turn. Somerset was returning, and beyond him Wallace rode at the head of the men of his light company. The men were breathing hard, sweat dripping from underneath the brims of their shakos.
Wallace judged the spot where he should be, then ordered the men to fan out over a hundred yards behind the crest. When they were ready, he sent them forward. Arthur watched as they crested the ridge and came in view of the French skirmishers, not fifty paces below them. An enemy officer shouted, muskets rose up and several shots cracked out. None of them hit their targets and the light breeze that had picked up along the ridge quickly dispersed the puffs of gunpowder smoke. The light company began to fire back and the air filled with a steady crackle of muskets. The skirmishers halted, and behind them the head of the column slowed momentarily as the leading ranks anticipated the coming action.
The following companies of the Eighty-eighth began to file past. Wallace stopped the second company further down the track and the rest of the regiment took up their position in the line, shuffling into place, two ranks deep, facing the crest. Arthur urged his horse into a trot down on to the track, and rode up to join Wallace’s men.
Wallace edged his horse out in front of the line and took a deep breath. He shouted above the sounds of musket fire, slightly dampened by the crest of the ridge. ‘Now, men! Mind what you have to do. It is as I trained you. Don’t just poke your bayonets at ’em, but push them home, right up to the muzzle!’
His soldiers grinned and some let out a bloodthirsty cheer, until Wallace walked his horse into a gap between the companies at the centre of the line and drew his sword. ‘Fix bayonets!’
The sergeants repeated the order and the deadly lengths of steel clattered out, to be fixed over the ends of the muzzles and twisted to lock them in place.
‘The Eighty-eighth will advance!’ Wallace swept his sword towards the crest and the line stepped forward, pacing up the last few yards before revealing themselves to the enemy. Arthur and Somerset followed the line as far as the crest. A short distance ahead of them Wallace halted his men, then ordered them to fire their first volley. The enemy skirmishers were falling back, and as the muzzles of the redcoats swept up and foreshortened they went to ground, leaving their comrades in the main column anxiously staring into the face of over five hundred weapons.
‘Fire!’
The range was close, and despite their recent exertions the aim of the redcoats was steady. More than fifty of the leading Frenchmen went down, knocked back into the ranks of their comrades and bringing the column to a halt. Before the French officers could give the order to fire a volley in return,Wallace leaped down from his saddle and cupping his spare hand to his mouth he bellowed, ‘Charge!’
The cry was instantly taken up and with a savage roar the Eighty-eighth dashed forward, trampling over the heather, down the slope, directly at the waiting Frenchmen. Some of the latter had the presence of mind to discharge their muskets into the oncoming attackers, while a handful of others hurriedly fixed their bayonets. Then the redcoats were in amongst them, stabbing out, or clubbing with the butts of their muskets. The momentum of their charge carried them deep into the leading ranks of the column, and they fell on the enemy in a wild frenzy. Arthur could see Wallace, still wearing his cocked hat, at the head of the charge, slashing out with his sword and grasping the barrel of his pistol as he used the heavy butt as a club. In less than a minute the first French battalion broke, turning back and scrambling down the slope. The following formation had halted and Arthur watched as the officers and sergeants began to extend the line, in readiness to open fire. The real test of Wallace and his men was about to come, and Arthur felt his pulse quicken as he watched the tangle of men fighting across the slope directly in front of him. If they blundered into a volley fired by the second French regiment, the charge would be stopped in its tracks and there was every risk that the men of the Eighty-eighth would be flung back.
As the men of the broken regiment fled down the slope, Wallace halted and shouted an order to his men to halt and form ranks. To Arthur’s relief the other British officers and their sergeants and corporals echoed the order and within moments the redcoats had stopped their pursuit and hurried back to re-join their companies. As soon as the men of the Eighty-eighth had formed up Wallace gave the order to reload, and then advance down the slope to within fifty paces of the second French regiment. Despite standing their ground, the enemy ranks had become disordered as the fugitives from the first charge thrust their way through. With their view of the British obscured there was little that the second battalion could do to bring their muskets to bear, and only a handful of men fired their shots before they faced the full fury of the second massed British volley.
