the French gunners ignore the infantry and try and destroy the opposing cannon. But they were outclassed both in the rate of fire and its accuracy, as the British guns, ranged from the church tower by Midshipman Driberg, steadily removed their protective earthworks.
The first balls, falling short, hit the stone walls, sending deadly showers of broken rock whizzing around the artillerymen’s ears. The next was closer, sending up greatclods of earth that hung suspended in the light of the fading western sun. The third salvo overshot, landing on the reverse slope that, Markham guessed, would be full of French soldiers. Driberg signalled the reduction and the naval guns at last found the range, landing right on the crest of the hill and blasting it apart. Several balls seemed to hit together, just to the right of one of the French cannon, taking with it several tons of their protective earth. When the dust settled Markham could actually see the men working the cannon. But they weren’t loading shot into the muzzle, they were frantically throwing their equipment onto the limber.
Markham looked back, but could see no sign of Elphinstone, de Lisle or the other marine officers. If they were still behind the guns they were now in the wrong place, negating any advantage the bombardment had given them. Having made the French run once, here was a chance to do so again, by retaking the crest before they brought up their infantry to defend it. Driberg had certainly spotted them pulling out, and had shown the red flag to increase the range. The balls from the naval guns were landing out of view, behind the French artillery, perhaps cutting swathes through their supporting infantry.
The long black snouts disappeared, withdrawn to their horse teams to be taken out of danger. He was desperate to attack, well aware that would be taking the kind of risk that would see him broken if he failed. These men were not his to command. They had their own officers, still on the other side of the village, who would be furious if he presumed to lead their detachments into battle. But everything he’d ever learned, added to what he’d already observed during the day, convinced him that he was right, that the time was now, or never. That to adhere too strictly to the chain of command would throw away a golden opportunity. His tongue, which had been dry before, felt like leather now as he issued his orders.
‘Bayonets!’
The deadly lengths of steel, eighteen inches long, scraped out of their scabbards at his command, to be fixed to the front of nearly two hundred hot muskets. He looked along the line, trying without much success to identify his own men in the fading light. His sword was up, and as it dropped he stepped forward, which set the whole extended line into motion. All that was missing as they marched up the slope was the sound of a drum to control their pace: that, and any hint of musket fire from the top of the hill.
The defenders, expecting to occupy a safe position, arrived when they were twenty feet from the crest, strung out in a long line. The shock when they saw the marching redcoats was palpable, a ripple in their ranks which was underlined by a moan that sounded like a collective cry of fear. Markham’s command to halt and present was crisply obeyed, in sharp contrast to that of the enemy silhouetted against the last vestige of the sinking sun, thrown by sight of the thin red line. The single volley of musket fire, delivered within five seconds, cut the French to ribbons.
‘Charge!’
As he crested the ridge, stepping over writhing bodies, for the second time that day, Markham saw the enemy in full retreat. The whole field in front was a milling mass of scruffy men, many surrounding the guns, the drovers frenziedly lashing the animals in an effort to break through the crush. Those retreating down the hill had infected the men to the rear, most of whom could not even know what they were running from. But fear gripped them just
The first balls, falling short, hit the stone walls, sending deadly showers of broken rock whizzing around the artillerymen’s ears. The next was closer, sending up greatclods of earth that hung suspended in the light of the fading western sun. The third salvo overshot, landing on the reverse slope that, Markham guessed, would be full of French soldiers. Driberg signalled the reduction and the naval guns at last found the range, landing right on the crest of the hill and blasting it apart. Several balls seemed to hit together, just to the right of one of the French cannon, taking with it several tons of their protective earth. When the dust settled Markham could actually see the men working the cannon. But they weren’t loading shot into the muzzle, they were frantically throwing their equipment onto the limber.
Markham looked back, but could see no sign of Elphinstone, de Lisle or the other marine officers. If they were still behind the guns they were now in the wrong place, negating any advantage the bombardment had given them. Having made the French run once, here was a chance to do so again, by retaking the crest before they brought up their infantry to defend it. Driberg had certainly spotted them pulling out, and had shown the red flag to increase the range. The balls from the naval guns were landing out of view, behind the French artillery, perhaps cutting swathes through their supporting infantry.
The long black snouts disappeared, withdrawn to their horse teams to be taken out of danger. He was desperate to attack, well aware that would be taking the kind of risk that would see him broken if he failed. These men were not his to command. They had their own officers, still on the other side of the village, who would be furious if he presumed to lead their detachments into battle. But everything he’d ever learned, added to what he’d already observed during the day, convinced him that he was right, that the time was now, or never. That to adhere too strictly to the chain of command would throw away a golden opportunity. His tongue, which had been dry before, felt like leather now as he issued his orders.
‘Bayonets!’
The deadly lengths of steel, eighteen inches long, scraped out of their scabbards at his command, to be fixed to the front of nearly two hundred hot muskets. He looked along the line, trying without much success to identify his own men in the fading light. His sword was up, and as it dropped he stepped forward, which set the whole extended line into motion. All that was missing as they marched up the slope was the sound of a drum to control their pace: that, and any hint of musket fire from the top of the hill.
The defenders, expecting to occupy a safe position, arrived when they were twenty feet from the crest, strung out in a long line. The shock when they saw the marching redcoats was palpable, a ripple in their ranks which was underlined by a moan that sounded like a collective cry of fear. Markham’s command to halt and present was crisply obeyed, in sharp contrast to that of the enemy silhouetted against the last vestige of the sinking sun, thrown by sight of the thin red line. The single volley of musket fire, delivered within five seconds, cut the French to ribbons.
‘Charge!’
As he crested the ridge, stepping over writhing bodies, for the second time that day, Markham saw the enemy in full retreat. The whole field in front was a milling mass of scruffy men, many surrounding the guns, the drovers frenziedly lashing the animals in an effort to break through the crush. Those retreating down the hill had infected the men to the rear, most of whom could not even know what they were running from. But fear gripped them just
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