Beat the Drums Slowly (Napoleonic War 2) Page 2

  ‘The Tenth are my lot. They’re out there somewhere with Old “Black Jack” Slade. They drive the French from cover, and then it’s view halloo and sabres and glory before breakfast. Have you ever been in a cavalry charge, Williams?’

  ‘I confess not.’

  ‘The main thing is to stay on your horse.’ The hussar chuckled, and the mockery was so good natured that Williams happily joined in.

  ‘Quiet back there,’ shouted a voice far louder than their conversation. ‘We’re getting close now.’

  The moon had gone, and the pale light of dawn was growing, although there was no sign of the sun. In the fields there were patches of milky-white mist. They rode on, hoofbeats mingling with the snorts and heavy breathing of the horses and the creak and jingle of harness to produce a noise so different from the sound of infantry on the march. If anything, the road was in worse condition than the stretch Williams and Wickham had come down. Patches of ice combined with deep ruts to make the going treacherous. Bobbie stumbled and skidded several times, as did most of the other horses. Several fell, although Williams did not see anyone badly hurt.

  Muffled shouts and a single shot came from somewhere in advance of the main column. Minutes later, an hussar galloped up to report that the outposts had run into a French piquet, and killed two and captured half a dozen. Several more had escaped, riding back to give the alarm. Lord Paget led the regiment on, but progress was slow when they had to file across two bridges spanning a drainage ditch. Neither had a parapet, and their surface was slick with ice, but, to Williams’ surprise, Bobbie strode across without any hesitation or false step.

  He could see the rooftops of Sahagun clearly now, and somewhere a bell was tolling.

  Lord Paget took the 15th to the right of the place, following a fork in the road. As Williams looked across the fields to their left, he could see a dark mass formed outside Sahagun, perhaps a quarter of a mile away. There were horsemen there, but in the mist and gloom it was hard to know their strength. The cheerful hussar officer had no doubt about their identity.

  ‘Johnny Crapaud is up early for once.’

  Lord Paget turned and gave the order himself. ‘Form open column of divisions!’ Cavalry drill was something of a mystery to Williams, and he had no idea whether a division was a troop or a squadron, but the intent seemed clear. As in the similar infantry formation, the regiment would march with sections one behind the other, with enough space between them so that each could wheel and form a single line either to the front or facing either flank.

  The dark mass began to move as the 15th changed formation, heading eastwards away from Sahagun.

  ‘Walk march – trot!’ The general’s order was repeated down the extended column. The British cavalry advanced rapidly, moving parallel to the enemy, quickly gaining and then passing them. Small shapes came out of the darker mass as the French sent out flankers, individuals and pairs of riders, whose task was to screen the main force. They came close, and Williams could clearly see the outline of one man’s broad-topped shako. He was probably a chasseur, like the men they had seen in Portugal, and the counterparts to the British light dragoons and hussars.

  ‘Qui vive?’ a voice called out. The challenge was repeated.

  ‘Ignore them,’ said Lord Paget.

  ‘Well, we haven’t been introduced,’ hissed Williams’ companion.

  ‘Qui vive?’ The wind picked up, driving away the mist, and he could clearly see the French chasseur holding his carbine, and yet in spite of their refusal to answer, he did not fire. It began to sleet.

  The main body of the French had stopped. It took a moment for the general to see this, and then he halted his own column. There was movement in the French mass as they deployed into line facing towards the British. The sleet turned to snow, then slackened and died away to nothing.

  ‘Qui vive?’ Still no answer, and Williams began to think the enemy outposts quite stubbornly obtuse. Behind him the 15th wheeled left to form line to confront the enemy. He remained with the general and his staff, ahead of and just to the left of the centre of the new line. A small escort of a dozen men from Lord Paget’s own regiment, the 7th Hussars, guarded him.

  Williams reached down to loosen his sword in its scabbard, suddenly nervous that the frost would make it stick. It slid comfortably and he let it fall back into place. He had anticipated the order by only a moment.

