Wickham wanted a drink, and even more than that wanted to sit or lie down and rest for a while. Most of all he was sick of sitting on his mare presenting a target to every French gunner out there. After leaving Lawson he had ridden along the ridge-line. That had not been too bad. There were riflemen ahead of him and the nearest French were some two hundred yards away. Once only had he heard the whirring of a spent musket ball pass his head. Still, it was a considerable relief when he reached a cluster of olive trees and knew that these would shield him from the sight of Lawson or anyone else. It was also good that no one was close for his hand was shaking as it held the reins and he could not control it. Once past the trees he swung down more on to the slope. It might have worked if Sir Arthur’s staff had not been peacefully sitting their horses on the crest about fifty yards farther along. There was no choice but to join them.
A solid shot punched the air just feet away from him as he arrived. He could not help flinching.
‘Was it something you said to them?’ commented Colonel Fitzwilliam cheerfully.
Wickham gulped, but managed to answer. ‘No, the French just recognise talent and so that is bound to make me a target.’
‘Well said, old boy.’ Fitzwilliam had a low opinion of Wickham – indeed knew too much of the man to have anything else – but that might well change if he showed true courage. After all, what was more fundamental in revealing a man’s quality? ‘Sir Harry has come ashore this morning. However, he has most generously declined to replace Sir Arthur in command now that the battle has commenced. Sensible too, really, since Wellesley knows our dispositions far better. He is waiting back behind the village at an appropriateistance. Doesn’t want to be in the way, of course, or confuse matters.’
‘Should I report to General Burrard?’ Wickham asked, trying to conceal his hope of spending the remainder of the battle in more comfortable and safer surroundings.
‘No need. He has let me come forward and said that you could remain as well. Didn’t begrudge us having some fun. You’ll like him. He’s a grand fellow.’
‘Yes, he sounds it.’ Wickham tried to conceal his disappointment. ‘And I must thank you for helping to secure me this assignment.’ There, that would help. A gentleman could readily be expected to show a little discomfort in anything so emotional as admitting gratitude.
That had been nearly an hour ago. He had been forced to be still and appear insouciant as the French round-shot bounced among them. One had taken the rear legs off an ADC’s horse, so that the poor beast sank down, screaming in agony. The rider had sprung off easily enough, but there were tears in his eyes when he shot the animal between the eyes to end its suffering. That was the only hit, but many of the others seemed close enough. It was also the only emotion any of them showed – apart from almost schoolboy enthusiasm when the second French attack came in and the British artillery opened up against the oncoming columns. They were using a new invention, the spherical case-shot invented by Colonel Shrapnel. The shells had a long range, but, if the fuse was cut to the right length, exploded over the head of the enemy. They were packed with dozens of pistol balls and these and the shattered casing itself showered down on the target much like a round of canister.
‘Damned fine!’ called Bathurst, the Deputy Quartermaster General, as one shot exploded directly over a French gun and massacred its entire crew. There was much agreement and even a smattering of applause.
They had moved little during the second French attack. The two columns of grenadiers had been stopped just as abruptly as the earlier assaults. There had been less skirmishing this time, but even so some enemy skirmishers had come close enough to fire at the cluster of mounted officers. A ball had gone through Fitzwilliam’s hat, much to the Guardsman’s amusement. Afterwards he kept sticking his finger through the hole it had made and grinning.
They did not move until there was a heavy burst of firing and loud cheering from the village behind them. The second regiment of French grenadiers, Junot’s final reserve, were led by Kellerman, a cavalryman by trade and a cunning officer. He took them behind a low hill which kept them out of view of the British on the ridge and hooked round down the road into the village. The 43rd in the churchyard and nearby buildings stopped them. It was a vicious fight, fought at point-blank range and often enough hand to hand. Men had stabbed and shot each other in the narrow alleys of the village and among the tombstones in the graveyard. By the time Wellesley and his staff arrived – Wickham’s mare had recovered enough not to trail too much and he managed to stay with them – his nearest brigade commanders had already brought up reserves to complete the rout of the French grenadiers.
The area around the church was a charnel house. Bodies lay in the street, in the graveyard and surrounding buildings. All the walls were pocked with musket shots. A French grenadier lay propped against the wall of the yard, his stomach slashed open and with his entrails poured out beside him. Near by was a redcoat from the 43rd with his skull almost cut completely in two. Wickham looked around at the carnage. The smell was dreadful, but he found the sights more distasteful than horrific.
‘Now, Twentieth, now is the time,’ Sir Arthur himself called out to Colonel Taylor. Wickham thought back to the dinner the 106th had enjoyed with the dragoons just a month or so earlier. Somehow it seemed more like an age.
The Light Dragoons were ready. Taylor had formed them in the centre, his two squadrons side by side and each in two ranks. He would have preferred a reserve, but did not have the men. The Portuguese horsemen extended his line on either flank. He would also have preferred to have the troopers of his own regiment, who had been unable to find mounts, but that could not be helped. The country was open enough to the south-east of the village and he led his men across the plain at a walk. There was a thrilling scraping of blade on the metal mouths of scabbards as he ordered his men to draw their heavy, curved sabres.
