Drums beat the
pas de charge
and the second line – another
twelve battalions of fresh and first-rate infantry – moved forward. Voltigeurs ran out ahead of them, the tall yellow and green plumes on their shakos bobbing with the motion. As they got closer the light infantrymen would halt, sometimes kneel to steady their aim, and the muskets would fire and bullets pluck men down.
‘It looks like our friends are winning,’ said Velarde tonelessly.
‘Oh my dear God.’ Colonel Murray grimaced as he sat on his horse with the general’s staff on the highest point of the Medellín Hill. They could see almost the entire battlefield from this position and now they could see a disaster.
The King’s German Legion battalions broke first. They had chased the French across the valley and up the other side until they were only a few hundred yards from the enemy’s artillery line, and now those guns cut great swathes through the disordered Germans. A new line of infantry columns came through the smoke and the Germans at last ran back.
Within minutes most of the First Division, four battalions of the Legion and two of British line were streaming back across the stream as fast as they had chased the French. The Guards were more stubborn. In rough groups they clustered together and fired at the enemy.
It did not slow the French advance for very long. Tall Guardsmen dropped as they were shot by the voltigeurs, who were in open order and used cover well and so made themselves elusive targets. The columns of the second line came on steadily as many from the broken leading battalions stopped running and began to rally. Dragoons in dark green coats and with brass helmets manoeuvred to hunt down the little groups of Guardsmen. One of the columns fired a volley.
The Guards came back, all order gone, and although some still turned and fired at the enemy, they kept going back and the French came after them.
Sir Arthur Wellesley looked out and saw that the centre of his army was gone. On the far right was MacKenzie’s brigade. He
glanced in the other direction, and saw the French beginning a cautious advance into the valley north of the Medellín. It was too dangerous to take many troops from the hill in case the attack developed.
‘Tell Donellan to double his battalion down on to the plain and form behind the Germans. Tell him to let them through and then stop the French.’ It was a simple order. General MacKenzie seemed to know what he was doing without needing to be told. That would make four British battalions to halt twelve French. He must hope that they could do this long enough for the First Division to rally and re-enter the fight. Another ADC went to bring a cavalry brigade forward to plug some of the gap, but cavalry could not drive back good infantry on their own. At best it would slow the French.
‘We did want this battle, did we not?’ whispered Baynes in Murray’s ear.
The Guards came back, running to either side of the 3rd Battalion of Detachments.
‘We’ll be back to help you soon, sir,’ said a sergeant as he passed Williams. Roundshot flicked one huge Guardsman aside like a rag doll and then skidded low to take the legs off two men standing beside Ensign Castle carrying the flag.
‘Close up to the front!’ ordered Pritchard Jones.
Sergeants repeated the instruction all along the line. ‘Close up to the front!’ When men fell the normal practice was to pull the wounded or dead behind the line and then edge towards the centre to fill the gap. If losses were heavy, this would keep the line two deep but make the frontage ever narrower. Pritchard Jones wanted his battalion to hold the same width of ground no matter how many men he lost, and so if the front rank man fell, the man behind was to step into his place.
‘
Vive l’Empereur! Vive l’Empereur!
’ Williams could see the French columns. Their voltigeurs had run back to join their regiments, for the French commanders wanted to press their advantage and smash these last formed English battalions.
The drums beat and they were louder now because once again the guns had friendly troops in front of them and stopped firing.
‘
Vive l’Empereur! En avant, mes enfants!
’ Officers flourished their swords as they went ahead of the front rank, trying to inspire their men to win glory. The senior men were in their heavy blue jackets, but the soldiers of the closest battalion had wrapped these and folded them into their packs. Instead they wore their belts and equipment over the white-sleeved waistcoats that went under the jackets in normal times. Even so they sweated in the searing heat of the sun.
‘
Vive l’Empereur!
’ Mouths opened wide as the men chanted. The French marched with their muskets resting on their shoulders, as if they did not even need to fight to brush any enemy aside.
There was shouting and cannon fire from over on the far right, and Williams guessed that the Germans and Dutch were attacking again, but that was not his fight. Two columns were coming at the 3rd Battalion, their heads facing either end of the line, so that one was almost directly in front of him. The other must have faced Pringle and the grenadiers, and Williams made himself say a silent prayer for them.
‘
Vive l’Empereur!
’ The French were close now. At the head of the column rode an officer with an ornate shako topped by a tall white and red plume. He had an immense moustache, and an even bigger belly.
‘
En avant, mes amis!
’ His mouth opened to show badly stained teeth as he urged his men on. ‘
Ne tirez pas!
’ Men who fired tended to stop to reload rather than pressing the attack, and the fat
chef de battalion
was determined his men would not make that mistake.
‘Make ready!’ There was a rattle as muskets were brought up to shoulders and levelled at the oncoming column. The French saw the British line ripple, almost as if the men were turning to the right.
‘
Ils se rendent!
’ called the officer optimistically and spurred his horse forward. ‘
Ne tirez pas!
’
‘Fire!’ shouted Pritchard Jones.
Hanley groaned. Neither he nor Dobson could walk. They were more than four hundred yards from the battalion and Hanley had to push himself up on his arm to be able to see them through the long grass. It was uncomfortable, and most of the time he simply lay on his back and stared up at the sky. He could hear the flies buzzing even over the noise of battle as they covered the mangled remains of the two soldiers.
Dobson sat up just next to the officer, propping himself up on his pack.
‘Looks like the lads are giving them hell, sir,’ he said. With some difficulty he went through the motions of loading his musket.
‘What are you doing?’ asked the officer.
‘Best to be careful, sir.’