  ‘Draw swords!’ There was a scraping as the hussars’ blades grated against the metal tops of their scabbards. The light cavalry-pattern sabre was curved and rather clumsy, but its heaviness lent power to the edge. Williams carried a Russian sword, less curved and lighter, but well balanced, and he was tempted as always to flick it through the air, enjoying its feel. Instead, he shouldered the blade just like the hussars. Williams had never fought with a sword, for in the battles of the summer his weapons had been musket and bayonet. He had shot and killed the sword’s owner, and now for the first time wondered whether it was an unlucky weapon. That was superstition, and he tried his best to dismiss the thought.

  ‘Vive l’Empereur!’ A cheer came from the French cavalry. Williams almost smiled to hear again the familiar shout. Then there were flashes and puffs of smoke as the flankers fired their carbines, the noise of the shots coming almost instantly as they were so close. Williams did not see anyone fall, and the French horsemen were soon spurring their horses back towards their main body.

  Unscathed, the 15th gave a cheer of their own.

  ‘The Fifteenth will advance. Walk march!’ The line walked forward, the hussars in two ranks; the second waited until the first was a horse’s length ahead of them before following.

  ‘Emsdorf and victory!’ shouted the lieutenant colonel.

  ‘Emsdorf and victory!’ The chant was repeated all along the line, recalling a battle half a century before when the regiment had first made a name for itself.

  ‘Trot!’ They accelerated almost immediately, for the French were already less than four hundred yards away. Swords were still on the shoulder.

  The French were not moving, and then suddenly their front vanished behind a cloud of smoke as they fired a volley with their short carbines. The range was long. Williams would certainly not have thought to fire at such a distance. He did not hear or feel any of the shots go near him and guessed that they all went high.

  ‘Charge!’ They was already closing quickly, and before he used his heels Bobbie began to run, for once without her familiar lurch. She raced ahead, and Williams was riding abreast of Lord Paget, a horse’s length ahead of everyone else. The general looked more puzzled than irritated when he glanced to see the infantry officer beside him.

  Another volley, and this time a ball snatched the cocked hat from Williams’ head. A horse fell in the squadron behind them, the man tumbling to the ground, and somehow the hussar behind him jumped the fallen beast and man without checking. The men had their sabres high now, the point angled forward at the enemy. Williams was bouncing too much in the saddle to hold his own blade steady.

  The French were close. In front were three ranks of chasseurs, their shakos protected by light-coloured cloth covers, and their dark green uniforms looking almost black in the dim light. Some were loading, fumbling with paper cartridges and metal ramrods, for even the short-barrelled carbines were awkward to load on horseback. Others clipped the guns back to their slings and reached for their swords.

  Bobbie took off, leaping a ditch which Williams had not noticed as he focused on the enemy. The mare landed well, only an instant after Lord Paget’s horse, but Williams had not been prepared and almost lost his balance. Behind them the staff and escort, followed closely by the 15th, cleared the ditch and urged their mounts to one more effort, rushing at the enemy.

  A few Frenchmen had loaded fast enough to fire again, and an hussar was plucked from the saddle, but there was already movement and jostling among the chasseurs. Their horses were stirring and shifting. Many turned away, instinct making them want to join the herd rush
ing towards them and run on with them. The riders were nervous, for they had expected a feeble probe by the atrociously mounted Spanish cavalry and not an enemy who charged boldly home. Their volleys had had no impact and now it was far too late to come forward and meet the charge.

  Gaps opened in the formation and Williams felt a wild exhilaration as the last few yards thundered past in the blink of an eye. Bobbie shot into a space left by one of the Frenchmen pushing to the rear, barging against the rump of his horse. The man looked back over his shoulder at Williams, his face a rictus of horror. To the right a big horse, aggressively ridden by one of the general’s aides, knocked down a chasseur and his mount as they struggled to turn, but were trapped by the press behind. Lord Paget was cutting with his sabre, but as yet Williams could reach no one. Then he was through into the confusion that had been the French second and third ranks. A chasseur levelled his carbine, and the flame was enormous because it was so close and the ball took a chunk out of his right shoulder wing, knocking him back in the saddle for a moment.

