Whose Business Is to Die (37 page)

The trumpet sounded again.
‘Au trot, marche!’
The Polish
colonel gave the order and it was repeated as before. Men bobbed up and down in the saddle, hips working in the familiar rhythm as the horses trotted forward. A thin line of officers and NCOs rode behind each squadron to make sure that no one tried to drop out of the ranks, but today Dalmas could not see any signs of reluctance. The dressing remained good, each squadron in two main ranks of fifty or sixty men.

By now they were where the lancers had begun the advance, crossing a higher fold on the side of the heights. The weather was closing in quickly, but even so he could glimpse groups of men in red through the mist of rain and the clouds of smoke. The English were pushing forward, driving their infantry back, but the French had not quite given way. If anything it would make the enemy even less prepared to meet the charge. Dalmas guessed that they were eight or nine hundred yards away.

Gillet crossed himself, and then uttered a string of the vilest oaths – and a few in languages Dalmas did not understand. He heard some of the men behind him laughing and guessed that this was a familiar ritual. It reminded him of the infantry general who used to strip to the waist and then command from among the leading voltigeurs, advancing in all his bare-chested, very hirsute glory. The Emperor did not care as long as a man won battles for him. Only victory mattered.

Even a steady trot ate up the distance surprisingly quickly. On the wet ground the horses’ feet yanked up clumps of grass and earth. They dipped down into another shallow trough and for a while the enemy vanished. Wind whipped the rain into their eyes and men instinctively bowed their heads into it. Dalmas had often seem them do the same useless thing when under enemy fire.

Once again the trumpet called, and this time he did not catch the lancers’ commander shout the order, but he heard it repeated through the formation and saw the Poles accelerate.

‘Au galop, marche!
’ Gillet roared the words, spraying flecks of water caught in his beard. Dalmas needed only the slightest pressure from his heels to set the big horse racing forward. It snorted in excitement, running in its wonderfully smooth motion, its
big feet pounding the ground. The lines of horsemen became less neat.

For a moment the torrent of rain was so savage that Dalmas blinked, and when he opened his eyes he could not see far so that even the foremost lancers were invisible. Then it cleared as instantly as it had come and he saw all of the cavalry and ahead of them the infantry in their red coats. A big British flag and another that was mostly very pale brown stood in the centre of the nearest battalion, and they were now very close. He saw men at the far end of the line turning, pointing at them, and could imagine their cries. As a soldier he knew something of the horror that struck a man when he realised that he was in a hopeless situation. As a cavalryman he exulted in the sight of a helpless enemy waiting to be slaughtered.

The trumpet sounded those last intoxicating notes.
‘Chargez!
‘There was a glitter even in this dull light as the lancers in the second rank of each squadron drew their curved sabres and kicked hard at their horses’ sides to urge them to one great effort. Many officers liked to wait until this minute because it raised the spirits and also made it hard for the enemy to know whether or not the charge was a feint until it was too late. There was no point in concealment, so Dalmas drew his long sword and Gillet ordered the squadron to do the same. Like the hussars they waited for a dozen heartbeats before giving the order.

‘Chargez!’
Gillet growled. This was the last great rush, giving their horses their heads and no longer caring about order. Faster horses raced ahead of the rest, the riders with swords held up, wrists twisted so that the blade pointed forward and down. They splashed through a patch of muddy ground, flinging filthy water and muck on the men and horses behind them.

The British broke. Their lines were ragged after a hasty attack and because they were fighting hard against a stubborn opponent. Worse still, they were facing the wrong way. Someone seemed to be trying to turn men on the far right, but it was too late and too confused to make a difference. There was no solid line of men waiting to fire a volley at point-blank range and send horses and
riders tumbling, just three battalions stretched thinly, and when the men on the far right saw the cavalry coming fast through the rainstorm it was too late for anyone to gather enough men to stop them. Some of the redcoats ran. Others clustered together back to back and prayed that the enemy riders would hunt for easier prey. Further up the line, most still did not know what was happening and just kept loading and firing into the smoke.

