Once again the hail of lead swept forward, and the French on the hilltop, hastily endeavouring to form line to meet the advancing British, could be seen to waver.
'Now the 29th,' General Hill shouted. 'Now. Fix your bayonets. Follow me.'
Steel rasped, and Roger hurried up and down the line, forcing it straight, barking encouragement. The men ran forward, and it was time to fight himself. He threw down his staff, drew his sword, ran with them. Shadowy figures formed up, and raised their own weapons. They also had fixed bayonets, but too many of their number were already retreating down the hill. The shock of the 29th's charge completed their discomfort. Those still on their feet turned and ran for the brook and the safety of the French line.
'Halt there,' bellowed Hill. 'Sergeant Major, fetch those fellows back.'
Roger stumbled down the hill behind his men. 'Halt there,' he shouted in turn. 'To me, the 29th. Fall in. Fall in the 29th.'
Reluctantly the men came to a halt, panting and gasping.
‘I
got one,' Corcoran shouted excitedly. 'I got one, Sergeant Major. Right through the belly. Look at-that.' Even in the darkness the blood could be seen staining the bright steel of the bayonet.
'So you did,' Roger agreed. 'Now back up the hill, or you won't live to see your grandchildren.'
‘I
s that the end of the battle, Sergeant Major?' Withers inquired, as the company tramped back to where General Hill was standing.
That?' Roger gave him a grim smile. That wasn't even the beginning, lad.'
'Well done, the 29th,' Hill said as they came up.
'Oh, indeed,' agreed Captain Llewellyn. 'Well done the 29th.'
'Where the devil have you been, sir?' the general demanded.
Llewellyn glanced at his two subalterns, who stood one to either side. 'Well, sir, as the company was
bivouacked
, I took myself into Talavera for a glass of wine. I saw you on the road, sir.'
'Aye,' Hill agreed. 'But when the shooting started I seem to have got back here the faster, eh? You're to congratulate your sergeant major, Captain Llewellyn. He had his men well in hand.'
'Oh, indeed, sir, there is no better sergeant major in the army than Smith.' Llewellyn cleared his throat. 'What orders have you for us now, sir?'
'Why, sir, to stand fast. This hill is where you are, and this hill is where you'll be, God willing, this time tomorrow night. I'll bid you good-night, sir.'
He walked down the slope. Llewellyn produced a handkerchief and mopped his brow. 'Gad,' he grumbled. 'How was a fellow to know? Sergeant Major Smith, will they come again, d'you suppose?'
'Not this night, sir.'
"Then you'd best fall out the men."
'Very good, sir. If I may suggest, sir . . .'
'Yes, yes, go on.'
‘I
t wants only three hours to dawn, sir. No one is going to sleep now. So we may as well make ourselves comfortable. I'd like to send a party for the rest of our gear, sir. And I'd also like to detail a squad to roll these corpses down the hill; if the frogs don't come on at first light there's going to be an awful stink.'
'My word, but you're right. See to it. Sergeant Major. See to it.'
Roger supposed after all that he had dozed off. In two hours the hilltop had been cleared of most of the corpses, which now formed a mound at the bottom, half in and half out of the brook; from above they looked like a heap of bluebottles—he could hear the buzzing of the real things as well. And his men were fully dressed and armed. And blooded now, as well. He was pleased with them. They'd play their part. Then what had awakened him? It was dark, with the chill blackness of the hour before dawn, and there was no movement from in front of him.
But behind him. He leapt to his feet, listened to the creaking and thumping, the snorts of the horses, the muttered curses of the men and the whispered commands of the officers.
'Fall in the guard,' he said, and stepped forward, as Llewellyn also sat up and hastily reached for his sword. 'Who comes?'
'Friend,' said an English voice. The general wishes this hill held at all costs.'
He blinked into the darkness, saw the caissons trailing behind the horses, made out the gold and blue jackets. A battery of horse artillery. His own regiment, before his world had come to an end. He wondered if in some way this was an omen for his impending death; however many battlefields he had shared with these men, this was the first time he had been commanded to fight next to them.
The noise had awakened most of the battalion, the men were sitting up and making themselves a hasty breakfast, as dawn was so obviously close at hand. But now there was a rustle through the entire force, and people scrambled to their feet, as Sir Arthur Wellesley himself, accompanied by four staff officers, came to the top of the hill, and sat his horse there, peering into the darkness. 'Mark me well, Hill,' he said, his voice clear in the stillness. This will be the critical point. If we lose here, we lose everywhere.'
'Weil hold,' Rowland Hill replied.
'I'm relying on that.' The general looked around him. 'I'm relying on you all,' he said. 'Good fortune.' He turned his horse and walked it back down the slope, his officers jingling at his heels.
'Sergeant Major,' Corcoran whispered. 'When will the battle start?'
'As soon as you've had your breakfast, lad,' Roger told him. 'So you'd best eat up.' He pointed at the sudden lightening of the sky behind the eastern mountains. For now the light came on apace, and he could hear the sharp intakes of breath from the men to either side of him as the French army was revealed, already arrayed in order of battle, more than forty thousand of the finest soldiers in the world.
Close at hand, just on the far side of the Portina Brook, there was a swarm of
tirailleurs,
waiting the command to advance. At the rear were squadron after squadron of cavalry, their casques gleaming in the first light which also illuminated the many coloured pennants and picked out their lanceheads. In between were the solid masses of blue-coated infantry, bayonets already fixed, drummer boys waiting expectantly. And it was perfectly easy for the British watchers to see that while the country opposite Talavera and the Spaniards was thinly held, the main body of the French was concentrated against the twenty thousand British and Portuguese holding the allied centre and left, just as the main part of that concentration was below the Cerro de Medillin.
