All in Scarlet Uniform (Napoleonic War 4) (20 page)

Pringle’s experience made him deeply suspicious of any plan relying on luck. He would have liked to meet the commander of the other company. It seemed strange that he had not seen them pass as they waited, but it was possible that the Majorca men had been in position for hours.

‘I must go,’ the major announced, and that was also worrying, and then Pringle wondered whether he was simply innately suspicious of commanders he did not know – especially ones who were not British.

Pringle called his officers forward and explained the plan. Dolosa’s English was now much improved, and his only questions were ones of detail, not understanding.

‘Is there a signal that will tell us the Majorca Regiment is in position?’

Pringle shook his head, his own doubts reinforced by the expressions of Williams and the Spanish lieutenant. Leyne’s nervous excitement clearly did not permit him similar thoughts.

At eleven o’clock cannon opened fire from all along the city walls. The sound was encouraging, and no doubt that was the intention, but good targets were few as the French outposts were scattered and at some distance. Between the shots they heard cheering, and Pringle guessed that this was the main column launching its attack.

Ten minutes seemed more like hours as they waited. Pringle told Williams to keep the French picket under observation.

‘They’ve formed up,’ he whispered as soon as the main attack began.

Pringle was counting in his head, and only when he thought it was getting close did he fish out his watch and flick open the cover. There was almost a minute to go. The Spanish sergeant had just finished checking the men’s flints. Pringle had not given the order, but the man had gone ahead, knowing that having something to do helped soldiers to deal with their nerves. In time, and with such NCOs, Billy was sure that this could become a good company.

It was ten past eleven.

‘Bills, take your party through and watch our left.’

Williams and the three redcoats would act as skirmishers. It was little more than a token, for four men could scarcely form a serious skirmish line, but Billy Pringle reckoned that the lieutenant and the three NCOs might do more good than if they simply reinforced the line.

The four men jogged through the gap in the hedge. Pringle gave them a moment and then gestured to the company. Sergeant Rodriguez bellowed the command and the recruits followed the British captain. They went in a little column two abreast, and once they were through into the field beyond, the sergeant shouted again and they wheeled to the right to form a line two deep. That was the British way and the method MacAndrews had taught. The Spanish, like the French and all the rest of Europe, usually deployed in three ranks, giving their line greater solidity. For a moment Pringle wished he had thought of doing this, but in truth he had too few men.

Williams was kneeling, ahead and over to the left, and then he pulled the trigger. Rose fired a moment later, and then both were reloading as Dobson and Murphy respectively covered them. Sergeants of a grenadier company were supposed to carry a solid half-pike, but Dobson disliked so basic a weapon and Murphy was newly promoted, and both had stuck to their old muskets.

A Frenchman was down, clutching at his knee, but the rest of the picket had shaken out into a chain of skirmishers facing them. It was this movement that had prompted Williams to open fire. Surprise had gone.

Pringle took the company forward, standing a few paces ahead of its right flank. Leyne was behind him and Dolosa watched the left. Billy felt his boots sinking an inch or so into the mud and was surprised at just how waterlogged the field was. Already the ranks were uneven, the rudimentary drill his soldiers had failing to cope with the slippery ground. Flecks of mud were already peppered over Pringle’s boots and his white breeches.

The French were still more than a hundred yards away. That was quite a long range for accurate musketry, but the enemy were already firing. Pringle heard a ball fly close by his cheek. He made himself march on without showing any emotion. His Talavera wound began to itch. There was no sign of the Majorca Regiment, but perhaps they were behind the French outpost and were creeping steadily closer, unnoticed because all of the voltigeurs’ attention was fixed on his men.

Dobson and Murphy fired, now that Williams and Rose had reloaded and were ready to cover them. Half a dozen voltigeurs were aiming at the redcoats, but all the rest shot at the better target of the formed company. There was a terrible, high-pitched scream as one of the recruits was hit in the groin, blood gushing out on to his grey trousers.

‘Keep going!’ called Pringle.

The company stopped, men staring in horror as the man cried out and tried in vain to staunch the flow.