The leading lancers were among the redcoats by now, leaning to put all their own weight and the momentum of their charging horse behind the razor-sharp tips of their slim lances. Dalmas heard the screams as they rode down the surprised or fleeing men. Some of the British dropped their muskets, and perhaps they were trying to surrender, but the moment a charge struck home was no time for such niceties and the Poles speared them, let their own speed free the lance, and then rode on. The second ranks chopped down with sabres to finish the men they had missed.

‘That way!’ Dalmas pointed. The nearest English battalion had lost all order as the leading Polish squadrons rode through them. They had no chance of recovering and their destruction would be completed by others as the supporting lines came up.

‘Come on, boys!’ Gillet grunted and the two officers led their squadron behind the British line to strike at the other battalions.

A redcoated officer on horseback boldly turned to face the lancers, slim sword raised across his body. He urged his horse at the oncoming Poles, but the animal wanted to run with the herd and so it started to turn. Desperately he swivelled, and tried to flick the point of the lance aside with his blade. The first lancer swerved and avoided him, just as a second, slightly behind, drove his lance through the man’s back with such force that the spear-point and a good six inches of shaft erupted through the front of his jacket and the officer was hurled from the saddle.

Some men fought. A redcoat standing alone raised his musket and waited until the lancer was just yards away before shooting. The ball drove through the horse’s skull and the beast was dead even as it ran a few more steps and then slid down, knocking
the soldier over and breaking his leg. The lancer rolled free and a comrade jabbed down to stab the screaming Englishman in the belly.

The second battalion in the line was scattering just like the first as the Poles reached it. Gillet pointed his sword at the two Colours surrounded by a knot of redcoats. Plenty of men made their names by taking a standard from the enemy. Reward was certain, whether it came as a decoration, money or promotion, and perhaps all three. Better yet it made a reputation, and the rest of the army would know that a man who took such a trophy was a real soldier, a man to admire, respect and fear.

Dalmas shook his head. ‘Ours is the next one!’ he yelled. ‘Come on!’ There were already lancers clustering around the two flags, but the leading Polish squadrons were spread out and many had slowed or stopped to fight. Dalmas reckoned that his squadron would be the best-formed unit by the time they reached the next English regiment.

Men were running all around them, some crossing their path. Gillet thrust the tip of his sword into the back of a man’s neck as they rode down a couple of soldiers with red jackets and buff facings. The other turned, saw Dalmas bearing down and flung himself to the floor. Perhaps the hoofs broke bones as the squadron passed over him or perhaps he was lucky.

The third battalion in line broke apart just like the others, as a swarm of fugitives and the first cavalry ran among them.

‘There!’ Dalmas yelled, seeing a British flag and another with a yellow-green field. ‘That’s ours!’

A man in pale blue, so a Spaniard, got in their path, and one of the dragoons sliced down diagonally and cut the artery in his neck. Blood fountained over the man and his horse as the Spanish soldier fell, barged one way and another as the cavalry passed.

The English flags were close now, no more than twenty yards.

‘
Vive l’empereur!
’ Dalmas yelled, and the squadron took up the cry.

29

W
illiams opened his eyes, the sound of firing growing louder and louder as he came back to consciousness. Raindrops slapped down on him. His face was pressed into the grass and there was salty taste on his lips. He pushed up, and then there was half-dried blood around his mouth. His nose felt sore, but he did not think that it was broken. Musket lay a few yards away, the poor beast still breathing faintly, even though a mound of pale, reeking entrails had spilled from the horrible gash in his belly. One of his rear legs was bent back the wrong way, obviously broken. The gelding raised his head, tongue lolling from the side of his mouth. There were more wounds on his neck and chest.

The officer stood, patting himself down. He did not seem to have been hit. Colborne was nowhere to be seen, but with the drifting smoke and rain it was hard to see very far. The line of redcoats was a little further forward than it had been, so he guessed the charge had been launched. It must have won a little ground, but not managed to break the enemy’s will to fight on.

