Hampton gave a lopsided smile as he nodded a shade too emphatically. ‘Plenty, sir.’
‘Good. See to it that the men have a tot immediately. I want fire in their bellies when they catch sight of the Frogs.’
‘Yes, sir. And a tot for yourself ?’
Unlike every other officer in the brigade, the colonel abstained from alcohol, a fact that had provoked a degree of amusement and curiosity in his subordinates, who regularly drank themselves insensible as easily as breathing. Arthur was well aware of their bemusement, and took it as further proof of the dire condition of the British Army. While he could accept that the rabble who served in the ranks needed their drink, the gentlemen who commanded them must remain sober and alert in the face of the enemy. He realised that Hampton was still watching him and snapped his fingers.
‘Move yourself, man!’
‘Yes, sir!’ The quartermaster saluted and trotted away towards the small convoy of wagons lining the route beyond the crossroads, calling out to his assistants lounging beside the wagons as they puffed on their clay pipes. His men reluctantly stirred themselves in response to his summons and slouched after him.
Fitzroy leaned closer to him. ‘Gin? Is that wise?’
‘Wise?’ The colonel shrugged. ‘I doubt it will do them any harm, and at least it will help distract them while we wait. Anything to take their minds off the enemy, eh?’
Fitzroy looked down at his hands and rubbed them together to take the chill off his long fingers. ‘As you wish, sir.’
The quartermaster’s assistants began to move down the lines of each company. Each man carried a keg of gin under one arm and they paused briefly to pour a measure into each battered mug that was eagerly held out towards them.Arthur watched disdainfully as most of his men downed the fiery spirit in one gulp. Only a few sipped at their mugs as they stared pensively in the direction from which the French would soon appear.
Suddenly, one of the pickets, just visible on the edge of the mist, turned round and cupped a hand to his mouth.
‘Cavalry! Cavalry approaching!’
For an instant the officers froze and then Fitzroy cocked an eyebrow at his colonel. ‘No cavalry, eh?’
‘I didn’t see any at the time,’ Arthur snapped back, before he drew a deep breath to shout out his orders.
‘Recall the pickets! Brigade … stand to. Prepare to receive cavalry!’
Chapter 84
The orders were relayed down the lines by the harsh bawling of the company sergeants, and the redcoats hastily downed the last of their gin and stuffed the battered mugs back into their knapsacks before porting their muskets and waiting for the next order.
Arthur paused a moment to think. There was precious little powder to waste on cavalry. That must be saved for the infantry. Since the cavalry could not turn the British flanks they would surely be discouraged by a gleaming thicket of cold steel. ‘Fix bayonets!’
The order was bellowed down the length of the brigade and one company after another rasped the long blades from their scabbards and slotted them on to the end of their muskets. As the clatter and rattle of the manoeuvre filled the cold dawn air, Arthur could hear the first sounds of the approaching enemy: a rolling rumble of hoofs, then the chink of accoutrements buckled to each rider, every sound faintly muffled by the mist. The men who had been posted on picket duty were sprinting back up the gentle slope towards their comrades, casting anxious looks over their shoulders as they ran. Behind them the noise of the approaching enemy swelled and filled the still air.
‘Any time now,’ a frightened ensign muttered close behind Arthur. ‘Any time now.’
Arthur twisted round and shot the boy a withering glance. ‘You, sir! Silence there!’
The ensign dropped his gaze towards his muddy boots.
A voice cried out from the ranks. ‘Here they come!’
The first of the horsemen burst out of the mist. They wore unbuttoned grey greatcoats over their green and red jackets, with high leather boots and oilskin-covered helmets.
‘Dragoons,’ muttered Fitzroy.
‘Nothing that need cause us undue concern,’ Arthur replied calmly. ‘They’re too light to take us on. Still, we might as well show them that we mean business. Have the men advance their bayonets.’
