Send Me Safely Back Again (5 page)

For all his continuing bafflement at so much of the military way, Hanley was now just enough of a soldier to see that the enemy hussars were withdrawing skilfully. The same was true of the rest of the regiment, which lay in support, some two or three hundred yards behind. What was it Dobson had said – ‘not going back any quicker than they choose to’. They threw up so much dust that it was hard to see much behind the hussars, but Hanley thought that he glimpsed more cavalry.

One rider stood out from the rest, and even from the gaudily uniformed ADCs surrounding him. Hanley wished that he had Williams’ telescope to study the man. Wickham had his own glass to his eye, and his attention was clearly drawn to the same man.

‘Wonder who that plucky fellow is?’ asked Wickham, in the same tone that he might use to remark on an elegant gentleman or lady promenading. ‘Cocked hat and green jacket, and great moustaches. And yes, I do believe that he is smoking a long pipe.’

‘That is Lasalle,’ said Velarde, in a voice of so little animation or feeling that it was all the more striking.

‘Can you be sure at this distance?’ asked Hanley. The Spanish officer was not even using a telescope.

‘No man who was at Medina de Rio Seco will fail to recognise Lasalle.’ That battle was one of many Spanish defeats, followed by a brutal pursuit when the French horsemen ruthlessly slaughtered fleeing men.

‘Looks a fine, dashing gentleman,’ said Wickham, oblivious to the Spaniard’s tone and perhaps ignorant of the disastrous battle.

‘His family were aristocrats,’ said Velarde flatly.

‘Ah, you can always tell.’ Wickham spoke with the utter conviction of a man who dearly wished that his own blood was noble.

The firing from the far left was even heavier now, audible over the sporadic shots of the skirmishers in this part of the field. Hanley saw few men fall as a result of this, but several riderless horses wandered between the lines, one of them dragging a rider whose foot was trapped in a stirrup, bumping across the ground. There were a few corpses – little bundles of brightly coloured clothes dumped untidily in the grass.

‘They’re going back again!’ said Wickham approvingly. A trumpet sounded, its brass call clear over the bickering of the skirmishers, and the leading squadron of French hussars wheeled about and went back, just as they had done so many times. ‘I must congratulate the duke, for I believe that we are about to witness a great victory.’

Hanley felt that the pronouncement was a little premature, but even he sensed that momentum was with the Spanish. They really were winning, the miracle happening before their eyes.

Ahead of them, the Spanish lancers trotted gently forward to occupy the ground abandoned by the enemy. A Spanish battery had just arrived, but the duke ordered his battalions to march without waiting for the guns to deploy. The gunners were told to wait until the line formed again, a little farther forward.

Firing slackened, and they heard cheering from over on the left.

The brown-and-blue hussars halted at another trumpet signal, and wheeled back towards the enemy. Then the trumpeter blew another command and the squadron did not halt, but sent their
horses into a trot. Almost as one, the two ranks of sky blue and brown hussars drew their curved sabres.

The Garrochistas seemed to ripple like a sheet in the wind. Some stopped, some clustered together, a few went forward, but more were turning their little horses to the rear.

‘The French are fools,’ said Wickham. ‘They’re outnumbered five to one!’

The trumpet sounded again and the French spurred into a canter. Barely four or five strides later they went into a gallop, without waiting for the order. Sabres were held high, points arced forward ready to thrust.

‘
Vive l’Empereur!
’ The shout came from a hundred parched throats.

The lancers scattered and fled, their horses plunging back into the supporting regiments behind them.

‘
Vive l’Empereur!
’ The shout was more distant, but powerful, as Lasalle led the remainder of the hussar regiment to join the charge.

The miracle died as the Spanish cavalry collapsed and fled.

3

W
illiams was more than two miles away across the great plain and he knew before Hanley that the Army of Estremadura was beaten. For a long time the Spanish made good progress, and he almost began to doubt the instincts which told him that the real battle had scarcely begun. His past experience of the French assured him that they were never so easy to beat. Yet Baynes was a most genial companion, asking a stream of questions and listening with great enthusiasm to the explanations, professing an egregious ignorance of all things military.

‘Is that a usual deployment?’ the red-faced merchant had asked, as they rode behind a battalion of infantry. The French had given a good deal of ground, falling back to a gentle ridge, and it was taking time for the Spanish line to close with them again. They could see an enemy artillery battery deploying on the higher ground, with infantry forming to protect each flank. Green-coated dragoons were farther back, covering the whole position.

‘Not common, perhaps,’ replied Williams, ‘although a similar formation is included in our drills and no doubt also in the Spanish. In most circumstances the Spanish form in a line of three ranks. It is solid, and allows the first and second ranks to fire their muskets. I am not certain whether the Spanish practice is for the third rank to fire as well. In some armies this is the custom, but in others it is not, and the men either wait to fill casualties or pass forward their loaded muskets to the men ahead of them.’

Baynes was nodding and smiling encouragingly, although it was hard to believe that he did not already know these things. ‘And yet I perceive this line to be deeper. There are five – no, six – ranks at least.’

‘Yes, it is a line of double the normal thickness, and so six rather than three deep.’

‘To what end?’ The merchant guided his horse around the corpse of a man dressed in green jacket and grey trousers. His collar and cuffs were black and his belts were buff. His face had the familiar waxy pallor that left them in no doubt that he was dead. Williams had not seen anyone dressed in such a uniform in the Spanish Army, and guessed that the corpse was one of the enemy skirmishers.

‘It makes the formation more solid,’ he explained. ‘In addition the line is less wide, and so it is easier to maintain good dressing – I mean a certain neatness and order about the ranks and files – as it advances. The chief disadvantage is to reduce the number of men able to employ their muskets against the enemy.’

