seconds.
'Rear rank ready!' Arthur called out, and waited for the order to be repeated down the line. 'Fire!'
The second volley crashed out and once again stopped the French column dead, no more than twenty-five yards away – so close that Arthur could see every detail as a ball struck a man in the face; his head snapping back amid a red haze. Arthur instantly dismissed the image and bellowed out his next order.
'Fire by companies!'
The shattering impact of the first two massed volleys now gave way to rolling fire that rippled along the British line with almost no interval and the heavy musket balls progressively shredded the foremost ranks of the enemy column. Only a handful of shots were fired in return and Arthur was glad to see no more than a score of his men were down.
'Keep it up lads!' Fitzroy was yelling close by, his voice tight with excitement. 'Keep it up!'
Over the acrid cloud of burned gunpowder, Arthur saw that the road ahead of him was heaped with blue- uniformed bodies. And still the enemy officer survived, even though a ball had creased his scalp and a sheet of blood flowed down his face and spattered the white facings on his uniform. He was screaming at his men to charge home, but as each wave of men struggled to clamber over the growing tangle of French bodies, they in turn were struck down and added to the obstacle. More than a hundred men were already dead and dying, and still they came on, shouting with foolhardy courage as they threw themselves at the muzzles of the redcoats' muskets. Arthur could only wonder at the suicidal valour of the revolutionaries. They had to be mad, he told himself. Only madness could make men take such punishment. And still they came on. Still they died, dozens at a time.
At last the charmed life of the French officer could no longer defy the terrible odds and two or three bullets struck him in the chest and hurled him back on to the ground. His sword spun a few feet to one side before the point embedded itself in the soft ground and it wavered from side to side for a moment. A groan rose up from the French ranks and suddenly they were no longer moving forward to take the place of their dead and injured comrades. As the withering British fire continued to strike them down, the French infantry began to back away, a step at a time at first, then more hurriedly until the column receded down the slope and then disintegrated into a formless mass along the fringes of the mist. The drums fell silent
'Cease fire!' Arthur called out. 'Cease fire, damn you!'
It took a while for the order to be passed along the line, and enforced by the sergeants, before the rattle of musketry died away. After the dreadful din of the volleys there was a sudden hush over the battlefield, broken by the groans and cries of the injured, who writhed feebly amid the bodies heaped a short distance in front of the British line. The thrill and excitement that had burned in Arthur's veins moments earlier turned to shame and disgust as he beheld the carnage through the thinning smoke. He had no idea it could look like this. So many brave fellows in their fine uniforms mangled and torn apart. He felt faint for an instant and tore his gaze away. Beyond the pile of bodies he could see the French general and his staff surveying the scene.Their shock was palpable, even at this distance. For a moment they were still. Then the general reached a hand up and doffed his cap at the British line, before turning his horse away and following his men back into the mist.
'Good God,' Fitzroy said quietly. 'We did it. We turned them back.'
'For now,' Arthur replied. 'They'll return. Next time you can be sure they'll use their artillery on us before throwing another column forward.' He turned his head and looked at the low ground behind the British line. 'If only we had a hill or fold in the land to shelter the men. That and another brigade or two, and some artillery of our own and we could hold them here indefinitely.'
'You're wishing for the moon, Arthur,' said Fitzroy bitterly. 'We're on our own. So we had better quit this place, before the Frogs can turf us off it.'
'Yes,' Arthur nodded, unable to hide his disappointment. 'Tell Coulter he's got the rearguard duty. Have the rest of the brigade form up on the road.We'll have to fall back towards headquarters. That's all we can do now. Still,' he mused as he stared at the dead enemy officer, sprawled on his back, 'it's been most instructive. Most instructive indeed.'
Fitzroy stared at him, then laughed.
The colonel stiffly drew himself up in the saddle. 'What's so confoundedly funny?'
'It's you, Arthur.' Fitzroy bit down on his hysteria, now that he could see that he had pricked his friend's pride. 'I'm sorry. It's just that you have a peculiar way of reacting to events at times. 'Most instructive.' Why, Arthur, anyone would think you were on some school playing field, not a battlefield.'
The young colonel eyed him seriously for a moment. 'There's more truth in that than you know.'
Chapter 85
The redcoats were pushed back relentlessly, across the Meuse, then across the Waal, where they finally had a line of defence that even the wild enthusiasm of the revolutionary armies could not overcome.There, the exhausted British soldiers sat in their camps and kept watch on the enemy across the wide expanse of the river.The main bulk of the French army then turned east, rolling up the Austrian forces and hurling them back across the Rhine as the tricolour rose above the city of Cologne. Despite news of such defeats the British could only feel relief that the weight of the enemy forces had been transferred to the hapless Austrians. It was strange, Arthur mused, that he felt it himself: a sense of satisfaction that their allies were being punished for their tardiness in fighting the French, and their wilful abandonment of the Duke of York and his men. At the same time, the wider situation looked hopeless for the allies, though they were allies only in name now. The diplomatic bickering over the financial aid Britain should contribute and the disagreements over the eventual spoils of war continued even though defeat followed defeat.
A sorry business indeed, Arthur reflected, as he made the morning inspection of his brigade, stretched out along the Waal in a series of small forts and redoubts. His men looked tired and filthy. Despite not having had to march anywhere in the last two months, they were on constant alert for any attempt by the French to cross the Waal and had been called out of their tents and bunkers every time the alarm had been sounded by a nervous sentry. Supplies of food were sporadic and even when they did turn up the measures were always short, or the meat and biscuits were rotting and barely edible. The men of the Royal Waggon Corps were having a fine war of it, skimming off the best supplies and selling them on the black markets in The Hague and Amsterdam. Meanwhile, Arthur and his men went hungry. Most of his officers saw to it that they were well fed, but he endured what his men endured and made sure they knew it.The result was trust and loyalty – a rare commodity amongst the regiments strung out along the bank of the Waal.
As Arthur rode up to the fort commanded by Captain Fitzroy, a pair of sentries rose from the small fire beside the gate and stood to attention. Arthur saluted as he passed between them. Inside the gate the fort was a sea of mud. To one side a soldier, stripped to the waist, was busy hacking strips of flesh from a slaughtered horse and tossing the hunks of meat into wooden tubs. Nearby others were stoking up the fires under some steaming cauldrons. None of them acknowledged the arrival of their commanding officer and for a moment Arthur considered riding across to them to demand the respect he was due. In normal circumstances he might well make this a disciplinary matter. Indeed, he should insist on proper procedure under all circumstances. But today, the cold, grey and wet sapped the spirit of them all, and Arthur could well understand how some armies fell to pieces in such circumstances, if left to endure them for too long. So he ignored them and guided his mount across the sucking quagmire to the timber-framed bunkers that had been erected backing on to the rampart. They served as Fitzroy's accommodation and headquarters for the two companies of the garrison. Arthur dismounted, squelching down into the mud, and hitched the reins to the rail outside the bunkers. Pushing aside the leather curtain that hung across the entrance, he ducked inside.
An elderly sergeant was working at a small desk by the light of a lantern and he instantly rose and stood to attention as he saw the colonel.
'Where's Captain Fitzroy?'
'Outside the fort, sir.' The sergeant gestured to the side opposite the main gate. 'Playing cricket.'
Arthur laughed. 'Doing what?'
'Playing cricket, sir. Officers' and sergeants' eleven versus corporals and privates.'
Arthur stared at the man for a moment and then shook his head. 'Cricket… Hardly the season for it.'
