Young bloods

'Any time now,' a frightened ensign muttered close behind Arthur. 'Any time now.'

Arthur twisted round and shot the boy a withering glance. 'You, sir! Silence there!'

The ensign dropped his gaze towards his muddy boots.

A voice cried out from the ranks. 'Here they come!'

The first of the horsemen burst out of the mist. They wore unbuttoned grey greatcoats over their green and red jackets, with high leather boots and oilskin-covered helmets.

'Dragoons,' muttered Fitzroy.

'Nothing that need cause us undue concern,' Arthur replied calmly. 'They're too light to take us on. Still, we might as well show them that we mean business. Have the men advance their bayonets.'

Captain Fitzroy called out the order and all along the brigade the front rank lowered their muskets to present the glinting points of their bayonets to the dragoons. The French had been momentarily startled by the suddenness with which they had encountered the redcoats. Now their commander recovered his wits and began to shout out a string of orders. As his men emerged from the mist they moved out each side of the track and formed up opposite the British line, two hundred yards away.

'Surely he's not going to charge?' said Fitzroy.

Arthur shook his head. 'Not unless the man's quite mad. No, he'll just want to fix us here while he sends word back to his general. We're safe for the moment.'

'And then?'

Arthur glanced sidelong at his adjutant, and friend.'Have faith, Richard. Once our lads give them a whiff of shot they'll bolt like rabbits.'

'And if they don't?'

'They will. Trust me.'

For a while the two sides confronted each other in silence. Then one of the dragoons called out, and several of his comrades jeered. The rest took up the cry and soon the whole enemy line was shouting and whistling in derision.

'What are they saying, sir?' asked one of the ensigns.

'De Lacy, do you not have any French?' Arthur smiled. He knew that De Lacy had abstained from learning almost as devoutly as Arthur now abstained from drink. 'I'd translate for you, but for the embarrassment it would bring to us both. Just be content that it is nothing fit for the ear of a gentleman.'

Captain Coulter of the grenadier company came striding up towards his colonel. Coulter, despite his rough manner, knew enough of the enemy's language to take offence and his eyes were blazing with indignation.

'Colonel? Want me to take my boys forward a pace and give the bastards a volley?'

'No, Coulter. Let them waste their breath.While they do us no harm, indulge them.'

'But, sir!'

Arthur raised a finger to quiet the man. 'I'll thank you to return to your post, Captain.'

Coulter blustered a moment, and blew hard before he turned back towards his men. Some of the redcoats had started to shout insults back at the enemy and Arthur rounded on them furiously.

'Shut your mouths! This is the bloody army, not a Dublin bawdy house! Sergeants, take their names!'

The soldiers fell silent at once and stared fixedly towards the dragoons as angry men with chevrons on their sleeves stormed down the line in search of miscreants. Arthur nodded with approval as one of the sergeants started screaming into a man's face and ended the harangue with a sharp punch to the man's nose. The head snapped back and a flush of blood poured down the man's chin. A hard but necessary lesson. Arthur was satisfied the man would keep his discipline the next time.

The catcalls abruptly ceased and Arthur quickly turned his attention towards the enemy. The dragoons were turning away and trotted off to his right, and formed up opposite the wood that protected his flank. Almost at once the first of the French infantry emerged from the thinning mist and marched directly for the centre of the British line. At the side of the column rode the enemy general and his staff officers, and they stopped as soon as they had a clear view of the ground. The French commander let his men close to within a hundred and fifty yards of the redcoats before he gave the order to halt. Further orders followed at once, and the officers at the head of the division began to marshal their men across the road until they had widened the column to company width.

Fitzroy glanced round at the British line, two men deep. 'Sir? Shall we pull in the flank companies?'

'Why?'

'To firm up our centre, sir. The men will not be able to hold when that column attacks.'

'They won't have to,' Arthur replied calmly. 'It won't come to that. There are perhaps five or six thousand men out there. But not more than a hundred of them will be able to bring their muskets to bear on us, Fitzroy. In return, every one of the men in the brigade will be able to fire. And we can reload much faster than they. I doubt they'll even get close enough to use the bayonet.'

Captain Fitzroy looked at his friend in surprise. The colonel seemed utterly sure of himself, as if the conclusion of the coming fight was foregone. There had been a hint of arrogance in the man's tone that had gone beyond his usual aristocratic haughtiness and there was an icy touch to the back of the captain's neck as he sensed that he, his friend and most of the redcoats standing so still and silent might well be dead before the morning was over.

'Arthur…'

'Quiet! I think the enemy is about to make his move.'

A sharp cry rang out from the French column, and an instant later the drums boomed out from close behind the leading companies. An officer, his uniform trimmed with fabulously gaudy gold braid, drew his sword and swept it in an arc so that its point ended up in line with the heart of the British brigade.

Arthur had mounted his horse and with his staff officers around him and the colours raised behind him, fancied that the Frenchman's sword was pointing directly at him. He smiled, and muttered, 'Well, let them just try.'

At once the French column rippled forward, bayonets lowered below the grim faces of the men in the front rank. The pace was slow, as it had to be with the poor level of training that was a feature of most of the revolutionary army. Arthur was aware that what they lacked in training they made up for in spirit, and that was why they must be brought to a halt before they could charge home. At the same time, given the short supply of ammunition, every British volley had to count. That would mean holding fire to the last possible moment, in order to maximise the impact of the hail of British lead and ensure that every bullet had the best chance of finding its target. It would be a close-run thing, he decided. He drew a deep breath and cupped a hand to his mouth.

'On my order, brigade will prepare to fire! Front rank: make ready!'

All along the line the company commanders moved back behind their men and the dark barrels of the Brown Bess muskets swept forward and were trained on the head of the advancing enemy column. At the sight the leading Frenchmen seemed to pause for an instant before the officer gave a shrill cry of encouragement and flourished his glinting blade at the redcoats once again. The column lurched forward again, no more than a hundred yards away now.

Arthur forced himself to sit still and regard the oncoming enemy with no hint of an expression on his face. Inside he felt his pulse pounding with excitement and terror. And yet for all the tension and danger, he was surprised to find that he was supremely content and happy. Right now, there was no place on this earth that he would rather be. An image of Kitty Pakenham flashed into his mind and there was some small satisfaction that if he died today, the pain of his loss might be a small revenge on her for refusing to marry him. He dismissed the thought at once.

'Cock your weapons!'