Dolosa was yelling and so were the NCOs, all of them trying to get the company moving again. Sergeant Rodriguez took one man by the shoulders and bodily pushed him forward, and then did the same to the man beside him, but the first one had already frozen again.

Someone fired, not aiming the musket, but simply swinging it down from the shoulder and sending a ball high above the voltigeurs. The sergeant bawled at the man, telling him he would be punished, but it was simply too much for the young soldiers to stand by and not do something against the enemy firing at them. Three more men fired and then the rest copied them. It was no volley, instead more like the spattering of raindrops on a window at the start of a heavy shower. No Frenchmen fell, and Pringle doubted that any shot came anywhere near its target.

The recruits were happier now, the enemy more than half hidden behind a cloud of dirty grey powder smoke. They began reloading, but they were painfully slow. Men fumbled as they fished for cartridges in their pouches, then spilled half the powder when they bit through the paper. More than one dropped the ball without noticing, and went on regardless. Sergeant Rodriguez cuffed a man who tipped ball and cartridge down the barrel without first taking a pinch of powder for the pan. The young soldier stared blankly at the angry NCO, and then a ball struck him in the chest and he dropped, a look of utter astonishment on his face.

None of the men managed to reload in less than a minute, and they ignored the orders to wait and fired as soon as they were ready. Pringle was better placed to see past the smoke and once again did not see any Frenchman fall. Nor was there the slightest sign of the company from the Majorca Regiment. If they stayed where they were they would lose men and probably do little damage to the enemy. That was fine if the other company arrived behind the French, but would be sheer waste if they did not. Billy Pringle made a decision.

‘Bayonets!’ he shouted. ‘Bayonets!’

Dolosa, Sergeant Rodriguez and the corporals began jostling the men to stop them from loading. With much cursing and a good few blows, one by one they got the recruits to draw bayonets. Once again it was clumsy. Bayonets slipped from nervous hands, and one man dropped the butt of his musket so hard that the hammer slammed down and it fired, driving the ball through his own left wrist. Rodriguez pulled the man out of the line and sent him to the rear, telling him not to make a fuss. The boy – like the rest of them he was really no more than a boy – looked surprised to be rebuked, and then silently walked away, looking like a child worried at being scolded by a parent.

Lieutenant Dolosa was yelling, speaking so fast that Pringle could only just understand the words, telling the men that this was their chance to punish the French for invading their land.

‘Forward march!’ called Pringle. He strode ahead, keeping his gaze fixed on the enemy, not wanting to let the men see that he doubted whether or not they would follow him. Sergeant Rodriguez was haranguing them. A shot snapped past not too far above his head, and there was a thud and a moan as someone was hit.

Then the French were going back. Pringle was surprised, but the French were skirmishers and did not want to let formed troops get too close. They did it well, and under control, working in pairs like Williams and his men. One man helped another to the rear, and a third voltigeur was stretched in the grass, unmoving, and Billy suspected that one of the redcoats must have hit him because he doubted any of the shots fired by the company had struck home.

Someone fired from behind him, and Pringle turned and swore as he saw that the company had halted again. Men skinned their knuckles as they went through the loading drill with bayonets fixed. Rodriguez was trying to drag men forward, and Dolosa was screaming at them to move, but they would not.

‘Come on, my brave lads!’ The voice was shrill as Leyne ran past Pringle waving his sword. ‘Come on to glory!’

‘
Viva el rey Fernando!
’ Dolosa set off after him. The rough company line rippled as some men shuffled a few paces forward.

‘French on our left!’ That was Williams, shouting a warning, and when Pringle looked he saw a formed company appearing from a fold in the ground. The men had tall red plumes and red epaulettes and that marked them as grenadiers.

‘Back!’ Billy shouted. Going forward now would only help the grenadiers to get behind them.

‘On, my lads, follow me!’ Leyne was still yelling, and then he staggered as a ball broke his right arm above the elbow. He dropped his slim sword, but kept running at the voltigeurs and urging the men on. A few of the recruits were charging now, but in the back rank others responded to Pringle’s command and turned and ran.