Captain Fitzroy called out the order and all along the brigade the front rank lowered their muskets to present the glinting points of their bayonets to the dragoons. The French had been momentarily startled by the suddenness with which they had encountered the redcoats. Now their commander recovered his wits and began to shout out a string of orders. As his men emerged from the mist they moved out each side of the track and formed up opposite the British line, two hundred yards away.
‘Surely he’s not going to charge?’ said Fitzroy.
Arthur shook his head. ‘Not unless the man’s quite mad. No, he’ll just want to fix us here while he sends word back to his general. We’re safe for the moment.’
‘And then?’
Arthur glanced sidelong at his adjutant, and friend.‘Have faith, Richard. Once our lads give them a whiff of shot they’ll bolt like rabbits.’
‘And if they don’t?’
‘They will. Trust me.’
For a while the two sides confronted each other in silence. Then one of the dragoons called out, and several of his comrades jeered. The rest took up the cry and soon the whole enemy line was shouting and whistling in derision.
‘What are they saying, sir?’ asked one of the ensigns.
‘De Lacy, do you not have any French?’ Arthur smiled. He knew that De Lacy had abstained from learning almost as devoutly as Arthur now abstained from drink. ‘I’d translate for you, but for the embarrassment it would bring to us both. Just be content that it is nothing fit for the ear of a gentleman.’
Captain Coulter of the grenadier company came striding up towards his colonel. Coulter, despite his rough manner, knew enough of the enemy’s language to take offence and his eyes were blazing with indignation.
‘Colonel? Want me to take my boys forward a pace and give the bastards a volley?’
‘No, Coulter. Let them waste their breath.While they do us no harm, indulge them.’
‘But, sir!’
Arthur raised a finger to quiet the man. ‘I’ll thank you to return to your post, Captain.’
Coulter blustered a moment, and blew hard before he turned back towards his men. Some of the redcoats had started to shout insults back at the enemy and Arthur rounded on them furiously.
‘Shut your mouths! This is the bloody army, not a Dublin bawdy house! Sergeants, take their names!’
The soldiers fell silent at once and stared fixedly towards the dragoons as angry men with chevrons on their sleeves stormed down the line in search of miscreants. Arthur nodded with approval as one of the sergeants started screaming into a man’s face and ended the harangue with a sharp punch to the man’s nose. The head snapped back and a flush of blood poured down the man’s chin. A hard but necessary lesson. Arthur was satisfied the man would keep his discipline the next time.
The catcalls abruptly ceased and Arthur quickly turned his attention towards the enemy. The dragoons were turning away and trotted off to his right, and formed up opposite the wood that protected his flank. Almost at once the first of the French infantry emerged from the thinning mist and marched directly for the centre of the British line. At the side of the column rode the enemy general and his staff officers, and they stopped as soon as they had a clear view of the ground. The French commander let his men close to within a hundred and fifty yards of the redcoats before he gave the order to halt. Further orders followed at once, and the officers at the head of the division began to marshal their men across the road until they had widened the column to company width.
Fitzroy glanced round at the British line, two men deep. ‘Sir? Shall we pull in the flank companies?’
‘Why?’
‘To firm up our centre, sir. The men will not be able to hold when that column attacks.’
‘They won’t have to,’ Arthur replied calmly. ‘It won’t come to that. There are perhaps five or six thousand men out there. But not more than a hundred of them will be able to bring their muskets to bear on us, Fitzroy. In return, every one of the men in the brigade will be able to fire. And we can reload much faster than they. I doubt they’ll even get close enough to use the bayonet.’
Captain Fitzroy looked at his friend in surprise. The colonel seemed utterly sure of himself, as if the conclusion of the coming fight was foregone. There had been a hint of arrogance in the man’s tone that had gone beyond his usual aristocratic haughtiness and there was an icy touch to the back of the captain’s neck as he sensed that he, his friend and most of the redcoats standing so still and silent might well be dead before the morning was over.
‘Arthur …’
‘Quiet! I think the enemy is about to make his move.’
A sharp cry rang out from the French column, and an instant later the drums boomed out from close behind the leading companies. An officer, his uniform trimmed with fabulously gaudy gold braid, drew his sword and swept it in an arc so that its point ended up in line with the heart of the British brigade.