T
he front of the column was a shambles. Men lay in the grass, blood dark red on their white waistcoats. The plump
chef de battalion
had been plucked from his saddle and his frightened horse dragged him along until his foot came free and the body dropped to the ground, the right boot still dangling in the stirrup as the animal sped away.
‘Reload!’ The men of the Light Company were already reaching back for new cartridges.
‘
Ne tirez pas!
’ Williams distinctly heard the shout and yet the two companies at the head of the French column fired anyway. It was less of a volley than a few shots turning into a cascade.
One of the 43rd was hit in the throat, the ball punching through the leather stock he wore according to regulation. The man clutched at the wound, but the blood was pumping out like a fountain and his face was already pale.
‘Close up!’ shouted Sergeant Rudden, tapping the rear rank man on the shoulder to indicate he should step into his comrade’s place.
Another man, this time one of the Highlanders, was shot through the bowels and was dragged back behind the line before the space was filled.
‘Steady, lads,’ called Williams. He had his own musket in his hands and pulled back the hammer ready to fire. Seeing the men were ready, he gave the order. ‘Present!’ His own firelock nestled against his shoulder. Williams gave the men a moment. ‘Aim low, boys! Aim low!’
‘Fire!’ Sergeant Major Fisher gave the order and the whole of the battalion loosed its volley.
Williams felt the musket slam back on to his shoulder, and then slipped easily into the old routine of loading. He fired once more, like everyone else simply levelling and firing as soon as he was ready. They could not aim. The smoke was so thick that no one could see the enemy, and it was simply a question of pointing the muzzle in roughly the right direction and pulling the trigger.
‘Aim low!’ called the officers over and over again because instinct made men fire too high and it was so very easy to miss even the densest of columns.
Men fell. Williams saw some of the men in his company as they were hit. A man with yellow facings on his jacket had the fingers smashed on his left hand as he held his musket. Patterson, his nose still bandaged from yesterday’s skirmish, was shot through both thighs as he stood with his side towards the enemy. He was dragged back, crying out even though he tried to bite down on his lip to stop himself. Skerret stepped forward into his place and within minutes a ball took him in the right eye and drove deep into his brain. Sergeant McNaught pushed another Highlander forward into the front rank.
The French drums had stopped and there was no more chanting. Bullets continued to snap through the smoke. One struck the firelock of a man from the 43rd, smashing the wood so that the butt hung down limply. Williams gave the man his own musket.
‘Keep firing, boys! Aim low!’
A figure came through the smoke, eyes wild and teeth bared. ‘
En avant, mes enfants
,’ shouted the officer, trying to drag his men forward. Williams reached for his sword.
‘Look out, sir!’ yelled Rudden, and then half a dozen muskets banged and the white front of the Frenchman’s jacket bloomed scarlet as he was pitched back. Two more shapes loomed out of the smoke; one was a sergeant.
Williams’ sword slid readily from his scabbard and he turned
the motion into a parry that knocked aside the sergeant’s bayonet. The other Frenchman raised his musket to his shoulder and pulled the trigger, the ball taking the man using Williams’ musket in the chest so that he sank down with a sigh.
The sergeant moved to lunge again, but he slipped on the pool of blood gushing from the dying officer and Williams dodged the blade. His sword flicked up to bite into the man’s neck and he raked the wickedly sharp point to slice through the man’s throat and come free. He revelled in the balance of the Russian sword as he spun back to block a tentative jab from the other Frenchman. Rudden was coming up beside him, as was another man, but Williams yelled in anger as he beat the man’s musket aside and drove his sword into the Frenchman’s belly. The man grabbed at the metal, cutting his fingers on its well-honed edge, and the officer kicked him over as he pulled the blade free.
‘Keep firing!’ shouted Williams. It had all taken so very little time and already the fight seemed almost unreal. His sword was dripping with blood and the French infantryman sobbed as he lay in the grass until a bullet from one of his own comrades smacked into the back of his head. No more Frenchmen seemed to have followed through the smoke and it was hard to know whether they could have held them if they had.
‘Well done, sir,’ said Rudden, and was then knocked down as a ball thudded into his right arm. He dropped his musket. ‘I’m hit,’ he said, as Williams had heard so many others utter the same phrase. The sergeant’s arm hung uselessly.
‘Go to the rear, Sergeant Rudden,’ said Williams, and tried to smile. ‘I’ll look after your fellows.’
Men were falling all along the line. Some were able to walk back to the surgeons, and others were simply pulled back behind the line to wait as best they could. Some would never move again. In the rare moments when no one fired, the air was filled with moaning and cries of pain.
The lieutenant in charge of the Germans of the 4/60th was hit in the leg, and hobbled to the rear with his arm around the shoulders of one of his men, who had a ball in the side. His
ensign, a popular, eager youth who had just celebrated his nineteenth birthday a week ago, was hit badly, ribs broken and a wound to the chest which bubbled with foam. Four of the Germans carried him away in a blanket, moving as gently as they could.
Sergeant Major Fisher took a ball through the neck, which somehow managed not to cut any of the vital blood vessels, and when he was bandaged, he walked stiffly and unaided back to the surgeons.
Still the men loaded and fired. Their shoulders were bruised from the kick of their muskets. McNaught caught one of his men tipping some of the cartridge on to the ground to reduce the recoil and screamed at the man, telling him that he was on a charge and a disgrace to his regiment. Men skinned their knuckles as they rammed down and caught their hands against their fixed bayonets.
Williams had lost all sense of time. He did not know how long they had fought or how many times the men fired. His corporal was dead, and that left McNaught as the only NCO, and so he made one of the 43rd an acting sergeant, but then that man was hit in the foot and used his musket as a crutch to go back to the rear.
‘Keep firing, boys, keep firing!’ Williams’ voice was hoarse from shouting, his mouth dry, even though he had fired only a few rounds.