02 - Keane's Challenge (22 page)

He turned to Silver. ‘We had better get a move on or we shall certainly be caught by the French.’ Looking towards the infantry he saw Pereira. ‘Lieutenant, double the men for a while, if they’ll take it.’

The Portuguese officer looked at him quizzically, but Heredia explained his meaning and soon the Ordenanza were moving
faster, although the older members were obviously having some difficulty.

Martin spoke. ‘We could try them at the way the Rifles march, sir. You know – twenty paces at a walk, then twenty at a run.’

‘Good thinking, Will, but perhaps it might be better to make it ten in each case. Go and tell Heredia.’

And so that was how they advanced across the plain towards Almeida, just as the Rifles would have done. They crossed another river, the Alvercas, and once over, Keane rode to find Pereira.

‘Lieutenant, take your men as close to the river as you can. If you can, find one of the two battalions of cacadores and attach yourself to it. Take position to its rear. We might call on you as a reserve.’

Having issued the order, he left the infantry in the valley and escorted by the hussars and lancers, moving steadily westwards, Keane, with Ross, Archer and Silver beside him, climbed his horse up towards the crest of a ridge, from where he might afford himself a better view.

He could see the ramparts of Almeida as clear as day from here. It was a huge place, a star fort in the old style that had been perfected by the French under Vauban. It looked benign, with its grassed-over mounds, but Keane knew that within them lurked dozens of cleverly devised defensive enfilades which could rip a company to shreds as it was caught in crossfire of grape and canister. He had seen similar constructions many years ago when still a youth, fighting in the northern French campaign with the Duke of York. And a fine fiasco that had turned into for the British army. Almeida looked as if it could hold out for days if not months, and that, he thought, must surely be what Wellington had intended. The whole campaign, it seemed, was about buying more time in which to outwit the French.

Turning to the left he had a fine view across Craufurd’s lines. He had deployed his five battalions on the hills that ran westwards of the road. First came the hussars and Light Dragoons closest to the town, then the 43rd, by a small mill, a
pombal
, as the locals called them. The 95th were next, followed by the two battalions of brown-coated rifle-armed cacadores and finally, on the extreme right, Craufurd’s strongest regiment, the 52nd, under its notorious, fire-breathing Colonel Beckwith.

Beyond them all, on the road, lay the stone bridge over the Côa. Aside from that, Keane could see no other means of escape from Massena’s army. And that lay in all its threatening blue-black mass beyond the bridge.

He could see the Ordenanza too now. As they neared the lines, passing by the newly set skirmishers of the 43rd and the 95th, they moved further down the road until they reached the rear of their countrymen, Craufurd’s two battalions of cacadores, who had behaved with such valour at Alameda. Keane watched as Pereira formed them up as best he could.

Ross looked on with him. ‘That’s the 52nd there, sir, their yellow colour.’

Keane saw it flying in the breeze and noticed that as they were the closest of Craufurd’s battalions to the bridge, this might imply that they might form any rearguard that might be required. He had placed the cavalry on his left, by the town.

‘It’s damned lucky, sarn’t, that he has our hussars and lancers with the Ordenanza, or he’d have no cavalry at all on his right flank.’

There was the crack of gunfire and with it a louder noise, the rumble of artillery as the allied guns on the ramparts of Almeida opened up. Their targets were the French columns on the far side of the field, nearest to the town. Closer to where Keane
and the others stood, though, white powder smoke was visible and he heard the crack of more gunshots and saw a number of riflemen of the 95th in their distinctive bottle green, running and engaging the enemy in the lee of a tall mill building. One of those that had they made more progress, he thought, would have already been destroyed.

As he watched, Keane saw the French come on. A single battalion of infantry at first. They moved fast towards the mill and, though harassed by the riflemen, had soon closed on them and pushed them out.

The green-coated figures ran towards the lines, followed by a stream of redcoats. Looking at the field it seemed to Keane as if at any moment, through sheer number, the French might outflank Craufurd’s men. But no one seemed to be aware of it save him. Turning, he looked for Craufurd and found him as usual on a rock, surveying the scene with admirable sangfroid.

