Simon Scarrow - Fire and Sword

The British soldiers were returning to their protected position on the reverse slope of the hill when Arthur spied a party of horsemen riding up the hill from the west. As they drew closer he made out the gold braid and sash of a senior officer amongst them and realised, with a sinking feeling, that Sir Harry Burrard must have landed before the runner had reached the coast.Wheeling his horse about, Arthur turned towards Sir Harry and waited.

‘Good morning to you, Wellesley!’ Sir Harry called out as he rode up. ‘It seems you have your battle after all.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘So how is it proceeding?’ Sir Harry surveyed the bodies littering the slope and the French below, massing for yet another attack, this time to the north of the hill, in the direction of the village of Vimeiro. Arthur quickly made his report and then hesitated before asking the obvious question.

‘Do you intend to assume command here, sir?’

Sir Harry shook his head. ‘I see no need.You have the situation in hand, Wellesley. Please continue your domination of the enemy.’

Arthur could not help smiling. ‘Thank you, sir.’

Even though he could not but be conscious of his superior’s silent attention, Arthur did his best to ignore Sir Harry as he watched for developments amid the scattered trees that covered the approaches to the ridge. He did not have to wait long. Once again, a thin screen of skirmishers emerged and warily began to make their way up the slope, to be met by the waiting light infantry and men of the Rifles. But this was no more than a feint. As soon as the musket fire had intensified on Vimeiro Hill a fresh column of French infantry suddenly marched into view, making straight for the village of Vimeiro, at the centre of the British line.

‘Damn Junot,’ Arthur muttered to himself. ‘He means to cut my army in two.’

If the French general succeeded, then he would threaten to destroy each wing of the British army in turn. With a quick glance to the east to reassure himself that there was no sign of any further attempt to be made on the hill, Arthur called to Somerset and set off for Vimeiro at a gallop.The sturdy houses on the edge of the village had been occupied by light infantry and two companies of grenadiers. Behind it stood the survivors of the Twenty-Ninth Foot and the two hundred and fifty men of the Light Dragoons, the only cavalry available to Arthur since he had landed in Portugal. The two officers galloped into the main street of Vimeiro and the pounding of their mounts’ hooves echoed off the whitewashed walls on either side of the empty street. The village’s inhabitants had barricaded themselves in and were praying for a swift end to the battle.

When Arthur and Somerset reached the far side, they drew up behind a shoulder-high wall lined with British skirmishers who were already firing on the head of the French column. Rising in his stirrups Arthur squinted through the rolling haze of gunpowder smoke and saw that the leading enemy troops were no more than a hundred paces away. The crackle of muskets was underscored by the deep rhythmic rumble and rattle of drums. A handful of the enemy had been struck down, and as Arthur watched there was a white puff in the air above the column as one of the British howitzers on the hill found the range. Despite the losses the column came on at a quick step, and within a minute they had halted not more than thirty paces from the village to deliver one volley before charging.

Arthur felt a chill of terror as the enemy muskets foreshortened.The possibility that he could be shot at any moment filled him with a perverse excitement. Only good fortune could save him now, but if he lived he would have the satisfaction of having stood up to the enemy’s fire. The French fired and the air was filled with the clatter of musket balls striking the walls. When the moment had passed Arthur looked round and was relieved to see that the only damage done was that one of his men’s shakos had been shot off its owner’s head.The soldier was now swearing bloody revenge at the French as he reloaded his musket, fired, and swiftly prepared the next round.

With a roar the French rushed forward.

‘Sir,’ Somerset called out.‘I think we should withdraw to somewhere less dangerous.’

He was right, Arthur knew. Commanding generals had no right to put themselves at risk when their men needed them.Yet this situation was different. If anything happened to Arthur, Sir Harry could take over the moment he heard the news.

‘Just a moment,’ he said.

The French had reached the wall and were locked in a desperate bayonet fight with the British soldiers defending the village. Badly outnumbered as they were, Arthur’s men would have to give way eventually, he realised, and with a quick gesture to Somerset to follow him he wheeled his horse round and rode back through the village to where the Twenty-Ninth and the Light Dragoons were waiting. Arthur rode up to the colonel commanding the dragoons.

‘Taylor, I aim to break the French attack once their formation is held up by the village. The moment I give the order I want you to charge them. Go in hard and fast and make as much of a show of it as you can.’

‘Yes, sir!’ Colonel Taylor’s eyes glinted with excitement at the prospect. ‘My boys will carve them up nicely.’

‘No doubt. But listen here,Taylor, we have too few mounted men to waste. Don’t let your men pursue the enemy too far. Rein ’em in once the enemy are making a run for it. Understand?’

‘Yes, sir.You can rely on me.’

‘Very well then.’

Arthur left the dragoons and trotted forward to the men of the Twenty-Ninth. There were barely more than a hundred and fifty survivors formed up in front of the colours, yet the battalion must suffer still more grievously if the centre of the British line was to hold. Clearing his throat, Arthur addressed them.

‘Men, I know you have tasted rather more of battle than you might like, but there is one last duty I would ask of you.’ He paused and glanced along the lines of sombre faces. ‘The French desire possession of Vimeiro. I will not have it, I tell you. So then, Twenty-Ninth, it is up to you to clear those rascals away!’

Someone in the rear rank laughed and piped up,‘We’ll do it for you, Nosey!’

Arthur glared in the direction of the shout and feigned umbrage as he walked his horse to one side.

‘By God, they lack manners,’ he muttered to Somerset, and the latter smiled.

‘That is so, sir. But I think they do not lack a degree of affection for you.’

‘Indeed?’ Arthur raised his eyebrows. ‘Even as I send some of them to their deaths? A peculiar thing, is it not?’

The acting commander of the battalion, a captain, drew a breath and swept his sword out of its scabbard with a flourish. ‘The Twenty-Ninth will advance! At the double!’

The small band of men surged forward, boots pounding along the dry lane that led into the village, towards the sound of firing. Some more of the howitzers had added their fire and the clear sky beyond Vimeiro was punctuated by the deadly puffs as the shells burst over the heads of the oncoming French, scything men down. Arthur turned his mount to one side and trotted up to the top of a nearby knoll, with a solitary tree upon its crest. From there he could see that the head of the French column had penetrated the village. The enemy had already suffered grievously and the ground in front of Vimeiro was dotted with bodies. A moment later there was a roar as the Twenty-Ninth charged into the fray. The musket fire intensified briefly and then the French began to fall back from the village. The men behind them stalled and the column ground to a halt in confusion as the men fleeing from the village ran into their comrades.

Arthur turned towards the dragoons and waved his hand to attract Taylor’s attention. ‘Now’s your time, Taylor!’ he yelled. ‘Charge ’em!’