Leyne was shot again, this time in the stomach, and his shouts turned into a long-drawn-out shriek as he slumped to his knees, his one good hand pressed over this second wound. Dolosa was beside him, and then he too stumbled and fell, blood bright just above the top of his left boot.

The company collapsed. All the recruits were now running, streaming back towards the gap in the hedge.

‘
En avant!
’ a man on horseback sent the grenadiers into a sudden screaming charge. The man had a white cloak and a silver helmet shaped like the ones dragoons wore, and that seemed strange for the commander of infantry.

‘Back, Bills! Get back!’ screamed Billy. Williams fired, as did Rose, and then all four redcoats were running.

One of the Spanish corporals ran forward to rescue Dolosa and somehow he inspired a recruit to go with him. Pringle called to Rodriguez, pointing at the gap. ‘We need to hold there!’ Whether or not he understood all the words, the man was experienced enough to guess the sense. ‘Bills, stop at the hedge!’ Pringle added.

The horseman had spurred forward, and now hacked down once, the heavy blade wielded with practised strength so that it cut through the corporal’s bicorne hat and skull. The recruit stopped, frozen in horror, and was still staring blankly when the Frenchman freed his blade, and turned his horse back. The recruit died from a thrust through the collar of his jacket. Grenadiers were running around them now. Dolosa staggered to his feet, screaming insults at the enemy, and sliced with his sword to nick the arm of the first grenadier to reach him. For a moment the French soldiers fell back a couple of steps. Then one brought his musket up and shot the Spanish lieutenant in the head.

One of the recruits lost a boot in the mud. He ran on awkwardly for a few paces and then slipped and fell. By the time he had pushed himself up a grenadier with the single gold stripe of a sergeant on the sleeve of his jacket was on him. The young soldier raised his hands. The sergeant ignored him and jabbed precisely with his bayonet, the point sliding between the man’s ribs to pierce his heart.

Two more recruits tried to surrender, and Pringle watched as one was shot and the other bayoneted. He had not seen warfare quite as brutal as this, for the French and British generally treated each other with great respect. The grenadiers did not look wild, in a state when even mild men might kill without hesitation. Instead they seemed to slaughter the helpless men almost casually. Billy felt that he was no longer in a war he knew, and that thought was chilling. Leyne was stretched on the ground, not moving, but Pringle had not seen anyone deliver a death blow so hoped that they would allow the poor young Irishman the chance to surrender.

Williams and Rose stood behind the kneeling Dobson and Murphy as Billy jogged through the gap in the hedge. Once he was past, the two kneeling men fired.

‘Back to the garden!’ Billy pointed to show Williams where he meant, and then turned to see Rodriguez and the remaining corporal standing just behind the hedge. He gestured and they came forward to cover the gap. The French were forming up again, the helmeted horseman urging them into the attack.

Pringle glanced back and saw that Williams and his men were in the arched gateway of the walled garden. He gave them enough time to reload before giving the order.

‘Fire!’

The two Spaniards took careful aim and then fired.

‘Now, get back!’ yelled Pringle, and he waited for the two men to go before following. The smoke from their shots thinned enough for him to see that a grenadier was down. Shots came back in reply, shaking the hedge as they struck.

The French did not follow, and that was just as well because with only Williams and the five NCOs Pringle doubted that they could have held them off long enough to escape.

That evening Pringle remained angry with himself for the failure, and even more bitter at the confused and ill-thought-out orders behind the attack. The main sally had failed, and now he had discovered that the company from the Majorca Regiment had been ordered to a different task at the last minute, but that no one had informed the major who gave him his orders.

His men – and they were his even if they still seemed strangers and he could not claim to know them and their moods in the same way that he knew his own grenadiers – had broken and fled. Most had run as far back as the convent and then waited there, and once again they had looked like schoolboys, this time caught out in some misdemeanour. One source of relief was that none of them had dropped his musket, and that suggested that the panic was not total.

Yet when they had marched back into the town, people they passed had cheered them and shouted out ‘
Viva los ingleses!
’ They seemed happy that the garrison was striking at the enemy, and happier still that the British were here.