Arthur had mounted his horse and with his staff officers around him and the colours raised behind him, fancied that the Frenchman’s sword was pointing directly at him. He smiled, and muttered, ‘Well, let them just try.’
At once the French column rippled forward, bayonets lowered below the grim faces of the men in the front rank. The pace was slow, as it had to be with the poor level of training that was a feature of most of the revolutionary army. Arthur was aware that what they lacked in training they made up for in spirit, and that was why they must be brought to a halt before they could charge home. At the same time, given the short supply of ammunition, every British volley had to count. That would mean holding fire to the last possible moment, in order to maximise the impact of the hail of British lead and ensure that every bullet had the best chance of finding its target. It would be a close-run thing, he decided. He drew a deep breath and cupped a hand to his mouth.
‘On my order, brigade will prepare to fire! Front rank: make ready!’
All along the line the company commanders moved back behind their men and the dark barrels of the Brown Bess muskets swept forward and were trained on the head of the advancing enemy column. At the sight the leading Frenchmen seemed to pause for an instant before the officer gave a shrill cry of encouragement and flourished his glinting blade at the redcoats once again. The column lurched forward again, no more than a hundred yards away now.
Arthur forced himself to sit still and regard the oncoming enemy with no hint of an expression on his face. Inside he felt his pulse pounding with excitement and terror. And yet for all the tension and danger, he was surprised to find that he was supremely content and happy. Right now, there was no place on this earth that he would rather be. An image of Kitty Pakenham flashed into his mind and there was some small satisfaction that if he died today, the pain of his loss might be a small revenge on her for refusing to marry him. He dismissed the thought at once.
‘Cock your weapons!’
A chorus of clicks sounded along the line as the men thumbed back the musket firing hammers; the sound almost drowned out by the crashing roll of the French drums beating out the
pas de charge
. They were only eighty yards away now and Arthur could see the taut expressions on the faces of the leading men. Even as he watched, one of them raised his musket and fired at once. A flash, a puff of smoke and a whipping sound as the ball passed some distance above Arthur’s head. Beside him, Fitzroy flinched.
‘Give the order, Arthur.’
‘Not yet.’
The column tramped forwards, and now the redcoats could see the endless mass of blue uniforms stretching out behind until the enemy ranks were swallowed up by the mist. Arthur was thankful that the rest of them were hidden from his men’s view. More shots were fired from the head of the column and the first casualty of the engagement gave a sharp cry and toppled back a short distance from Arthur.
‘Steady lads!’ he called out as calmly as possible. ‘Hold your fire.’
When the enemy had closed another ten yards Fitzroy could no longer contain himself.
‘For pity’s sake, Arthur! Give the order.’
‘Quiet, damn you!’ he hissed back. ‘Control yourself, man!’
He waited a moment longer, then raised his arm stiffly. ‘Ready!’
The cry echoed along the line. There was a brief moment of silence as even the French braced themselves for the first volley.
‘Fire!’
In little more than a second, hundreds of firing hammers slammed down on to their firing pans and ignited the charges in the long musket barrels. Orange flashes spat out from the muzzles and a swirling white blanket engulfed the space immediately in front of the British line. From his vantage point atop his horse, Arthur stood in his stirrups and saw the front ranks of the French column disintegrate as men were struck down in a broad swathe, and those behind stopped dead. By some miracle the heavily braided officer survived the volley, but his cockaded hat was snatched off his head and carried back ten paces before it struck the ground. For a moment he was too stunned to react; then he turned on his men and urged them on, over the bodies of their dead and injured comrades. Behind them the drums rattled out the advance and the column edged forwards.
No time had been wasted on the British side and as soon as the first volley was discharged the men in the front rank began to reload their muskets. They snatched out a paper cartridge, biting the end off and saving a fraction of the powder for the firing pan before the rest went down the barrel, and was rammed home. Then the ball was inserted and packed down on top.The veterans were quickest and held their arms ready in less than twenty seconds.