Keane moved fast towards him. ‘General, sir, I know it is not my place to tell you your business, but might it not be prudent to fall back beyond the Côa before the French outflank you?’

He pointed to the right flank where as plain as day they were able to make out a large body of dragoons and chasseurs.

Craufurd glared at him with searing black eyes. ‘No, captain, indeed you are right; it is not your place. I do not intend to retreat, not at once, without giving a good account of myself.’

‘Of course, sir.’

Keane wondered whether Craufurd could know that he was privy to Wellington’s express instructions that he should not engage the French on the east side of the Côa, lest he be trapped and lose part of his command. Clearly he was now ignoring those orders. It was a brave gesture but ultimately, surely, doomed.

As if to confirm Keane’s worries, as they watched the Rifles still falling back from their encounter at the mill, Keane noticed a group of horsemen off to their left. Suddenly the horse were upon them. Keane put his glass to his eye and saw scarlet and sky-blue uniforms. French hussars. They were cutting at the riflemen as they ran while behind them fresh dragoons were coming in to join the fray.

Craufurd had seen them too. He pointed and asked an ADC, ‘Over there, on the right flank. What’s that?’

‘French horse, sir. They’ve got in among the Rifles.’

‘Good God. Have they any assistance?’

Keane scanned the area and to his relief saw a body of redcoats fire a volley into the oncoming dragoons. ‘Yes, sir. They have support.’

The redcoats fired again and he could see riflemen reaching the safety of the lines.

They could see the French marching into formation now. Craufurd turned to Keane. ‘Who are they? Do we know? You should know, Keane.’

‘They’re from Ney’s corps. That’s Massena’s vanguard. We had news on the telegraph four days ago. It’s General Loison’s division. Twelve battalions in all, in two brigades under Ferey and Simon.

‘He has the French Hanoverians with him too, sir. Of course, they may run. And only one battalion of light infantry. The remainder are line. And some cavalry. Dragoons and chasseurs. He won’t have had time to get all of them here, though. One brigade, I would say, and I’m willing to wager, two thousand horse.’

Craufurd nodded. ‘You’re good, Keane. Damned good. At least we know what we’re facing. Obliged.’

The French continued to form up and Keane remained with Craufurd, giving him occasional further briefings as the regiments came into view. It had been an orderly affair thus far with, apart from the skirmish with the Rifles, a strange silence hanging over the field. But this was now broken by the sudden beat of drums from the French right flank.

Both men turned their heads at once to the noise and saw, on the extreme left of Craufurd’s line, next to the ruins of the old walls of ancient Almeida, three columns of French infantry advancing straight towards them.

The guns in Almeida opened up with greater force now, but their ranging was not good. Craufurd and Keane could see the cannonballs flying over the heads of the advancing French infantry, who came on in three blocks of blue, one darker than the others.

Keane spoke. ‘That’s his light battalion, sir.’

Craufurd nodded, watching as the French passed by the walls of Almeida, almost unscathed.

The 43rd at last opened up from their stone enclosure with a great volley that brought the advancing light infantry to a stop. Craufurd smiled. ‘Good, that’s good.’ But before they had time to get another in, the French were charging at them, yelling as they came. Bayonet met bayonet as column collided with line and Keane knew that now there would be only one outcome. The whole idea of deploying in line against column was to stop the French with musketry. If the British line allowed French column to close, the sheer weight of the latter was almost certainly bound to break the former. The two men, along with Craufurd’s staff, watched it unfold before them.

The French were unremitting, dogged. They would fall back under fire, their bayonets miraculously beaten back, only to
come on again, supported this time by the hussars, who rode down an entire company of the 43rd, sabring more than Keane could count. And then he realized Ney’s plan. It was not just to attack the British and push them back. It was clearly to isolate Craufurd’s force from Almeida.

‘Sir, do you see how they’re doing it?’

‘Yes, Keane. He’s damned clever. He’s dividing us from Almeida. He intends to surround us and then to take the fortress. If his cavalry get round our right flank, we are lost. The only thing we can do is to get across the river.’

