“I’m ordered to hold the hill,” Browne insisted, “until Sir Thomas has reached the next village. And he hasn’t.”
“They’re gone!” Whittingham pointed to the beach where the last of the baggage train was plodding well north of the Cerro del Puerco.
“We hold the hill!” Browne insisted. “Damn it, those are my orders!”
A cannon, not fifty paces off to Browne’s right, suddenly fired, and Whittingham’s horse skittered sideways and tossed its head frantically. Whittingham calmed the beast and moved it back to Browne’s side. He dragged on his cigar and watched the dragoons who had appeared on the eastern skyline, or at least the helmeted heads of the leading squadron had shown over the crest and the Spanish artillerymen had greeted them with a round shot that screamed off into the eastern sky. A trumpeter sounded a call from the French ranks, but the man was so surprised or else so nervous that the fine notes cracked and he had to begin again. The trumpet did not prompt any extraordinary activity from the dragoons who, evidently surprised to see such a large force waiting for them, stayed just beneath the eastern crest. Two of the Spanish battalions put their skirmishers forward and those light infantrymen started a sporadic musket fire. “Range is much too long,” Browne said scathingly, then frowned up at Whittingham. “Why don’t you charge the buggers?” he asked. “Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?” Whittingham had five squadrons while the French had only three.
“Stand here, Browne, and you’ll be cut off,” Whittingham said, tapping the cigar. “Cut off, that’s what you’ll be. Our orders are clear. Wait till the army’s gone past, then follow.”
“My orders are clear,” Browne insisted. “I hold the hill!”
More Spanish skirmishers were sent forward. The apparent inactivity of the dragoons was encouraging the light companies. The French horsemen, Browne thought, must surely withdraw for they must realize they had no hope of chasing a whole brigade off a hilltop, especially when that brigade was reinforced by its own artillery and cavalry. Then some of the enemy horsemen cantered northward and drew carbines from their saddle holsters. “Buggers want to make a fight of it,” Browne said. “By God, I don’t mind! Your horse is pissing on my boots.”
“Sorry,” Whittingham said, kicking the horse a pace forward. He watched the Spanish light companies. Their musket fire was doing no evident damage. “Got orders to retreat,” he said obstinately, “as soon as the army’s passed the hill and that’s what they’ve done, they’ve passed the hill.” He sucked on the cigar.
“See that? The buggers want to skirmish,” Browne said. He was looking past Whittingham to where at least thirty of the helmeted Frenchmen had dismounted and were advancing in a skirmish line to oppose the Spaniards. “Don’t see that much, do you?” Browne asked, sounding as carefree as a man noticing some phenomenon on a country walk. “I know dragoons are supposed to be mounted infantry, but they mostly stay in the saddle, don’t you find?”
“No such thing as mounted infantry, not these days,” Whittingham said, ignoring the fact that the dragoons were disproving his point. “It doesn’t work. Neither fish nor fowl. You can’t stay here, Browne,” he went on. He tapped again and at last some cigar ash dropped onto his boot. “Our orders are to follow the army north, not stand around here.”
The Spanish gun that had fired was now reloaded with canister and its team trained the weapon around to face the dismounted dragoons who were advancing in skirmish order across the hilltop. The artillerymen dared not fire yet because their own skirmishers were in the way. The sound of the muskets was desultory. Browne could see two of the Spanish skirmishers laughing. “What they should do,” he said, “is close on the bastards, hurt them, and provoke a charge. Then we could kill the whole damned lot.”
The dismounted dragoons opened fire. It was only a smattering of musket balls that flicked across the hilltop and none of them did any damage, but their effect was extraordinary. Suddenly the five Spanish battalions were loud with orders. The light companies were called back, the gun teams were hurried forward, and, to Major Browne’s utter astonishment, the guns and the five battalions simply fled. If he had been kind he might have called it a precipitate retreat, but he was in no mood to be kind. They ran. They went as fast as they could, tumbling down the seaward slope, skirting the hovels of Barrosa and heading north. “Good God,” he said, “good God!” The enemy dragoons looked as astonished as Major Browne at the effect of their puny volley, but then the dismounted men ran back to their horses.
