marched in front of him.
‘They’ll know we are coming. Make them nervous to listen to us for a while. No one wants to think on a day like this. Chin up, Pug. We’ll show ’em.’
‘Silence in the ranks,’ yelled Sergeant Darrowfield, who chose to ignore Murphy’s louder of ‘Miserable sod’.
Sir Arthur Wellesley wanted the French General Delaborde to notice his army’s main central column. Altogether he had some nine thousand men, with the bulk of the cavalry and a dozen of his precious guns. They marched straight at the French position on the hills in front of the little village of Roliça. He could just see the whitewashed houses clustered around the church through his telescope. The sun was not yet fully up, and he would need another look when they got closer. He spotted a hillock in the plain which ought to offer a good viewing point. At the moment he could see darker smears on the hillside, which might be French troops. He glanced to the left, but could not yet see very much. Delaborde had a single brigade – no more than four or five thousand men including a regiment of cavalry. Yet another French brigade under General Loison was only a dozen miles away, and if he came to reinforce Delaborde he would come from those hills.
The French wanted to delay the British until Junot could concentrate enough troops to smash them. Wellesley guessed that Delaborde was also keen to inflict a bloody nose on the advancing British. There was a desire both to add to his high reputation and to encourage his soldiers by showing them they were better than the enemy. Sir Arthur counted on this to keep the French brigade in place long enough to trap it. So he wanted Delaborde to be mesmerised by his central column, to see them and only them. In the meantime Major General Ferguson would take two brigades on a march round to the left. A smaller Portuguese column led by Colonel Trant – an English soldier of fortune who seemed reliable in spite of the fact that he was rarely sober – went to the right. If the French commander was stupid or sufficiently overconfident, then it might work.
‘Very pretty,’ said Henri-François Delaborde as he rubbed his hands together. It was an hour and half later, and he and his staff had watched the British columns process across the rolling plain towards them. There was an air of a field day about it, especially now, as the enemy brigades deployed immaculately from their columns into line. One of his younger ADCs applauded. The general silenced the man with a look. His spirits were rising – if only it were not for this damned rheumatism in his joints.
‘At least we are fighting a proper army again,’ commented his chief of staff. Junot had disbanded Portugal’s regiments soon after his arrival. When the Portuguese rose against the French, they consisted of hastily organised forces, often little more than mobs. It had been brutal, inglorious work suppressing them. The French had done it, resolving always to be far more brutal than the enemy, but such tasks would win no man promotion or praise from the Emperor. It did not help that the Emperor was still in France, for he was never as lavish with decorations in campaigns where he did not lead in person.
‘They march and form well,’ grunted Delaborde in agreement. ‘And they look handsome,’ he muttered as he clicked his glass open. Through the telescope the nearest battalions became more than a red strip. He could see black shakos and white cross-belts. ‘At least eight battalions. Maybe a few more. Call it two or three brigades.’
‘We are outnumbered, then.’ His chief of staff ’s comment was neutral.
‘We are French,’ Delaborde said automatically. There were a few companies of Swiss infantry with his brigade, the remainder of a battalion left behind in garrison, but they were almost as reliable as his countrymen. ‘How many did the Chasseurs spot over on the right, Jean?’
A fresh-faced staff officer consulted a note. ‘At leaslmost rigade, General. Rosbifs again. A couple of guns and a handful of cavalry.’
‘How close?’ The British flanking column was covered by the olive groves and the rolling hills. Delaborde had spotted a little dust and the occasional glint of metal, but had not been able to make out anything more definite from his position. A patrol of his green-uniformed cavalry had already located the enemy, however, and soon sent him a detailed report. They did not spot Trant’s smaller column, made up of Portuguese, and coming by a longer route.
‘An hour, maybe an hour and a half.’
Delaborde guessed that it would be nearer an hour and a half. The British manoeuvred well, but their marching did seem slow. Still, it would take careful judgement. He wanted the British centre to stay deployed. In lines the enemy infantry would move even more slowly, for the ground was broken and rolling, and every dry-stone wall, grove and rocky outcrop would force them to halt and re-dress their ranks. Time was what mattered. Delay and tire the enemy. He had no intention of fighting from this position, but wanted the English general to believe that he was locked into place.
‘Jean, ride to the battalions and tell them to send forward their voltigeurs.’ One out of the nine companies in each French battalion was trained to skirmish. They were the equivalent of a British light company, with yellow and green plumes, yellow collars and epaulettes to mark their elite status. French skirmishers were considered the best in the world. ‘Tell them to move fast when they hear the order to pull back. Just tease the British for a while.’