Corcoran spat into the dust, looked from right to left. The hill was also held in strength, no fewer than six battalions of the 29th and the 48th, the Northamptons, with support from the King's German Legion as well as the artillery batteries placed during the night—but they were terribly few compared with the mass in front of them. 'Will we beat them, Sergeant Major?'
'Weil bloody well try,' Roger grunted. Now the moment was at hand, irrelevant thoughts, of past or future, had drifted away. Only the present need concern him. He was here to do a job of work, as they all were, and nothing else could interest him until afterwards.
'Look there,' someone called. From the middle of the French army a single puff of smoke curled into the sky.
'Wait for it,' Roger snapped as the men commenced to rustle. But he had no sooner finished speaking than every gun in the French army seemed to fire at once, a tremendous rolling explosion shrouded in huge clouds of black smoke. Almost before he could turn his head there was an enormous whistling sound, and a chorus of curiously abbreviated cries; he looked to his left and saw two huge scythes cut right through the lines of redcoats, sudden gaps composed of mangled arms and legs and heads and trunks, all suddenly without meaning.
'Back, fall back,' came the order, and Roger turned his head in surprise, to see Sir Arthur himself, with his staff, coming up the hill.
'Damme, Arthur,' shouted Rowland Hill. 'You told me to hold it.'
'And I am still telling you to hold it," Wellesley replied. 'But there is no need to expose the men. Have them lie down behind the brow. Smartly, now.'
The redcoats withdrew, while the French cheered and their skirmishers started to cross the brook.
'Down you get,' Roger commanded. 'On your bellies.'
Those fellows make a target, Sergeant Major.'
'You'll have your targets. Down lads.'
'Funny way to fight a battle,' Corcoran commented, nestling on his stomach.
Roger rolled on his side, to look at the regimental standard behind him, at Hill and Wellesley and the staff officers, at the cannon balls which continued to come bounding over the hilltop, but now doing very little damage. He watched Wellesley give a brief nod and then ride away, followed by his staff. The moment was at hand, and now, indeed, he could hear the rat-a-tat of the drums and the shouts of
'Vive L
'Empereur,'
coming closer. His blood began to tingle, and he found that his hands were wet. He wondered what the French thought as they approached an apparently empty hilltop. How they must be hoping that the British had indeed withdrawn. And how unpleasantly surprised were they going to be.
And there was Wellesley again, returning up the slope, having satisfied himself that the rest of the line was holding. Now he took in the situation at a glance, and raised his hat. 'Now Hill.'
'Up lads,' Rowland Hill bellowed, his voice rising even above the mutter of the drums.
The 29th will rise,' shouted Captain Llewellyn, and similar orders rippled down the line. The men stood shoulder to shoulder, gazed at the massed French column, officers in front, proceeding as if on parade and scarce a hundred yards distant.
The 29th will take aim,' called the captain.
'Straighten up there,' Roger snapped, marching down the line, behind the men, tapping the laggards on the shoulder. 'Close up.'
The 29th will fire,' Captain Llewellyn shouted, and the muskets crashed in unison. The French column halted, the leading men on their knees or already on the ground, muskets thrown away and shakoes rolling in the bloodstained dust.
The 29th will load,' Captain Llewellyn said. 'Haste now, lads.'
'Haste there, haste,' Roger snapped. The French were beginning to recover, their officers were waving their swords, and the drums were again starting to beat.
The 29th will take aim,' Llewellyn said.
Roger reached the end of the line, pointed his staff. 'Careful now, lads,' he said. 'At this range you cannot miss.'
The French were
very close, their bayonets bristl
ing in front of them, their faces contorted with anger and hate.
The 29th will give fire,' said Captain Llewellyn. Once again the same orders had been issued at the same moment in every company of every one of the six battalions. Now the enemy were only fifty yards away, and not even Napoleon's moustachios could withstand that hail of lead. Once again the heads of the column crumbled, and this time the dense masses behind lost their cohesion. Gaps appeared and some of the men started to look over their shoulders.
'Now, Hill,' Wellesley called.
'Advance the 29th,' shouted Hill. 'Advance
the 48th. Clear me this hill.'
Roger threw down his staff and drew his sword.
'Charge those fellows,' shouted Captain Llewellyn, also drawing his sword. He and the two lieutenants put themselves at the head of the line, Roger kept his place at the end, to maintain dressing, and the whole mass surged forward, yelling at the tops of their voices.
'Sauve qui peut.'
The cry was begun by a single faint hearted throat, and then taken up by others. The redcoats crashed into the blue, the bayonets scythed against each other. A thrust went under Roger's arm, tearing his coat and his flesh as well, for he felt the sting of pain. But he knew he was no more than scratched, and his own blade had sunk deep into the belly of his assailant. Down he went, and Roger tugged at the sword, saw another blue-coated man lunging at him, reckoned he was about to be at least seriously wounded, saw Corcoran thrust in turn with his own bayonet, parrying the blow and turning it up, swinging his musket as he did so to catch the Frenchman a blow across the chin with the butt, throwing the man backwards with a sickening crunch.
'On the 29th' bawled Captain Llewellyn, sword bloodied and face flushed. For now they were descending the far side of the hill, driving the French in front of them. They scattered down the slope, splashed into the shallow brook, turning the water brown and red with their blood and the dust on their feet.
'Halt there,' bellowed General Hill, having dismounted to accompany his men. 'Fall back.'
But the battle was ended, for the moment. The French had returned to their original positions, and the English were gasping and panting, suddenly aware of the heat, for although it was just eight of the morning, the sun was already high and hot, and the hillside was covered with corpses.