A line of French cavalry in green appeared and tried to form ahead of him. Taylor gave the order and the Light Dragoons went into a trot, the men rising in their saddles. The Portuguese hesitated and then copied them, so that they began to hang back a little on either side. At two hundred yards he accelerated into a canter. The French were not moving and that seemed odd. There was a danger now that he had started the charge too soon, expecting them to come forward to meet his men, but that could not be helped. Anyway it should not matter. If the fools met him at the halt then they would be broken in an instant.
Taylor glanced to the left. The Portuguese had gone. His head flicked to the right. The Lisbon police were still there, but the regular Portuguese cavalry had gone, turning their nags around and streaming to the rear. Oh well, too late now, he thought as he raised his sabre high and bellowed out the order to charge, rising in his stirrups. His trumpeter, young Morrison, resplendent in his yellow jacket and mounted on a grey, was just behind him as he should be, and Taylor winked at the boy encouragingly. Then he turned and concentrated all his attentions on the enemy as the last few yards flew by.
The French Dragoons had their long straight swords thrust out in the charge position, wrists turned so that the blades pointed forward and slightly down. Yet they were not moving and the herd instinct of their horses took over as the line of British cavalry rushed at them. The animals shifted in the ranks, then some turned and started to run away. Wide gaps opened in the line and the British horsemen flooded into them. Sabres rose and fell. Taylor cut hard at the man in front and to his right. His sabre grated for a moment on the peak of the man’s helmet and then bit deep into his face. The Dragoon screamed and clutched at the dreadful wound, which formed a gash from eyebrow to chin. Taylor was already past and slashed across his body at a man to the left, but was parried, his arm jarring with the shock. The chest of his horse barged into the Frenchman’s horse, and the Dragoon was tumbled from his saddle.
Just two of the British cavalry fell in the brief melee. Several more received wounds, but none was stopped and the French Dragoons were cut or knocked from their saddles or fled as the 20th rolled through them and kept going. The line was broken now, but a concentrated mass of blue-jacketed horsemen galloped onwards across the plain. In a moment they were among the disordered French infantry, the remnants of the grenadier battalions dven back from the village. They had been attempting to reform, but were still scattered, and almost all turned to run for safety as the British horsemen bore down on them. A few – the experienced ones – clustered together into closely packed knots and tried to present a row of bayonet points to any cavalry-man who came at them.
It was natural for the Light Dragoons to pick on the easiest targets. The men who ran were helpless, and it was exhilarating to ride among them, picking a target and then cutting down. A British corporal took care to wait until he was just passing one of the running grenadiers. Then he would slash backwards, slicing deep into the man’s face. The second time he did this the top of the grenadier’s head sheared off neatly. The corporal did not smile or exult, but simply pressed on to the next victim. Other men were wilder. Some of the rawer troopers hacked at the backs of the fugitives. More than one man found himself knocked off his feet, but would then stagger up to discover that the only damage was a great hole in his backpack. Another trooper laughed as he rode alongside a Frenchman, watching the man nervously glancing up at him. Then he hit him hard with the flat of the sabre, and laughed all the more as the man staggered, losing his shako, and then blinked, looking confused. Another man from the 20th passed and cut down deep into the man’s skull.
Taylor was enjoying the moment. He was an urbane, sensitive and educated man, a product of Christ Church College and he had already killed or wounded five enemy soldiers. The French were at their mercy and his boys were doing well, and Taylor wanted more. There was a thrill to this slaughter, a sense of power and invulnerability, and he spurred onwards. Morrison was still with him and Taylor knew that he must soon tell the lad to sound the recall. Yet they were doing so much damage that his senses told him a few minutes more would harm the French fatally. He saw a close-packed knot of Frenchmen moving slowly back across the plain. There must have been fifteen of them and more fugitives headed towards them. He saw their leader, a lieutenant whose single epaulette was tarnished and whose hair was white, grab a fugitive with a musket and turn him round so that he joined the front rank. Unarmed men were thrust away from the formation as useless.
‘To me, Twentieth, to me!’ Taylor called. If he could break this little formed body then the French morale must be shattered. Morrison was with him and four troopers headed over to join the group. There was also a corporal, King of C Troop, his helmet gone and his cheek flapping from the cut of a blade, but still looking determined. That was good. ‘Come on, boys, let’s finish them! Follow me!’
The seven horsemen formed a rough line, with Taylor ahead and in the centre. They yelled as they pushed their horses forward, using their last energy in a gallop to carry them over the short distance to the little cluster of Frenchmen. The elderly lieutenant halted his men, and got his front rank kneeling with the butts of their muskets pressed into the ground and the points held up to spear into the horses’ chests if they should dare to come close. There were just four men in the front rank and only three with loaded muskets standing behind them, but the lieutenant waited until the British were no more than ten yards away when he bellowed at them to fire.