Delaborde watched the four voltigeur companies come up from behind the ridge and walk over the crest and down the other side. After a while they disappeared from his view. He wondered about riding forward to check that they did not go too far, but stopped himself. He could trust his captains. Then the sparkle of a tiny reflection caught his eye. There was a group of enemy officers on top of the highest hillock below him. He smiled. That was where he would have gone himself. He guessed that the British officers were scanning his light infantry with their glasses.
Delaborde walked his horse over to an eight-pounder cannon set up on the crest, one of the six guns with his brigade. There should have been two more, but there were not enough horses to pull them so they had been left in garrison. An artillery lieutenant saluted and his men stiffened to attention.
Delaborde nodded to the man. ‘Worth a shot?’
The lieutenant was only twenty-one and was flattered that the general sought his opinion. He was nervous for a moment, then the pride of being a gunner took over. There were mysteries of military science which he understood better than any general save the Emperor himself. He shook his head. ‘Be a waste, General. Might give them a headache, but no more.’
It was the answer Delaborde had expected. ‘Fine, we shall wait. You’ll have plenty of good targets before the day is out.’ He glanced back and saw the limber and horse team waiting, an ammunition caisson and its horses behind that. The artillery were ready to pull back on his order. There was no need to say any more. He rode farther down the line, his half-dozen staff officers following.
MacAndrews noticed, or perhaps just sensed movement on the ridge ahead of them. He shaded his eyes as he strained to see. He blinked and then noticed little figures coming down the slope.
‘Sir.’ He pointed. Along with Moss and Toye, he reached for his telescope. MacAndrews’ glass was old and had a small crack on the top left, but he soon found some of the figures and could see they were French.
‘Their light bobs by the look of it,’ said Moss. ‘Good, the ball is about to start.’ They were still almost half a mile away from the French position, so it was too far to rush. Moss wondered whether to ask the brigadier for permission to go back into column from line. That would speed up the advance, but then it would require careful judgement to switch back into line before they bumped into the enemy. A marching column was vulnerable. He decided against it.
The 106th marched steadily forward. The colours were now in the centre of the line, and every now and again the big silk flags flapped lazily in the light wind. Hanley was finding the weight of the flag a heavy burden, and poor little Trent beside him was bright red in the face and clearly struggling. Neither of them had noticed any movement in the enemy position, and no one had mentioned anything to them. They assumed the French were out there, but had to take this on trust.
Pringle, Williams and the other grenadiers were glad to be in line rather than column. Marching at the rear had meant swallowing the dust of those ahead of them. Yet it was odd to be on the left of the battalion – the 106th was still in reverse order. They marched on under the hot sun. Williams could feel his back soaking with sweat and his mouth felt dry and tasted of salt. For some reason he could not understand he never sweated much on his face. He tried not to think too much, just concentrate on the steady plod forward. The band was following them and had gone through its entire repertoire so was playing ‘The British Grenadiers’ for the third time. The 82nd’s band seemed still to be beating out the jauntier ‘Downfall of Paris’ and the two tunes fought for mastery.
Ten minutes later one of General Nightingall’s aides rode up to Moss. ‘General’s compliments, and the battalions are to deploy the light companies to their front.’ He rode on to pass the order to the 82nd.
‘If you will oblige me, Mr Toye,’ Moss said to his senior major, who rode over to the end of the line. The colonel turned and looked for a moment at the colour party in the centre of the line – his line – and the thrill of leading his own regiment into battle flooded over him. Then he noticed that young Trent with the Regimental Colour looked fit to drop. Better relieve the boy as it was set to be a long day. ‘Mr Thomas,’ he called to the adjutant behind the two-deep line of men.
Up on the ridge, Delaborde called an enquiry over to the gunner lieutenant.
‘Worth a try,’ he replied. The British infantry lines were now closer, and before too long the slope would actually make them harder to hit. If they fired now then they might well manage half a dozen shots before the British reached the cover of the slope.
‘The one straight ahead,’ the officer said to the sergeant in charge of the gun crew. ‘Just a degree to the left.’ He peered along the bronze barrel, resting his head near the large wreathed N cast into the metal. The sergeant put the steel trail spike into its slot. With the help of two gunners he lifted the green-painted carriage and turned the gun the merest fraction to the left. The lieutenant looked along the sights again. The notch at the end of the barrel was almost perfectly in line with the two flags at the centre of one of the distant red lines. He ordered an adjustment to the screw that controlled elevation. This was as much guesswork as science, but in this case the young officer judged well.
