Kings and Emperors

Those two massive columns were lurching forward, marching to the beat of drums, about three or four hundred yards apart from each other, with their light infantry out front as skirmishers and flank guards. They put Lewrie in mind of magic blue carpets creeping along as they began their slow ascent to the ridge. In his ocular, he could see them sway left and right, elbow to elbow, in perfect step, with their muskets held vertically against their right chests and shoulders, at Carry Arms. They were spiny creeping blue carpets, for the blades of their fixed bayonets winked and twinkled in waves as they swayed.

The drums thundered in an almost hypnotic beat, over and over, then came a brief pause as nigh two thousand men gave a great shout together, “Vive l’Empereur!” and the drums thundered Boom-buh-buh-boom. Then “Vive l’Empereur!”

Christ, what if they are unstoppable? Lewrie thought with a sudden chill in his i

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

The initial French thrust seemed aimed closer to the village of Vimeiro, off to Lewrie’s right, perhaps in hopes that those massive, bludgeoning columns would push through and cut the British lines in two, and reach the Maceira River valley to cut off any hope of extraction.

Boom-bub-buh-buh-boom, then the pause and the shout of “Vive L’Empereur!”, louder now as those two columns got closer, and Lewrie could begin to make out details, the brightly polished metal shako plates, and the differences between them from one regiment to the next, even the large brass numbers, the stiff plumes that rose from the sides of their shakoes in different colours. He could almost make out individual faces; ta

“Scruffy lot,” Lewrie muttered, half to himself, and thinking that there was a great difference between the Sunday parade ground and the field. The French wore ragged, faded, and patched uniforms, stained and dusted, whilst a quick look down the line of the ridge showed the British troops still in mostly new-issued and clean kits.

“When’s our bloody artillery going to—?” Ford grumbled, cut off by the first, welcome, shots from British guns. Thin and sketchy trails of smoke marked the passage of their shot as they descended in quick arcs onto those massed columns.

“Shrapnel shot!” Lewrie crowed with delight when he realised what he was seeing. The fuses of the shrapnel shells, ignited by the explosions of the gunpowder in the artillery’s barrels, left those thin trails. A second later, and they burst, some at ground level among the French soldiers, but most exploded above their heads, scattering irregular chunks of the shells, and the musket balls packed inside them, to strew death, dismemberment, wounds, and consternation in a wider burst radius.

The French columns staggered and reeled for a second or so, but the insistent drums forced them onward, and ranks and files came back together, shoulder to shoulder, stepping over their casualties at the same implacable pace. Far behind those columns, the elegantly clad French cavalry units still came forward at a nervous, head-tossing gait, waiting their chance ’til the infantry had punched through, so they could charge into the confusion and exploit the breach in the British lines. A pair of artillery guns showed them some attention, too, emptying saddles and scything down screaming horses with their bursting shot, but it was the columns that were the guns’ main targets.

“What do they do when they get close?” Lewrie turned to ask Ford. “Do they just tramp straight on, or what?”

“Well, at some point, they bring the rear ranks out to form line, three or four deep, and open fire with musketry,” Ford told him. “’Til then, no more than the first two or three leading ranks … ninety men or so … and the men in the outer files down the flanks, can use their weapons.”

“Don’t make good sense, t’me,” Lewrie commented with a shake of his head. “’Til then, the columns are just big, walking targets.”

“They’ve worked for the French, so far, sir,” Ford replied. “Perhaps they think that they’ve such a large army that they can replace all their great losses. It’s brute and crude, but columns have broken everyone in Europe, even the Prussians.”

The few British guns with the army continued their ca

Lewrie lifted his pocket telescope and sca

Now, he heard the thin crackle of musketry, and turned to scan the face of the ridge, where powder smoke was rising from long-range Baker rifles. A quick look at the head of the nearest French column showed officers and sergeants out in front, waving their swords to encourage their troops onward. Here and there, Lewrie could see those officers struck down. He could barely make out where the riflemen were positioned among the scrub, and surely the French could not see them, either, but they were being shot down by ghosts, out of the blue. Red-coated soldiers of the various Light Companies could be seen, but not the Rifles, firing volleys then retreating up the ridge, shooting beyond the effective range of their muskets but with those columns such broad targets, even their fire was taking grim effect, and the front of that nearest column was now stumbling and stepping over their own casualties.

“Lord, they’re almost up within musket shot!” Captain Ford fretted, his own telescope glued to one eye. “Is there no stopping those snail-eatin’ shits?”

The crest of the ridge before the French columns was suddenly full of British troops, hastening to array themselves two ranks deep from their shelter behind the crest. The men of the skirmishing companies were rushing to join them, out of the line of fire, then, at less than one hundred yards, they opened fire.

“Oh, just lovely!” Ford chortled.

Over three thousand muskets opened up, the first rank kneeling to shoot, followed a second or two later by the discharge of the rear rank soldiers who stood behind, and Lewrie jerked his gaze to the column’s front, which looked as if it was simply melting away! French soldiers were tumbling down in windrows, taking those punishing volleys from the front and both flanks, trying to spread out to form a matching line and employ their own muskets in reply, but they were dying too fast for that to prevail.

The first ranks of the British infantry volleyed again, then the rear rank men fired theirs, and the insistent French drums were silenced, at last. Then, with a great, screeching shout, British regiments were dashing down the slope with bayonets fixed, howling like so many imps from Hell!

It was too much for the French. The men at the front of that column turned their backs and tried to run, shoving rear rankers out of their way and spreading panic that twitched down the long length of the column. Somewhere in that mass, a bugle was braying the call to retire, but any hope for an orderly retirement was out of the question; it turned into a terrified rout! Frenchmen in the rear were bowled over by the ones in the middle, the men in the middle were trampled by the ones that had borne the brunt of those volleys, and were scurrying like witless chickens to get away from those wickedly sharp bayonets. Some Frenchmen were trying to melee with their own bayonetted muskets, but they were being swamped over and skewered, and some who could not run fast enough were throwing aside their weapons and kneeling, their arms raised in surrender. British blood was up, though, and not all of those who gave up survived, bashed in the head with heavy musket butts as British soldiers raced past them, or bayonetted.