Again the muskets blasted their hail of lead, and again bloody carnage tore through the leading French companies, dropping them on the spot. With a hoarse cry, Wallace again charged with his men. This time Arthur saw that the fighting was more desperate, more confused, and the two sides were soon mixed up in a mad flurry of stabbing bayonets and swinging muskets. It was an insane, savage fight, but once more the British had the uphill advantage and Wallace and his men pushed the French back until they too could take no more, and turned to run, streaming down the slope, deaf to the enraged shouts of their officers attempting to rally them.
With the leading formations in chaos the commander of the French division had little choice but to halt his attack. The remaining battalions began to give ground, retreating back down the slope towards the rapidly thinning mist that obscured the foot of the ridge. Wallace re-formed his men again, and as they watched the enemy division recoil they let out a triumphant cheer. Wallace indulged them briefly before calling for silence once again. Arthur clicked his tongue and edged his horse down the slope towards the Eighty-eighth. The ground was covered with bodies, sprawled in the grass and heather. Most were alive, and many of the injured lay groaning and writhing pathetically as they clutched hands to their wounds. They would have to be tended to later, Arthur reminded himself. Once the battle was over.
He reined in beside Colonel Wallace and nodded his head. Wallace was still breathing hard and the edge of his sword was streaked with blood. Arthur smiled.
‘By God, Wallace, I tell you, I have never witnessed a more gallant charge.’
Wallace cleared his throat.‘Thank you, sir. My boys did well enough. What are your orders?’
‘You’ve done your work here, for now.’ Arthur briefly surveyed the foot of the ridge where the mist had all but dispersed. The beaten division was re-forming well back from the slope, while a battery of guns was trundling forward on to a slight rise, opposite Wallace’s position. ‘Best pull back to the reverse slope or the enemy guns will use the Eighty-eighth for target practice.’
Wallace glanced at the guns and pursed his lips.‘The range is long, and it might serve the men well to face up to a small dose of artillery fire.’
‘I think they have proved their mettle well enough. Pull ’em back, Wallace, directly.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Arthur wheeled his horse round and headed back in the direction of Busaco. Below, to the east of the brow of the hill on which the convent stood, he could see more enemy columns making for the road that led up the slope. This would be the main attack, he realised. The assault on the ridge to the south of Busaco was a diversion. Massйna intended to draw off allied forces to protect their flank, before throwing his main blow at the convent.
By the time Arthur and Somerset returned to the brow of the hill overlooking the village of Sula, the riflemen and the battery positioned there were already engaging the French skirmishers advancing up the road. Puffs of smoke from the scattered trees and boulders on either side of the road marked their advance as they picked their way towards the village. The British returned fire from the buildings they had fortified on the edge of Sula and every so often one of the guns would boom out as their crew spotted a cluster of enemy skirmishers that merited a blast of case shot. Even as Arthur watched he saw that the French were steadily advancing and would soon reach the village.
‘Those men cannot hold position, sir,’ said Somerset.
‘No, I suppose not.’
There was a brief pause before Somerset cleared his throat and continued. ‘Shall I order Craufurd to send men to reinforce Sula, sir?’
Arthur shook his head. ‘Craufurd knows his business. He will act in good time.’
Arthur had spoken confidently, but he hoped that he had not misjudged the commander of the Light Division. While generally a fine officer, Craufurd had an unnerving tendency towards over-confidence on occasion. Fortunately, the gun crews had ceased firing, and they begun to limber their cannon as the riflemen intensified their covering fire to slow down the enemy skirmishers. Then, as the horse teams trundled out of the village and up the road towards the convent, the green-jacketed riflemen fell back in pairs to re-join their division. From where he sat on his horse Arthur could see the men of the Fifty-second lying down just behind the crest of the ridge as they
