An Act Of Courage

Then, in a few minutes more, the fire abruptly ceased. The only sound was of the wounded, and these remarkably composed. After such thunder, the silence was eerie. Hervey felt his stomach tighten.

‘There can only be one reason,’ said Hill, standing tall in the stirrups, and shielding his eyes from the already strong sun as he peered into the smoke. ‘The gunners’ll not be able to see their own men. Their infantry must be half-way to the top.’

‘Bring forward the brigades, sir?’ suggested the AQMG.

‘No, George, not yet. I want to see the colour of their facings before I stand ours up. The smoke’s to our advantage now.’

Anything that hampered the gunners’ aim was to their advantage, thought Hervey. He wondered again if he ought not to be seeking his leave: the Sixth would surely not be foraging long, now that action was joined?

The guns did not remain silent for long, however. They commanded more than just the forward slope of the Cerro de Medellin: they could as easily enfilade the Portina. But they were not yet ready to switch from the Second Division entirely. The right flank of Colonel Stewart’s brigade, extending partway down the southern slope of the cerro, stood exposed, the only troops of the division not concealed on the reverse slope or masked by smoke. Two guns on the left of the French battery had direct line of sight, and these now opened an unnervingly accurate fire on the first battalion of the 48th (Northamptonshire) Regiment, followed by others firing blind – and lucky.

‘They shall have to bear it,’ said Hill resolutely, but sadly. ‘Either that or lie down. The French will be upon them soon.’

Hervey watched, appalled, as shot tore into the Forty-eighth’s ranks, the men dragging their fallen comrades rear and then closing the gaps, so that with each minute the line moved a little further to the left. ‘Why do they close up? Why do they not lie down, or stand open so the shot has less effect?’

‘Because they might not stand at all unless in close order,’ replied Lieutenant Gartside, grimly.

Hervey could scarce believe the steadiness. These men would rather stand shoulder-to-shoulder and suffer the consequences than disperse and suffer less! He began praying the cannonade would cease; the Forty-eighth had already borne more than a regiment ought to endure.

General Hill judged it the moment. ‘Now, George!’

Hervey saw the French helmets cresting the ridge as Major-General Tilson’s brigade rose to its feet, followed by Stewart’s and Donkin’s. The French had suffered not at all as they ascended the slope; now the ranks of redcoats would exact their revenge.

Hervey heard the first command – ‘Fire!’ – and then all hell itself seemed let loose.

Five minutes, ten, fifteen . . . he had no idea how long it was. The French tried to answer, but in close column of divisions they could not bring enough muskets to bear against battalions in line only two ranks deep. And even as the columns tried to deploy, riflemen of the German Legion came doubling up the south slope to pour well- aimed fire into their flank – General Mackenzie and his promised ‘best support’.

‘Bayonets!’ shouted Hill.

In an instant, four thousand muskets were turned into pikes. The lines of red surged forward, the columns of blue wavered, the British charged – and the French broke. They ran back down the slope to the Portina, but not fast enough. Hundreds of them fell to the points of steel which pursued, half crazed.

General Hill and his staff followed as far as the crest of the cerro. Smoke hung about, if patchy, but Hervey could see redcoats at the Portina, and some even across it, hunting their quarry right back to the reserve line. He had seen nothing its like before, but his instinct told him what must happen next: the whole of the British line would advance, and the whole of the French line would break.

He was wrong. As suddenly as the French had broken at the crest, the reserve line sprang to life, and the fleeing bluecoats turned on the hunting bayonets, as a wildcat turns on its pursuer.

General Hill saw but the one outcome. ‘Curse their ardour, George! What do the officers do there? Sound “recall”!’

In the relative peace of the olive groves, Hervey, now returned to duty with the Sixth, sought to recount what had happened. ‘They were horribly pounded by the artillery as they made their way back up the hill, Colonel.’

‘And there was no opening for cavalry?’ Lord George Irvine wanted to know every detail.

Hervey shook his head. ‘I do not think two horses could have crossed the Portina together at that point, Colonel. Where they might have served, perhaps, is in the valley north of the ridge. There was a whole regiment of chasseurs there, and able to withdraw in perfect order.’

Lord George frowned. ‘Anson’s supposed to be there. He’s still foraging, I suppose. There’s nothing for us here the while. I believe I shall go to Cotton and propose taking the regiment instead. Has Hill applied to Wellesley, do you know?’

‘I do not know, Colonel. The general was obliged by a wound in the head to leave the field. That is when his colonel ordered me to return here. General Tilson has taken the command.’

Lord George nodded. ‘Very well, Hervey: you may rejoin your troop. Doubtless you were of use to Hill, but I can ill afford any more detachments.’

Hervey took his leave a shade disconsolately. Lord George seemed peeved that he had been absent on duty – why else complain of detachments? – and appeared to imagine he had been but an observer. With General Hill hors de combat, perhaps invalided home even, what chance was there of any recognition now?

Half an hour later, with no move by the enemy except the continued pounding of the Cerro de Medellin, Lord George Irvine received the nod from Major-General Stapleton Cotton. He summoned his troop-leaders and gave his orders in the space of but a minute. The squadrons were well drilled, and the skirmishing of the day before had put a confident address into them, too.

‘To the left, form, in column of threes!’

Hervey thought it a pity there was no one to observe how regular the line turned to the north. These things spoke of capability, especially when so much of what they otherwise did went unremarked.

‘Walk-march!’

The bugles sounded as if on parade.

‘Trot!’

The jingling-jangling began – the music of a regiment of light cavalry on the move. It could lift the dullest spirits. Hervey was happy to be back, even where there was not ‘the opportunity to display’.

Lord George Irvine led his regiment along a track which ascended the Cerro de Medellin about a mile west of the Portina, close enough to see the Second Division’s brigades on the reverse slope – riding through their baggage-lines indeed. At a distance, the battalions looked regular enough, but the dressing-stations nearer to were prodigiously busy. Hervey had recoiled the first time he heard the phrase ‘the butcher’s bill’; seeing the surgeons at work, now, the words seemed cruelly apt.

The Sixth broached the ridge and began descending the northern slope, and still there was no sign of Anson’s brigade. Hervey, at least, was glad: they would have a good gallop here – he was sure of it.

In five more minutes, as the track levelled, they began forming right into line, four squadrons abreast, the left with its flank resting on a muddy stream. The valley bottom was perhaps half a mile wide, but the stream divided it neatly in two, and it was plain to all that north of it the French could have little opportunity to manoeuvre, even cavalry, since the ground was broken by ditches and dry watercourses, and the pasture was very rough. South of the stream was more promising: the going looked better for two furlongs and more, but beyond it was impossible to make out because of the scattered trees.

‘Sit easy!’

The officers reached for their telescopes.

Hervey searched right to left: fore-ground, middle-, and distant-, as Daniel Coates had taught him on Salisbury Plain. But this morning there was moisture in his telescope, the lens part-misted, so that he took longer than the others with his surveillance. He could see nothing except where the ground began to rise at the head of the valley a mile and a half away – what he took to be the French flank-guard squadron. ‘Do you see ought other than the cavalry yonder, Laming?’

‘Not a thing,’ drawled his fellow cornet, telescope still raised. ‘You would have thought the place would be alive with voltigeurs.’