Kings and Emperors

The fastest of the French soldiers to escape reached the cavalry, which had come to a full stop at the sight of such a debacle, going helter-skelter through the drawn-up horsemen. In the meantime, the British artillery resumed firing with bursting shot into that fleeing horde, creeping their fire up to the cavalry units, too, and forcing the elegant French horse to wheel round and retire from the field at the walk, or at the trot, their usefulness dashed.

“By God, the other column is broken, too!” Captain Ford cheered, turning to the men of his Light Company. “See that, lads? That’s the way to deal with a column!” and his soldiers gave out a great, mocking cheer to see the French on their way.

“It’s hard to tell with all the smoke, but I do believe that the other column fared no better than this’un,” Lewrie said, pointing further West at another amorphous blob of blue-coated soldiery which was retiring in rapid order, leaving a long bloody trail of dead and wounded, great heaps of dead where it had been shot to a stop, and the survivors stampeding over the long trail of bodies that they had left in the wake of their approach, pursued by the irregular Crump! of shrapnel shells bursting over the largest concentrations.

The British regiments which had launched that bayonet charge were now drawn up in good order and retiring to the crest of the ridge; unlike British cavalry, they had kept their heads and not gone far in pursuit, once the French had broken and run. They herded some whole prisoners and walking wounded along with them, ignoring the pleas from badly wounded Frenchmen who lay where they had fallen and would not be tended to ’til either night had fallen, or the battle was won, one way or another.

“Well, I thought columns made no bloody sense, and it appears they don’t,” Lewrie summed up, bringing his borrowed canteen round to un-cork and take a welcome sip. “What a horrid waste of soldiers!”

“I’d not speak too soon, Captain Lewrie,” Ford cautioned, “for it seems it’s our turn, next. See there? Two more columns are forming a bit to the left of our direct front. Care to go down the slope with me and my company, sir? Pot a few Frogs with your musket?”

“Tempting,” Lewrie mused, “but, that’d be askin’ a sailor to walk too much. I think I’ll watch it play out from up here.”

Orders were being shouted, the regiment’s line companies were being brought forward to form up on the crest, with the bulk of the unit still in shelter. A ru

“Have it your way, sir, and take joy of the excitement,” Ford bade him.

“And the best of good fortune go with you, Captain Ford,” Lewrie offered, extending his right hand to shake with him.

There came the thuds of hooves from several horses together, and the snorts and pants from a group of mounts being urged along the ridge’s crest, and Lewrie turned to look. It was that Wellesley fellow and some of his staff, coming to the scene of the next French attempt. This morning, General Sir Arthur Wellesley was not wearing the gilt-laden red coat of a British officer, but a plain grey coat that fell to his knees and the tops of his boots, with a gold-laced belt round his middle that held his sword. He drew rein to survey the enemy columns that would come against this part of the ridgeline, using an ivory pocket telescope. There was a stern scowl on his face, one that turned even harsher as he swivelled about and espied Lewrie. One quizzical brow went up as he peered down that long, beaky nose, then turned his gaze away to matters at hand, and urged his horse to pace further East along the ridge to the other regiments.

Lewrie thought he heard a “Hmmph!” from Wellesley over his presence on a battlefield, but could never swear to it in later days. Struggling, thrashing artillery teams, pieces, caissons and limbers, came tearing by to take up quick emplacements further along the ridge, and Lewrie wandered in their wake over to the nearest line company, unslinging his Ferguson off his shoulder and resting the butt on the ground.

“Come to see the show, sir?” an infantry Lieutenant joshed.

“Something like that, aye,” Lewrie replied with an easy grin.

“It won’t be long coming,” the officer said, perking up to the thin, distant sounds of cheers as the French steeled themselves for an attack. The infernal drumming began once more, and two pristine columns lurched into motion, Summer sunlight flashing off shako badges and bayonets, and dust rising round the columns’ front and flanks like seawater disturbed by a rowboat’s motion, spreading outward from their passage, and hanging low in the air.

What happens over there, out of range, is exciting, Lewrie told himself; but what comes right at you can frighten the piss out of you.

The French looked to be coming straight at him, and he felt the need to pee.

*   *   *

The French artillery opened up a minute or two later after he had come back to the crest, their roundshot howling and moaning overhead, tweetling up the musical scale as they approached to go silent as they drummed into the ridge below the crest, and one or two lucky shots skimming the crest to pluck unfortunate soldiers away as they stood two ranks deep, and it was British sergeants who bawled out for the survivors to close ranks, this time.

Then British guns barked when the range had fallen to about six hundred yards, and the shrapnel shells began to Crack and Crump over the French columns spreading death in all directions.

“Wonder what it feels like,” the Lieutenant said with a touch of nervousness to his voice as the French columns kept up their implacable advance. “Surely, they must be able to see the fuse trails coming at them, knowing they’re going to burst above them!”

“I’d expect they’ve very loose bowels, and wouldn’t trust their arseholes with a fart,” Lewrie hooted, raising a titter of laughter from the officer’s company. “The French have never experienced bursting shot before … never come up against British soldiers before, and must be in dread, by now, after what happened to the first attack.”

“We’ll maul them!” the Lieutenant declared, sounding confident, but Lewrie noted how white his fingers were round the hilt of his scabbarded sword.

“Damn right we will!” several soldiers barked in agreement.

“Silence in the ranks, stand steady,” the company’s Captain growled, casting a dis-believing eye on Lewrie for a second.

The nearest column looked as if it would reach the ridgeline about one hundred yards East of where Lewrie stood, thi

I’m such a sham, he told himself; but I’ve gotten good at it, play-actin’ for people’s benefit, by now. They all are, he thought, glancing down the company front to see how the soldiers were taking the French approach. Everyone in sight, even the French, were playing bold and brave! There were some pale faces, some gulps of awe, and some fondling of talismans, but they looked ready.

What a damn-fool idea this is, he further thought, shaking his head over his stupidity for coming ashore; this is the last time I take part in a shore battle! By choice, I hope!

He reached the left flank of the infantry company, into open ground where one of the sheltering companies would form when called up to the line. It felt very lonely and vulnerable to be out there on his own, of a sudden, and he understood a common soldier’s assurance of having others at his sides, and his rear-rank man backing him up.