The Fields of Death - Scarrow Simon - Страница 44
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‘At the double, yes, sir.’
Arthur fixed him with a steady look. ‘You must hold them at all costs. There may be an entire division of them. Do you think your fellows can do their duty?’
‘Aye, sir. They will,’ Wallace replied soberly.
‘Good, then see to it, as swiftly as you can.’
They exchanged a salute and Arthur wheeled his horse round and galloped back along the ridge towards the point threatened by the French column tramping steadily up the slope. At first they could see nothing of the enemy as they rode, and Arthur wondered if they had withdrawn, or changed direction. Then he saw the fold in the slope where the gully dropped away, concealing a wide breadth of ground within. The first pairs of skirmishers were already in view, cautiously moving up the slope, looking for the first sign of their opposite numbers, but the ridge ahead of them was empty beneath a warm morning sky as larks flitted low over the heather.
‘My lord, over there!’ Somerset called out from behind.
‘I see them.’
Arthur reined in and stared at the French skirmishers, then twisted round to look along the track. The leading company of the Eighty-eighth was still nearly half a mile back, musket barrels chinking from side to side as they trotted along the rear of the crest, kicking up a faint haze of dust in their wake. It would take them at least another ten minutes to reach their new position, directly in front of the French. Turning back, Arthur saw that the skirmishers were less than a quarter of a mile from the crest. Ahead of them, the steepness of the slope increased before abruptly flattening out a short distance from the top of the ridge.
There was still time, he decided. Just enough time, if Wallace’s men kept up their pace.
‘Somerset!’
‘Sir?’
‘Ride back to Wallace. Tell him to form the centre of his line some two hundred yards on from my position. His light company is to contest the ground in front of the enemy column to buy some time for the rest of the regiment to form up. Go!’
Somerset tipped his gloved hand to the brim of his hat, swerved his horse round and spurred it down the track. Arthur turned his attention back to the enemy. The glint of a gilded eagle revealed the position of the main column, following in the wake of the skirmishers. The sound of hooves pounding over the ground caused Arthur to turn. Somerset was returning, and beyond him Wallace rode at the head of the men of his light company. The men were breathing hard, sweat dripping from underneath the brims of their shakos.
Wallace judged the spot where he should be, then ordered the men to fan out over a hundred yards behind the crest. When they were ready, he sent them forward. Arthur watched as they crested the ridge and came in view of the French skirmishers, not fifty paces below them. An enemy officer shouted, muskets rose up and several shots cracked out. None of them hit their targets and the light breeze that had picked up along the ridge quickly dispersed the puffs of gunpowder smoke. The light company began to fire back and the air filled with a steady crackle of muskets. The skirmishers halted, and behind them the head of the column slowed momentarily as the leading ranks anticipated the coming action.
The following companies of the Eighty-eighth began to file past. Wallace stopped the second company further down the track and the rest of the regiment took up their position in the line, shuffling into place, two ranks deep, facing the crest. Arthur urged his horse into a trot down on to the track, and rode up to join Wallace’s men.
Wallace edged his horse out in front of the line and took a deep breath. He shouted above the sounds of musket fire, slightly dampened by the crest of the ridge. ‘Now, men! Mind what you have to do. It is as I trained you. Don’t just poke your bayonets at ’em, but push them home, right up to the muzzle!’
His soldiers grinned and some let out a bloodthirsty cheer, until Wallace walked his horse into a gap between the companies at the centre of the line and drew his sword. ‘Fix bayonets!’
The sergeants repeated the order and the deadly lengths of steel clattered out, to be fixed over the ends of the muzzles and twisted to lock them in place.
‘The Eighty-eighth will advance!’ Wallace swept his sword towards the crest and the line stepped forward, pacing up the last few yards before revealing themselves to the enemy. Arthur and Somerset followed the line as far as the crest. A short distance ahead of them Wallace halted his men, then ordered them to fire their first volley. The enemy skirmishers were falling back, and as the muzzles of the redcoats swept up and foreshortened they went to ground, leaving their comrades in the main column anxiously staring into the face of over five hundred weapons.
‘Fire!’
The range was close, and despite their recent exertions the aim of the redcoats was steady. More than fifty of the leading Frenchmen went down, knocked back into the ranks of their comrades and bringing the column to a halt. Before the French officers could give the order to fire a volley in return,Wallace leaped down from his saddle and cupping his spare hand to his mouth he bellowed, ‘Charge!’
The cry was instantly taken up and with a savage roar the Eighty-eighth dashed forward, trampling over the heather, down the slope, directly at the waiting Frenchmen. Some of the latter had the presence of mind to discharge their muskets into the oncoming attackers, while a handful of others hurriedly fixed their bayonets. Then the redcoats were in amongst them, stabbing out, or clubbing with the butts of their muskets. The momentum of their charge carried them deep into the leading ranks of the column, and they fell on the enemy in a wild frenzy. Arthur could see Wallace, still wearing his cocked hat, at the head of the charge, slashing out with his sword and grasping the barrel of his pistol as he used the heavy butt as a club. In less than a minute the first French battalion broke, turning back and scrambling down the slope. The following formation had halted and Arthur watched as the officers and sergeants began to extend the line, in readiness to open fire. The real test of Wallace and his men was about to come, and Arthur felt his pulse quicken as he watched the tangle of men fighting across the slope directly in front of him. If they blundered into a volley fired by the second French regiment, the charge would be stopped in its tracks and there was every risk that the men of the Eighty-eighth would be flung back.
As the men of the broken regiment fled down the slope, Wallace halted and shouted an order to his men to halt and form ranks. To Arthur’s relief the other British officers and their sergeants and corporals echoed the order and within moments the redcoats had stopped their pursuit and hurried back to re-join their companies. As soon as the men of the Eighty-eighth had formed up Wallace gave the order to reload, and then advance down the slope to within fifty paces of the second French regiment. Despite standing their ground, the enemy ranks had become disordered as the fugitives from the first charge thrust their way through. With their view of the British obscured there was little that the second battalion could do to bring their muskets to bear, and only a handful of men fired their shots before they faced the full fury of the second massed British volley.
Again the muskets blasted their hail of lead, and again bloody carnage tore through the leading French companies, dropping them on the spot. With a hoarse cry, Wallace again charged with his men. This time Arthur saw that the fighting was more desperate, more confused, and the two sides were soon mixed up in a mad flurry of stabbing bayonets and swinging muskets. It was an insane, savage fight, but once more the British had the uphill advantage and Wallace and his men pushed the French back until they too could take no more, and turned to run, streaming down the slope, deaf to the enraged shouts of their officers attempting to rally them.
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