  Williams’ body turned and he flung his weight into a wild slash with his right arm. By chance rather than design the tip of the sword struck just above the chasseur’s collar, opening his throat to the bone. Blood sprayed from the blade as Bobbie surged on, finding a gap in the press, and Williams’ arm swung round until it was almost straight behind him before he could recover. Another Frenchman came at him from the right, but the man’s cross-bodied slash was misdirected, then another horse struck his own mount, and there was just enough time for Williams to duck beneath the blow.

  The chasseurs were broken and running, although some still fought, and just behind them was another regiment. These were dragoons, with dark green jackets faced red and brass helmets with black horsehair crests, and they were also in three ranks. Fugitives from the chasseurs pressed into the formation, spreading panic and confusion, and with them came Williams and the first of the hussars, who gave a deep-throated roar that sounded more animal than human as they hacked with their heavy blades. One trooper screamed, and others grunted or sighed as they were caught by precise thrusts from the Frenchmen’s straight swords. Williams parried a blow and Bobbie was still going forward as, just like the chasseurs, the second French regiment’s horses chose to join the stampede. He was pressed so close to one dragoon that neither man had room to swing and the Frenchmen grinned at the absurdity of their predicament.

  The hussars cut mostly at the heads of their enemies. Williams saw a man with his face slashed open from cheek to chin. Another was knocked from his horse by a blow which dented his brass helmet. The hussars’ own fur caps were reinforced with nothing stronger than cardboard, and offered little resistance to the enemy’s swords. Blade clashed against blade and the noise was like hundreds of coppersmiths all hammering at their work together, and all the while cursing and screaming at each other. More than one hussar was struggling to remain in his seat as their saddlecloths shifted. No one had remembered to halt the regiment and tighten girths before the charge.

  Suddenly the press broke up. Both French regiments were running, swerving to the east and scattering into small groups. When the lines met, each side’s left wing had overlapped the enemy line. The hussars had wheeled at once to roll up the enemy. On the French left, a still-organised force of dragoons tried to cover the retreat, but they were quickly swept up in the mad rush away from the fight.

  Bobbie ran with the flow, and Williams reckoned the mare was enjoying the wild excitement. Everything was happening so quickly and he was reacting by instinct, more than any thought, as the whirling mêlée surged across the snow. He cut at a Frenchman, missed altogether and almost lost his balance, but by that time he was past and approaching another man. Then he saw the man was wearing a round fur hat and realised that he must be one of the 15th so stopped his blow and urged Bobbie to pass to the man’s left. Williams nodded to the man as he passed, and was rewarded with an obviously French curse and the gaping muzzle of a pistol pointed in his face. He flinched, eyes snapping closed.

  ‘Look out, sir!’ came a cry, and then there was a deafening explosion, but Williams felt no blow, and when he looked the Frenchman in the fur colpak was spurring away, but a British hussar was sprawled almost at his feet, his dead horse crumpled behind him.

  ‘You daft bugger, Jenkins,’ said an hussar corporal, who then kicked his mount onwards. He was shaking his head as he passed Williams. ‘He shot his own horse with his pistol!’

  ‘Fifteenth to me! To me!’ An officer was gathering a group of men, trying his best to organise the pursuit, and Williams followed the corporal as he went to join them. Spotting some twenty French dragoons still moving in order, the hussar captain led his own men in a fresh charge. There were no more than a dozen of them, but the French did not wait to meet them. They split up, scattering in every direction and fleeing in ones and twos. Williams could see that most were getting away. It was so much easier for them to escape than infantrymen.

  Even so, as daylight grew, the hussars gathered at least one hundred and fifty prisoners, and almost as many captured horses. Many of the captives had ghastly cuts to their heads and faces. Bobbie was exhausted, her breathing heavy and her sides covered in a foam of sweat. He let her rest for a moment, as he looked for the general and his staff. The captain who had led the little group came past, riding alongside a sergeant.

  ‘Make damned sure you search their valises for anything we can use.’