Williams walked over to his horse, and when Musket looked at him he felt his own eyes moistening, and not from the weather. He pulled his pistol out of the saddle holster, cocked it, aimed and fired before the rain could spoil the powder. Musket jerked once and then was still. Williams licked his lips, realising that the lower one was split when he felt a little jab of pain. He tucked the empty pistol into his sash, not bothering to reload in this foul weather. It took an effort to pull the holster on the other side enough to open it, for the dead horse seemed impossibly heavy. Somehow he managed and retrieved a few essentials and
the boarding axe. Hefting it in his hand made him think of Hanley, and he wondered where his friend was, and that set him to thinking about the rest of the 106th. The Fourth Division was supposed to be on their way, but he had no idea whether they had arrived.

A man limped towards him, right trouser leg torn, bandaged, and using his musket for support.

‘Forty-eighth?’ he asked.

‘Yes, sir. Wounded, sir.’ The man seemed nervous, as if the strange officer would accuse him of deserting his regiment.

‘You will be fine,’ Williams told him. ‘Keep going and find the surgeons.’

‘We’re beating them, sir,’ the soldier said. ‘They cannot hold the Forty-eighth.’

‘I know, I saw you at Talavera.’

‘That’s right, sir, that’s right. Now that was a day.’

Williams had been on the other wing at Talavera, too far away to see, but he knew the story of the 48th standing firm and was sure it would please the man to be reminded of it.

‘Good luck,’ he said. ‘They will soon sort you out and have you dancing again!’

Colborne had been heading for the Buffs on the right, so Williams walked in that direction, hoping to find him. He wondered where Stiles was, for he would be of little use as an aide until he found another horse. It was hard to tell where the dispersed firing line of the 2/48th ended and that of the Buffs began, for even from quite close the uniforms were similar. Then he stopped and stared, because a nightmare was emerging from the pouring rain.

Horsemen, hundreds of horsemen, were sweeping down from behind the brigade’s open right flank. In the lead were the Poles he had seen earlier in the day. Pennants waved brightly as lances were lowered.

‘Cavalry!’ he yelled, his lips hurting as he opened his mouth wide to shout as loud as he could. ‘French cavalry behind us!’ He ran towards the Buffs, not quite knowing what he was doing,
and kept shouting until his boots slipped on the wet grass and he fell flat on his face.

Williams got up, and already dozens of men were running, and then the first began to cry out in fear and pain as the lancers caught them. He saw the Colour party of the Buffs and ran towards them. A few mounted officers galloped past, but one was slower than the others and screamed as he was speared through the back and flung down. A drummer dropped his heavy drum and fled. The first lancer misjudged his attack and did no more than drive the lance into the musician’s epaulette and rip it off, sending the man staggering. He was knocked aside when he hit the chest of the second lancer’s horse, and then speared in the arm by a third man, blood spreading darkly on the buff sleeve of his jacket. A Pole from the second rank drew alongside and cut back, slicing into the man’s face. The drummer fell, sobbing because he could not see.

‘Form on me, I shall be your pivot!’ The voice was high-pitched, and he saw a young ensign trying to gather a group of men, and then the lancers were on them. Men screamed as the spearheads drove into them, and in an instant the redcoats split up.

Williams ran on, managing to dodge so that a Pole passed him on the wrong side and could not swing his lance around quickly enough. The smell of wet horse and old leather filled his nostrils, and he swung the axe, felt it sink into the man’s back, heard the lancer cry out. The Welshman tried to pull him from the saddle, but the horse kept going and he lost his grip.

‘Mercy! Mercy!’ a man kept yelling as he ran, hands clasped protectively on top of his bare head. A lancer drove the point of his weapon into his side, pulling it free as he went on, but then turned his horse and came back.

‘Mercy!’

Another thrust, this time to the thigh, made the man yelp in pain. A second Pole arrived, sabre raised.

‘Mercy!’ It was more of a gasp this time, and then the sabre flashed down in an arc and sliced off one of the man’s hands and bit into his skull. The redcoat staggered, almost fell, but tried to
keep going, and then the lancer speared him in the stomach and he dropped. The other horseman urged his mount to trample the fallen man.