A marrow-chilling roar of cannon woke them, horses and men alike. Shot tore through the olive groves, flat and low. Hervey sat bolt upright, though barely awake. A man from B Troop had his head taken clean off not twenty yards away; what remained of him seemed to stand an age before toppling backwards. Two dragoons next to him threw up noisily. A ball hit a trooper square in the chest: the mare back-somersaulted twice before coming to rest stone dead with her legs rigid in the air. Another struck a gelding withers-high, carrying off the saddle but leaving the horse with its mane standing on end but otherwise unharmed. One ball touched the outstretched arm of Cornet Burt in D Troop, neatly amputating the lower part at the elbow. The French might not be able to see them, but raking the cover this way was sure to wreak havoc.
‘Down! Get down!’ shouted Sir Edward Lankester.
Hervey sprang up, seized Jessye’s left-fore and began pulling on her neck. He had done it once before, but no horse liked lying down except on its own terms. He had to start pulling at the offfore as well. Somehow he managed. Others would not shift, rooted, terrified, or else oblivious. Two more tumbled like skittles in the time it took to get Jessye’s shoulder to the ground.
For a full twenty minutes the Sixth bore the fire. Shot fizzed, whistled and buzzed over them, or tore through flesh as if it were paper. Dragoons took shelter behind their grounded troopers. Hervey did likewise. He felt ashamed, but then a mare was disembowelled not twenty yards from him, her dragoon sheltering unscathed, and he stopped feeling and began praying.
The silence came as suddenly as had the cannonade. Dragoons jumped to their feet without an order, getting horses up, throwing on saddles. Then came the rattle of musketry.
‘Mount!’
It was more an understanding than a command. No corporal shouted, no serjeant barked; the lines seemed to form and dress of their own accord. The lieutenant-colonel had but one decision to make: carbines or sabres.
To a man, the Sixth were itching to draw swords. Through the olive groves were the enemy – and, beyond, the guns which had just felled their comrades. Going at them with cut and thrust was what they wanted, the way they liked, at a good lick, knee-to-knee, spurs dug in.
But Lord George Irvine was no mere sabreur. If the French broke through the Guards the other side of the olive groves, then it would be volley-fire that would check them, not slashing and hacking among the trees.
‘Carbines!’
Dragoons began priming firelocks, and the officers withdrew to the flanks. Hervey wished he had one: a pistol served well at three lengths, but no further. He went through the motions with his service pair, however; he might as well add to the volley, and, anyway, the drill quietened the mind. Hearing a battle rather than seeing it was a strange thing. A tutored ear ought to be able to read its course: what could he make of it? The musketry was ragged, and all along the line in both directions. He imagined voltigeurs were skirmishing the length of the Portiña, with counter-fire from the light companies, and single, aimed shots from the Sixtieth’s riflemen and the German Legion. Then came a terrific volleying – by battalion, it sounded like: double rank, five hundred muskets discharged as one, and then the rear rank advancing and giving another volley while the first calmly reloaded, ready to begin again. He had seen them, at practice and in earnest. They drilled like a machine, deafened the more and smoke-grimed with each discharge, lips blackened and mouths parched with every bite of a cartridge, but working on mechanically, ramrods clattering like flying shuttles in a power-mill, as if the noise and the smoke actually helped them forget themselves. And then the French volleys in reply: weaker, for they advanced in column and could not deploy so many muskets, but plenty of them still.
He could not, would not, picture the effect of those volleys, French or British; his sole thought now was whether the Guards would throw back the columns. Was it possible the French could break through those lines of red? He had seen the infantry volleying at Corunna: unless the artillery had knocked them down, he could not see how anything could breach those red walls. But that was the question: how well had the Guards weathered the storm of shot?
Out from the olive groves trotted Major Joseph Edmonds on his barb, calm yet determined-looking. Lord George Irvine had posted him with the divisional commander to read the battle on his behalf. The eyes of every man in the Sixth were on him: was it success the other side of the trees, or was it destruction?
‘Well, Edmonds?’ asked Lord George, calmly.
‘The Guards have thrown them back. Sherbrooke’s going to order the advance. I believe we ought to be moving forward. Cotton’s man is telling him the same.’
General Cotton was fifty yards away, conferring with his staff. He turned, lofted his sword and signalled the advance.
‘You don’t think it over already, Edmonds?’
‘I think not, Colonel. There are plenty of reserves the other side of the Portiña, and a great host of chasseurs uncommitted still. Sherbrooke’ll have to judge his advance carefully.’
Hervey and the rest of them were straining to hear the exchange, but the orders came soon enough.
‘Regiment will advance!’
They surged forward into the olive groves as the cannonading began again. This time the shot went another way. Hervey wondered why.
Out of the trees, the other side, a view of the field at last, smoke everywhere. He gasped at what he saw. Before them were two lines of red – bloodied red – men lying where they had fallen. Not shoulder-to-shoulder, thank God, but in lines quite distinct, as if they had fallen at attention. Beyond, between the lines and the Portiña, it looked like a patchwork of earth-brown and blue – bloodied blue (and bloodied earth, too). It was not possible to advance in a straight line without trampling a dead or dying Frenchman.
Batteries thundered left and right, French and British – it made no difference: the noise was stupefying. It actually seemed to penetrate, like a bullet: he could feel it. Jessye felt it too. She stood stock-still, mane on end, ears back. This was battle fiercer by far than Corunna. He began shivering. It was infernal, ghastly, like a representation of hell. If only could they draw their swords and charge into the mêlée – anything but just sitting here!
Hervey struggled to make sense of things, for every gun, French and British, seemed to be turned on the same place. Those on the Cerro de Cascajal fired in enfilade at the British as they plunged in pursuit into the bed of the Portiña, while those in the bastion of Pajar de Vergara were enfilading from the other direction as the French clambered out.
What he did not see, next, for the thickening smoke and fountains of earth, was the sudden reverse. The lines of red, disordered by the scramble across the Portiña, and by the artillery, and by the headlong chase beyond, stopped dead in their tracks, as if they had run up against a giant wall.
The batteries ceased firing abruptly as the gunners tried to realign their pieces. The smoke cleared just enough for Hervey to see red coats – and then many more blue, swarming like wasps on fallen plums, so that he was certain every red coat would disappear.
Then through the smoke he saw General Mackenzie’s brigade rising from the Portiña, advancing in support of the Guards. Seeing the tide turning in front of them, they halted and ported arms, knowing perfectly what must come.
Lord George Irvine perceived that the battle was changing too. ‘Return carbines! Draw swords!’