fields and more woods beyond it. There has been heavy fighting there and the wood and farm are also full of Frenchmen. Drive them back. I will send Captain Tanner up with the light cannon after you. Further south there is another farm.’ Again the general peered at the map. ‘La Ferme de Gemioncourt. It was taken by the French this morning and is now sheltering the artillery that is bombarding us.’ He coughed lightly. ‘The 69th took the brunt of it and were then cut down by a cavalry charge.’
‘Were they not in square, General?’asked Macdonell.
‘Alas, no. I am told that the Prince was concerned at the artillery fire they were taking.’ Macdonell shook his head in disbelief. Ordering infantry into line with cavalry nearby was tantamount to murder. ‘Your task is to prevent the French from getting around our left flank. I will send more intelligence when I have it. Any questions?’ There were none.
Macdonell ordered flints and powder checked again. He put on a light pack, specially made for him in London, in which he kept a spare shirt, a woollen blanket, a razor and a sharp knife. If his mule was lost or killed, he would need them. He left his horse with a groom, knowing that the beast would be no use in wooded areas and anyway preferring to fight on foot.
Harry Wyndham was at his shoulder, Gooch and Hervey just behind. They took neither a drummer boy nor a medicalorderly. If they were to push the French back they would have to move quietly and fast. No drums, no shouting, no stopping for the wounded. Just what light company men were trained for. With a glance behind him, Macdonell signalled the advance and four hundred men, muskets primed and loaded, followed him up the slope.
There was to be no surprise. French sharpshooters were hiding in a copse of trees on the right-hand side of the slope. The guards were no more than halfway up it when shots began whistling about their heads. Men screamed and fell. Macdonell felt a ball touch his shoulder and nearly stumbled. They were in the open, taking fire from a hidden enemy – the worst possible position and the very opposite of what light company men were used to. He yelled an order to lie flat and threw himself to the ground. The mounds and hollows on the slope offered a little protection and a man lying on his belly was a much smaller target than one standing up.
Harry wriggled up alongside him. ‘Saw us coming, James. Lucky they did not wait until we were closer before firing, stupid clods. What now?’
Macdonell grunted. He was angry with himself for not having guessed there would be voltigeurs about. They would be ahead of the main body of French troops, scouting the land and picking off the enemy when they had the chance. ‘Spread the men out, Harry, a good five yards between each pair, and in broken line. We’ll make it as hard as we can for them.’
‘I’ll shout when we’re ready,’ replied Harry, slithering away down the slope.
With luck the voltigeurs would fire their next volley as soonas they saw their targets. At eighty yards, the casualties should be light. They would take the volley and charge up the slope to the copse of trees. That should scare the foxes from their den.
The moment Harry shouted, Macdonell was on his feet and running up the slope. He did not run in a straight line but weaved this way and that in the hope of confusing the voltigeurs. At six feet and three inches and above seventeen stone, he was not the most nimble Guards officer but he ploughed on towards the copse. Behind him, nearly four hundred men took his cue, yelling and firing into the trees. The French volley came almost at once. Twenty or so shots in all. Macdonell did not look round but from the few cries he heard, knew that it had not been effective.
He was no more than thirty yards from the trees when twenty blue jackets ran out from the side and made for the top of the slope. The Guards’ fire took down three of them, the others scuttled off.
‘Were they not in square, General?’asked Macdonell.
‘Alas, no. I am told that the Prince was concerned at the artillery fire they were taking.’ Macdonell shook his head in disbelief. Ordering infantry into line with cavalry nearby was tantamount to murder. ‘Your task is to prevent the French from getting around our left flank. I will send more intelligence when I have it. Any questions?’ There were none.
Macdonell ordered flints and powder checked again. He put on a light pack, specially made for him in London, in which he kept a spare shirt, a woollen blanket, a razor and a sharp knife. If his mule was lost or killed, he would need them. He left his horse with a groom, knowing that the beast would be no use in wooded areas and anyway preferring to fight on foot.
Harry Wyndham was at his shoulder, Gooch and Hervey just behind. They took neither a drummer boy nor a medicalorderly. If they were to push the French back they would have to move quietly and fast. No drums, no shouting, no stopping for the wounded. Just what light company men were trained for. With a glance behind him, Macdonell signalled the advance and four hundred men, muskets primed and loaded, followed him up the slope.
There was to be no surprise. French sharpshooters were hiding in a copse of trees on the right-hand side of the slope. The guards were no more than halfway up it when shots began whistling about their heads. Men screamed and fell. Macdonell felt a ball touch his shoulder and nearly stumbled. They were in the open, taking fire from a hidden enemy – the worst possible position and the very opposite of what light company men were used to. He yelled an order to lie flat and threw himself to the ground. The mounds and hollows on the slope offered a little protection and a man lying on his belly was a much smaller target than one standing up.
Harry wriggled up alongside him. ‘Saw us coming, James. Lucky they did not wait until we were closer before firing, stupid clods. What now?’
Macdonell grunted. He was angry with himself for not having guessed there would be voltigeurs about. They would be ahead of the main body of French troops, scouting the land and picking off the enemy when they had the chance. ‘Spread the men out, Harry, a good five yards between each pair, and in broken line. We’ll make it as hard as we can for them.’
‘I’ll shout when we’re ready,’ replied Harry, slithering away down the slope.
With luck the voltigeurs would fire their next volley as soonas they saw their targets. At eighty yards, the casualties should be light. They would take the volley and charge up the slope to the copse of trees. That should scare the foxes from their den.
The moment Harry shouted, Macdonell was on his feet and running up the slope. He did not run in a straight line but weaved this way and that in the hope of confusing the voltigeurs. At six feet and three inches and above seventeen stone, he was not the most nimble Guards officer but he ploughed on towards the copse. Behind him, nearly four hundred men took his cue, yelling and firing into the trees. The French volley came almost at once. Twenty or so shots in all. Macdonell did not look round but from the few cries he heard, knew that it had not been effective.
He was no more than thirty yards from the trees when twenty blue jackets ran out from the side and made for the top of the slope. The Guards’ fire took down three of them, the others scuttled off.
Similar Books