  ‘Sir!’ The sergeant trotted away and was already bellowing orders.

  ‘Especially God-damned nails!’ called the captain after him. He shook his head and noticed Williams. ‘You would think even those buffoons at Horse Guards would realise that if you send four regiments of cavalry off to war that you might want to make sure they are properly shod.’

  ‘You lack horseshoes?’ asked Williams.

  ‘Oh, we’ve got the shoes, just not enough nails for the farriers to fix ’em on. We must have lost a hundred horses on the march here.’

  ‘Nevertheless, those that remain appear in excellent condition.’

  ‘You think so, do you?’ The hussar officer’s voice was sharp, but he quickly relented. ‘If you had seen them before we embarked! Then they kept us waiting at Corunna and let the infantry land first. We were as well mounted as any cavalry could hope to be. Could be again given time.’

  Jenkins passed, carrying his saddle and furniture over his shoulder. He was accompanied by the corporal, delivering a constant stream of abuse.

  ‘Find him something from the French horses,’ ordered the officer. ‘And make sure you clean up his back. You know how badly the Frogs treat their animals.

  ‘How did we do, Simms?’ This was to the corporal, whose moustache was flecked with grey, attesting to long service.

  ‘Biggest balls-up since Yorktown, sir,’ was the cheerful reply.

  ‘Splendid!’ said the captain, and then looked up as they heard a trumpet call. The 10th Hussars were advancing at a walk, their squadrons deployed in an immaculate line. Williams could see a group of officers in the lead and guessed that Wickham was among them. The exhilaration of the charge, and the sheer relief of still being alive, was wearing off, and now his heart sank at the thought of rejoining a man he held in contempt. Once again, Wickham had kept out of the real fighting, and if that had not been through any choice of his own, Williams was not inclined to be fair at the moment. He realised that he still had his sword drawn, and noticed the red-brown dried blood on the blade, but could remember the fighting only dimly. On the ground by his mare’s feet was the corpse of a dragoon. The top of a Frenchman’s head had been neatly sheared off, its contents spilled on to the snow and obviously trampled. He hoped Bobbie was not responsible.

  ‘This is a little more than fashionably late,’ said the hussar captain, twisting his moustache, and glaring at the 10th.

  ‘Biggest balls-up since Yorktown,’ said the corporal under his breath.

  2

  ‘“Blood
and slaughter – march!” His very words, Williams, and then we advanced. I never saw anything more handsome or soldier-like.’ Captain Wickham’s enthusiasm for General Slade had carried him along for much of the fifteen-mile ride back to the main army. The captain was eager to press on, keenly anticipating the admiration and envy of the other staff officers for his participation in the cavalry’s great victory. Only the weariness of their mounts, and especially Williams’ mare, kept them at a gentle pace. The general had halted the 10th Hussars to deliver a grand oration, filled with gruesome details of what they were about to do to the French. Wickham evidently considered this a finer accomplishment than actually having arrived in time to take part in the fighting.

  Williams was barely listening, and had shown no more than the barest amount of interest demanded by courtesy, but the captain continued his flow of praise anyway.

  ‘Just think, two regiments of French cavalry utterly overthrown!’

  The ensign nodded, sourly thinking that it was all the more praiseworthy since only the 15th had charged and thus been forced to fight on their own a substantially larger enemy force. Williams was tired, cold, and every inch of his lower body screamed at the slightest movement of the mare as she plodded alongside the road, which was taken up by the columns of marching infantry. The whole army under the command of Lieutenant General Sir John Moore was following in the wake of the hussars, pushing ever deeper into northern Spain. They were to camp at Sahagun that night, as many men as possible being billeted in its houses, but Wickham had been unwilling to wait there for them to arrive. Lord Paget and his own staff had already reported to Sir John on the morning’s success. Wickham had got Williams to accompany them, but they had been left on the fringe, barely noticed except by the young ADC, who cheerfully clapped Williams on the back. Wickham decided to move on to reach the Reserve Division and give the news to Major General Paget and his officers, who were unlikely to have heard any detail of the action or had a chance to exercise their approbation.