MacAndrews and Moss both saw the puff of dirty smoke up on the ridge. A moment later Moss thought he saw the dark blur of the cannonball and drew in his breath because he was sure it was heading straight for him. It seemed to hang in the air, the shape now clearly a sphere, and then a massive force hammered against the air as the ball whipped past faster and louder than anything he had ever known.
The eight-pound shot struck the adjutant beneath the right shoulder as he turned in the saddle back towards the colour party. It ripped off his arm in a gout of blood and bone fragments, sending the arm still in its sleeve cartwheeling through the air. Hanley saw every detail, even though it all happened so fast. There was no sound. Thomas’s mouth was open in a silent scream as he fell backwards in the saddle. The ball was dropping in its flight and moving too fast for Hanley to spot it flying ahead of the whirling limb. He saw Trent flicked aside like a rag doll as the shot took away the right side of his neck and shoulder, leaving his head almost hanging off. A moment later Thomas’s arm hit him and the sharp tip of broken bone buried itself in the already dead ensign’s chest. Still falling, the ball struck the sergeant behind Trent in the stomach and cut him in two, but Hanley did not see this and only heard the sickening thud and felt warm liquid sprayed over his own back.
MacAndrews managed to catch Thomas before he fell from his horse, and hold him there. The adjutant’s blood soaked into his own jacket and overalls as he held the man in place and yelled out for the bandsmen. One of the sergeants ran forward to help support the dreadfully wounded adjutant. Trent’s corpse sunk to its knees, still clutching the colour, and after what seemed like an age it dropped to the ground. The flag covered him.
Hanley vomited. He bent double, using the pole of the standard as a prop and spewed the contents of his stomach on to the floor. The sergeant behind him patted him on the back. ‘Better out than in, sir,’ he said.
Derryck was summoned from his company. As the next most junior ensign, it was his task to take over from his dead friend. Hanley thought he looked pale as he raised the Regimental Colour, whose red cross on a white field was drenched with Trent’s blood. Yet Hanley guessed he must have looked pale himself. Another sergeant was summoned to take the place of the dead man, for the colours must always be protected. Four drummers carried Thomas away in a blanket. He had lost consciousness and that was probably a mercy.
Up on the ridge, Delaborde had been focused on the 106th when the eight-pounder shot struck them. He saw the flags dip and smiled.
The advance continued. The cannon fired again, but the next ball bounced high and harmless over the battalion. The next was closer, but also missed. A fourth ball flicked the high plume on Wickham’s cocked hat, plucking the hat from his head. He laughed hysterically for a moment, picked up the unscathed hat and waved it at his men. The grenadiers smiled or cheered him. Then their captain took another long draught from the bottle he carried in a wicker case clipped to the belt with his haversack. He had been drinking hard since before dawn, and the brandy was now more than three-quarters gone.
The British Army kept up its steady pace. The lines wavered at times because of obstacles in their path, or on a handful of occasions when the French cannonballs found a mark. Still they came on. To the left of Nighingall’s brigade General Fane sent his riflemen on ahead. Soon there were sporadic shots. The 106th’s Light Company were also engaged. A private with red facings came limping back towards the battalion; another man with the light companies’ shoulder wings and a green plume to his shako was supporting him.
MacAndrews was riding behind the battalion’s line now that poor Thomas was gone. This was the normal position for the second major, but Moss liked to have both of his senior subordinates with him. It was important, however, to have a mounted field officer to check the alignment and steady the ranks from behind. MacAndrews was glad to be away from the restlessness of the colonel. It was no safer as a position, but did give him just a little more freedom.
The firing from in front and to the left grew heavier for a while, and then slackened. As they continued forward it stopped altogether. Word came back that the French had gone, withdrawing behind the village to a higher ridge.
It was not long to noon, but the battle had not yet started in earnest. After a brief rest, the British Army went forward again. With only a handful of casualties, most of the 106th’s bands-men had not yet been detached to carry the wounded. The band played ‘The British Grenadiers’ once again. ‘We’re popular today,’ muttered Murphy to Dobson. Williams grinned, but his legs felt heavy as he marched forward, and he knew it was not with fatigue.