“Form square!” Major Browne shouted, knowing that a single battalion in a line of two ranks would make a tempting target for three squadrons of dragoons. The long, heavy, straight-bladed swords would already be whispering out of their scabbards. “Form square!”
“You mustn’t stay here, Browne!” Whittingham shouted after the major. His cavalry had followed the Spaniards and the general now spurred after them.
“Got my orders! Got my orders! Form square, boys!” The Gibraltar Flankers formed square. They were a small battalion, numbering just over five hundred muskets, but in square they were safe enough from the dragoons. “Pull up your breeches lads,” Browne shouted, “and fix bayonets!”
The dragoons, all mounted again, came over the crest. Their swords were drawn. Their guidons, small triangular flags, were embroidered with a golden N for Napoleon. Their helmets were polished. “Fine looking beggars, aren’t they, Blakeney?” Browne said as he hauled himself back into his saddle. General Whittingham had disappeared, Browne did not see where, and it seemed the Flankers were alone on the Cerro del Puerco. The front rank of the square knelt. The dragoons had formed three lines. They were watching the square, knowing its first volley would cut down their leading rank, but wondering whether they could break the redcoats apart anyway. “They want to die, boys,” Browne shouted, “so we shall oblige them. It is our God-given duty.”
Then, from behind the ruined chapel, came a single squadron of King’s German Legion hussars. They rode in two ranks, wore gray overalls, blue coats, and polished helmets, and carried sabers. They rode tight, boot to boot, and as they passed the corner of Browne’s square the front rank spurred into the gallop. They were outnumbered by the dragoons, but they charged home and Browne heard the clangor of saber against sword. The dragoons, who had not started their advance, were pushed back. A horse fell, a dragoon spurred out of the fight with a face cut to the skull, and a hussar rode back toward the square with a sword piercing his belly. He fell from his saddle fifty yards from Browne’s front rank and his horse immediately turned back to the fight that was a confusion of men, horses, and dust. The hussars, having hurled the first line of dragoons back, turned away and the French came after them, but then the trumpet threw the second line of Germans against the French and the dragoons were pounded back a second time. The first troop re-formed, the riderless horse taking its place in the rank. A sergeant and two men of the Holy Boys had fetched the wounded hussar into the square. The man was plainly dying. He stared up at Browne, muttering in German. “Pull the damned sword out!” Browne snapped to the battalion’s surgeon.
“It will kill him, sir.”
“What if it stays in?”
“He’ll die.”
“Then pray for the poor bugger’s soul, man!” Browne said.
The hussars had come back now. The dragoons had retreated, leaving six bodies on the hill. They might have outnumbered the single squadron of Germans, but so long as the Germans stayed near the redcoated infantry, the dragoons were vulnerable to volley fire and so their commander took them down the hill’s slope to wait for reinforcements.
Browne waited. He could hear musketry far to the north. It was volley fire, but it was someone else’s fight so he ignored the sound. He was commanded to hold the hill and he was a stubborn man, so he stayed under the pale sky in which the wind brought the smell of the sea. The leader of the hussar squadron, a captain, politely requested to enter the square and touched the brim of his helmet to Browne. “The dragoons, I think, will not bother you now,” he said.
“Obliged to you, Captain, obliged I’m sure.”
“I am Captain Dettmer,” the captain said.
“Sorry about this fellow,” Browne said as he nodded at the dying hussar.
Dettmer stared at the hussar. “I know his mother,” he said sadly, then looked back to Browne. “There is infantry coming to the hill,” he went on. “I saw it when we were fighting.”
“Infantry?”
“Too many,” Dettmer said.
“Let’s look,” Browne said, and he ordered two files to leave the square, then led Captain Dettmer through the gap. The two men trotted to the hill’s eastern edge and Browne stared down at approaching disaster. “Dear
