Lewrie lifted his pocket telescope and scanned behind those columns, and what he saw put a wicked smile on his face. There were dozens upon dozens of bodies strewn in their wakes, fallen in roughly circular blots where the shells had exploded practically on the tops of their shakoes.
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.
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 runner came to Ford’s side with orders for his Light Company to go downslope to take up skirmishing positions, as he had expected.
“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.