Keane said nothing, but thought to himself that if only Craufurd had taken his advice earlier, they might have been able to save the lives of those men down there being trampled to death beneath the steel-shod hooves of the hussars’ mounts.

Craufurd summoned an ADC. ‘Ramsay, take a note to Colonel Beckwith. Have him pull back the cacadores in his brigade and take up a position overlooking the Côa. The rest of the infantry will cover the road to allow the artillery and wagons to cross the river. That is paramount. I want an orderly withdrawal, not a retreat. Make that clear, Ramsay: this is not a retreat.

‘Keane, you and your men had better do the same.’

Keane and the others wheeled away from Craufurd and headed towards the Ordenanza. They were drawn up in two ranks behind the cacadores and he soon found Pereira and Heredia.

‘We’re pulling back. You’re to go with the cacadores, over the bridge and up the hill.’

The French artillery had opened up now, and as he spoke two rounds came in from their front and struck the ground just behind the rear rank of the militia.

‘That was lucky. You had better get moving. Your luck won’t hold forever.’

Heredia spoke. ‘What about you, sir, and the others? Where will you be? And what of the hussars?’

‘We will take our chances with the staff, I think. The hussars will cover your retreat. We need all the cavalry we can get, as far as I can see. And Sanchez’s lancers.’

As Pereira went to give the orders to Sergente Dominguez, Keane took Heredia to one side. ‘How are they in the field? Will they make it? They look a little uneasy.’

Heredia replied in his usual direct manner. ‘It’s funny. They are actually fine under fire. I don’t think they mind it. Two or three of them look as if they might leave. But no more. But they’re still not soldiers, sir.’

‘Well, just get them across the river, if you can. Make sure the guns and wagons cross before you do.’

The order from Craufurd had evidently reached the cacadores now and the first regiment were already pulling back out of the line. They moved in an orderly way, led by their officers, towards the bridge. Keane could see the artillery teams limbering up to the front of the infantry and soon they were galloping towards the river. The cacadores halted to allow them to pass and then moved on fast again, anxious to get across the river and away from the blades of the French horsemen.

Keane was not sure what had sparked it, but the reaction of the 1st Cacadores was very different from that of their comrades. He and the men were moving off towards Craufurd’s command post when the second Portuguese battalion came running down the road before them, hell for leather.

He looked for their officer and found a mounted colonel, himself struggling to keep up with his disordered men. Keane
spurred across to him. ‘Colonel, stop them. You must order them to stop, sir. They must stop.’

The colonel looked at him wide-eyed, and Keane could see that he too had lost his nerve. He shouted to the cacadores in Portuguese. ‘Stop. Go back. Form ranks.’

But it was too little, too late. They were in blind panic. All they could hear was the cannonballs. All they could see were the French. They paid him no heed.

It was, he thought, bizarre that while one unit of light infantry could behave so impeccably, its identical twin should reduced to no more than a rabble, but such was battle.

All across the field now the terrain, which consisted largely of vineyards and walls, had caused battalions to fragment into company units, and under their company officers they now began to fight independently in individual combats.

Realizing that the order was now to withdraw, some of the companies began to pull back and, as Keane watched, four companies of the 43rd and some of the 95th fell back together in good order and formed a defensive screen on the hill overlooking the Côa which would provide covering fire and protection for the ammunition train and the other units to pass across the bridge.

The hussars were going across now, and Keane’s own men with Sanchez’s lancers. The French still came on but gradually the units in the hills were beaten back. It was then that Keane looked across to the south and saw what looked like a battalion of redcoats. He called to Archer. ‘Here, your eyesight’s better than mine. Look over there and tell me what colour those coats are.’

‘They’re red, sir. Red with yellow facings.’

‘I thought as much. But if they’re our men, who the devil are they and why aren’t they over the bridge?’

Archer looked again. ‘They might be Swiss, sir. I heard Colonel Sanchez say there is at least one regiment of Swiss with Massena, and you know the Swiss that fight for the Frenchies wear scarlet coats.’

‘Look at their shakos then. Can you tell what shape they are?’

‘They’re black, sir.’