Simon Scarrow - Fire and Sword

‘How go things with the Twenty-Ninth?’ asked Arthur.

‘They’ve had it, sir. I wasn’t in time to save them.’

‘Had it? What, all of them?’

‘Lake’s dead. So are over two hundred and fifty of his men. The rest are wounded or routed.’

Arthur stared at his aide and muttered, ‘Good God.’

One officer’s vain moment of madness had cost the army half a battalion. Arthur was stunned. Then a fresh volley burst out from the British line and he collected his thoughts and stared towards the French positions.The enemy fire was already slackening, and as a breath of wind wafted down the valley the smoke cleared enough for Arthur to see that Delaborde’s men were falling back again, making for the pass behind them. Now that the main battle line of the British army had reached the crest there was no choice for Delaborde but retreat to try to save as much of his force as possible.

‘Keep the advance going!’ Arthur called out to each side. ‘Pass the word! Advance!’

All along the hill the line of redcoats pressed forward, straight into the volleys of French musket fire and the blasts from their six cannon. As Arthur followed the battle he saw that the French officers were handling their men well. The enemy companies kept their cohesion as they fired, fell back, and fired again, steadily giving ground as they came up on their own guns. Then the French gunners were ordered to withdraw, and started to limber their guns.

Arthur saw the chance at once. Now that the demoralising influence of French grapeshot was removed, it was time for the British infantry to use their bayonets.

‘One last volley!’ he called out. ‘Then charge home, boys!’

The order was communicated to left and right, and after the last British musket had emptied its lead shot at the enemy the sergeants bellowed the order.

‘Fix . . . bayonets!’

There was a distinct rattle along the line as the spiked bayonets were slotted over the muzzles and twisted into the locked position.

‘Advance muskets!’

The front rank lowered their weapons and the triangular steel blades with their sharp points angled towards the French.

‘Advance!’

In a staggered motion the entire line lurched forward, bearing down on the French, still hurriedly reloading their muskets a short distance away. Already a handful of the enemy were falling out of line, backing away from the approaching danger. More joined them as the others fired their last shots at the British.

‘Charge!’

A deep ragged roar sounded from thousands of thirsty throats as the British surged forward. The effect of the bayonet charge was as Arthur had hoped and the French line broke. The enemy turned and ran for their lives, many throwing aside their weapons as they raced towards the mouth of the pass at the rear of their position. The French artillery crews had not completed limbering their guns as their comrades fled, and after a brief glance towards the wild faces of the British charging towards them they abandoned their cannon and followed the others. Only the cavalry, a regiment of dragoons, still remained formed up to one side of the track, and they now drew their carbines and formed a line across the pass to protect the last of the mob surging past them. They fired from the saddle, and though many shots went wide enough struck home to cause the British infantry to draw up. As soon as their weapons had been discharged the dragoons holstered them and unsheathed their swords.

‘Prepare to receive cavalry!’The order passed along the British lines and the men instantly moved to rejoin their formations and close ranks, well aware of the dangers of being caught out in the open by enemy cavalry. Once the British battalions stood ready, in lines three deep, a stillness settled over the battlefield. Two hundred yards away, the dragoons stood equally still, glinting swords resting against their shoulders.

‘Why don’t they charge?’ asked a staff officer close by Arthur.

‘Because they don’t have to,’ Somerset explained nonchalantly. ‘They know we won’t risk charging again and breaking ranks. Not in the face of their cavalry. Equally, they won’t risk attacking formed infantry. So we have something of an impasse. While the rest of their army escapes.’

‘Impasse be damned,’ Arthur growled. ‘Order the line to advance! Close formation . . .’

Once again the redcoats stepped forward, at a measured pace so that the dragoons continued to face an unbroken line of bayonets. As the redcoats closed to within a hundred paces of the enemy a bugle call pierced the hot air, blasting out a series of notes, repeated three times, and then the dragoons sheathed their blades, wheeled round and began to trot away towards the track leading up to the mountain pass through which the rest of the army had escaped.

Arthur gave the order to halt and watched the retreating dragoons in frustration. The enemy had been broken, and had Arthur had a single cavalry brigade to unleash they could have been utterly destroyed in the ensuing pursuit. As it was, Delaborde would soon rally his men and they would be ready to fight the British again in a matter of days.

‘A terrible waste,’ Arthur muttered as he surveyed the thick carpet of bodies surrounding the mouth of the gully. Dusk was gathering over the battlefield and a working party from the Rifles was gathering up the bodies of Lake’s battalion and carrying them to a mass grave that had been dug a short distance away.

‘Indeed, sir.’ Somerset sighed. ‘And to such little effect.’

‘Have they found Lake?’

‘Yes, sir. He was near the bottom of the pile. Must have been killed almost as soon as he emerged from the gully.’

‘Where is he?’

‘I’ve had the body taken to Roliça for burial in a private grave, sir.’

‘Very well.’ Arthur nodded and then asked the question he had been avoiding. ‘And the final butcher’s bill?’

‘Four hundred and fifty confirmed dead so far. Mostly from the Twenty-Ninth. Over seven hundred French accounted for, sir.’

‘Not quite a pyrrhic victory then,’ Arthur mused and then smiled bitterly.‘Here we are, somewhat less than fifteen thousand of us in Iberia against over a hundred thousand Frenchmen. Unless our soldiers can account for theirs at a ratio of one for ten, we have scant prospect of victory as things stand.’

Somerset shrugged. ‘Then it is up to our generals to improve the odds, sir.’

Arthur looked at him and smiled. ‘You are right. I will do my best.’

‘I would expect nothing less, sir.’

Arthur awoke with a start as someone shook his shoulder. A figure with a lantern was standing over his camp bed. Arthur blinked and then squinted past the flare of light to see Somerset in a loose shirt and breeches.

‘What time is it?’ Arthur mumbled.

‘Just past three in the morning, sir.’

‘What’s happened?’ Arthur sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

‘Just had word from the fleet, sir. Reinforcements have arrived. Four thousand men.They will begin landing the day after tomorrow.’

‘Where?’

‘At the mouth of the Maceira river. Near the village of Vimeiro, sir. A day’s march from here.’

Arthur smiled. Somerset must have been roused only shortly before he had come to wake his commander and had already marshalled the important details.

‘Very well. We will move the army towards Vimeiro at first light to cover the landing.’

‘Yes, sir.’

There was something in Somerset’s tone that made Arthur realise there was more news, something altogether less agreeable. He looked up at his aide. ‘Well?’

‘There’s a sloop following a day behind the reinforcements. Sir Harry Burrard is aboard.’

Arthur nodded wearily. So that was it then. It seemed his short tenure of command was about to come to an end. He sighed.