It was a small volley and Taylor could see they had left it too late, and then a ball punched into his chest and struck the heart and his eyes faded and then he knew nothing. Involuntarily his arm pulled on the reins and his horse swung to the left, colliding with Morrison’s grey. The horse of one of the troopers was hit and collapsed, throwing him high and far over its neck to strike the ground with a sickening thump. The che was stopped in its tracks, as horses barged into each other or swung away. Taylor was dead and the French lieutenant leaned out to shoot the cavalryman on the ground with his pistol. Corporal King sheathed his sabre and pulled out his carbine. He looked grim, but since his cheek was slashed his expression was not clear. One Frenchman fired a musket at him and the ball passed close to his shoulder, but he did not flinch. He checked that there was powder in the carbine’s pan, and raised it to his shoulder. Firing from horseback was always chancy, but he took deliberate aim.
The ball nicked the French lieutenant high on his left arm, spinning him round. The man staggered, but then straightened up and raised a defiant fist at the British cavalryman. King was disappointed not to have killed the man, but had at least shown him that you did not shoot helpless men. Then he heard the trumpets sounding and saw a line of French Dragoons coming across the plain, the sun glittering off their brass helmets and the blades of their swords. They were formed and fresh, and the British were scattered and weary. It was time to go. King looked for the other troopers, but could see only Morrison. ‘Come on, lad,’ he said, his voice distorted by his wound, and the pair headed back the way they had come, moving as fast as their blown horses could carry them. Behind them, the French horsemen hunted down anyone who fled too slowly.
Wickham and the other staff watched the 20th return from their charge. More escaped than he had expected, for they had watched the French reserve cavalry approach. Wickham thought he heard Wellesley mutter under his breath, ‘Gallant, but unwise.’
It was a different regiment of French Dragoons which charged down against the flank of the 82nd and 71st as the redcoats milled around the captured French guns. They began the charge a little too soon, for their colonel scented an opportunity. Unformed infantry were helpless against cavalry and he did not want to give the English a chance to rally and re-form. Yet the slope was rocky and uneven and this slowed his men as they came down it. The French infantry columns were farther back and not so quick off the mark.
Officers shouted warnings, and one captain of the 82nd tried to organise his company and any other men he could find into a line facing the oncoming cavalry. He and his sergeants tugged at men and forced them into line. Some men from both regiments were going back. Colonel Pack of the 71st knew that the difference between steadiness and panic was as narrow as the blade of a knife. It would not take much for both regiments to collapse into rout. He also knew that there was no point fighting from a hopeless position and that sometimes it was right to retreat. One of the French columns halted and the leading two companies brought their muskets up to their shoulders. It was long range, but half a dozen of his own men fell, their feather bonnets rolling in the dust. The French Dragoons were getting closer.
Pack turned and saw salvation. A battalion was marching towards them and was now only some five hundred yards away. They were in four ranks and looked solid enough, with a red cross on a white field as their Regimental colour. The 106th, then, but he did not much care who they were, only that they had come upon a wish. He smiled and then raised his voice over the chaos. ‘Back! Back! Rally back!’ He rode among the milling Highlanders, shouting and pointing them back. His officers copied and so did those of the 82nd. The bulk of the men were soon running back towards the 106th. The captured French guns were abandoned.
The captain of the 82nd gave his ragged line the order to fire when the French Dragoons were still more than a hundred paces away. A single horse fell, but it and ued the charge just a little and might give them a bit more time.
‘Back!’ he yelled. ‘Get back!’ and set off at a run towards the supporting battalion. The men ran, packs and pouches banging with the motion. The little valley was filled with some eighteen hundred redcoats running back towards the formed battalion. Both colonels sent their adjutants and other officers riding on ahead to form the men when they came level with the 106th. The French Voltigeurs ran forward in pursuit, stopping sometimes to fire at the retreating British. A few redcoats fell. The dragoons spread out into a loose mass as they chased, but the ground was difficult and their horses ill fed after six months in this benighted country. Some managed to catch up with the slower fugitives. The long swords stabbed or slashed down. Redcoats screamed as the steel took them.
Looking over Dobson’s shoulders, Williams could see the little figures falling as the horsemen swept among them. The 106th marched on, but the pace seemed so slow and there was nothing they could do to save those men. The volunteer tried not to think about it, and then suddenly an image of Truscott instructing him in manoeuvres using the wooden blocks leaped into his mind. Looking back, it now all seemed so childishly simple in practice, and devilishly difficult in reality. Williams was glad he was not making such decisions today. He glanced to his left and could just glimpse MacAndrews, riding in front of the colour party. The major looked impassive, staring straight forward as if he did not have a care in the world. Reassured, the volunteer smiled, and looked back to his front. The enemy now seemed very close.