‘I see, I see.’ Ezekiel Baynes was beaming. ‘Yes, that is most clear. And in the circumstances of today, does this strike you as an appropriate formation? I hope I have used the military word correctly.’

‘Most exactly,’ said Williams, returning the warm smile. ‘Yes, I believe it may serve handsomely enough. The French have many cavalry, and young soldiers have a better chance of facing a cavalry charge if they are in deep formation.’

The men of the closest Spanish battalion looked very young indeed, some no more than boys. A few men – mainly the older ones – had white uniform jackets with green front and facings. The rest had no more than white waistcoats.

‘And as an old campaigner, what do you think of our allies, Corporal Dobson?’ asked Baynes, readily including an ordinary soldier in their conversation.

‘They’ve plenty of pluck, your honour. Good lads, by the look of it, but most of them are still children.’ Williams saw the same ungainly movements in many of the Spanish infantry, who
held their muskets in a way that looked awkward. ‘Could do with a few months of training to make ’em ready.’

‘Alas, I am sure that you are right,’ conceded Baynes. ‘Yet needs must at times like this.’

‘Oh, aye, sir, probably can’t be helped. Mistake to put everything in the shop window, though,’ added Dobson, who had also taken to the friendly merchant. Williams had seen the same thing, but was reluctant to voice open criticism of any general, even one of another nationality.

‘Well, I hope I understand selling goods, but confess I am at a loss,’ said Baynes, although his look was intent, and Williams half wondered whether his ignorance was feigned.

‘There is no reserve,’ explained the officer, emboldened to speak by the veteran’s frankness. ‘If one regiment fails then there are no fresh troops to plug the gap.’

‘Then we must pray that none fails.’ Baynes was clearly listening, and Williams was sure also comprehending, but nevertheless preserved his infectious optimism.

The French battery opened fire in a rolling salvo. Williams guessed that there were around a dozen guns. The sound was less deep than the full boom of heavy cannon, which suggested lighter pieces, probably those used by the fast-moving horse artillery, and so most likely four-pounders.

‘Well, we had better see what is happening,’ said Baynes in a jolly tone, and immediately set his horse off at a trot towards the noise. Williams and Dobson followed and the merchant took care not to outstrip their mules. They were heading farther left, towards the higher ground held by the French.

A battalion was advancing at a steady, controlled pace, the soldiers still with their muskets resting on their shoulders in the march position. All wore white jackets, but the facings were a mix of blue, green, red and black. Each man had a tall fur cap, with a richly decorated bag at the back matching the colours of their facings.

‘Are these not grenadiers like yourselves?’ asked Baynes,
betraying the military knowledge Williams had always suspected he possessed. ‘The bravest of the brave.’

The Spanish practice was to take the elite companies from their individual regiments and combine them into temporary battalions well suited to leading a charge. The grenadiers’ fur caps made them stand out from the rest of the army, but it was their pride that truly set them apart. The men were capable and confident, and simply their bearing marked them out from the raw soldiers in almost all other battalions.

‘Good lads,’ muttered Dobson.

The French guns fired again. With the range little more than two hundred yards, the gunners were using canister. Each metal tin burst as it left the muzzle, spraying dozens of musket-sized balls in a cone stabbing towards the enemy. At this distance the balls were spreading widely and each shot was lucky to claim two or three victims. Williams watched as a pair of grenadiers were pitched back. The line closed around them and marched on. There was a tall officer at the rear, directing the sergeants, who kept the line steady. He turned for a moment, glancing at the flanking units, and Williams noticed that he wore spectacles. In fact, even from this distance he reminded him of a slimmer version of Pringle, with the same quiet competence.

The battalions on either side of the elite unit wavered as men dropped. The one closest on the left stopped. A man brought his musket down to aim vaguely at the enemy and fired. Another followed, then two more, and in a moment flame and smoke ran along the front of the line. One or two men fell, and Williams suspected they had been hit by balls fired by the rear ranks of their own formation.

A gentle breeze washed over them, bringing smoke and the stink of powder. Williams’ eyes smarted and he blinked to clear them. The grenadiers pressed forward, marching steadily.

‘Good lads,’ said Dobson again.

The battalion to the right of the grenadiers checked, and Williams could see that some men were lowering their muskets. Then General Cuesta and his staff galloped up behind them. Don
Gregorio’s voice was loud, his manner commanding as he bellowed at the infantry. The battalion started going forward again, although by now it was some way behind the grenadiers.

Again the battery fired. One gun commander must have adjusted for the range badly, because there was a strange whirring noise as a small cloud of balls passed a few feet over Williams’ head. Baynes looked up like an excited schoolboy having the time of his life.

‘Glad I’m not taller!’ he declared happily.

The grenadiers marched on. Most of the gun commanders had aimed well and as the Spanish soldiers went forward they left behind clusters of dead and moaning men, fur caps strewn on the grass and their white uniforms torn and stained red.

Three horsemen sped forward from the general’s staff to urge the grenadiers on.

‘There he goes, the silly fellow,’ said Baynes fondly, for Colonel D’Urban was one of them, charging with his sabre held high and view hallooing in a voice that carried over the noise of battle. General Cuesta led more of his staff over to the battalion on the left, yelling at the soldiers to stop firing and press on.

Williams felt useless. The Spanish officers seemed to have everything under control but it would almost have been better to march forward musket in hand beside the grenadiers than to be a mere spectator.

Baynes obviously sensed his mood and reached over to touch his arm gently. ‘You stay with me. Colonels are allowed to play the fool, but the same licence does not extend to ensigns, Mr Williams.’

The French battery fired again and the range was now murderous. Holes were torn all along the front of the battalion, as men were plucked backwards in the first, second and sometimes even third rank. The line seemed to stagger as if it were a live thing.

‘Poor sods,’ said Dobson.