From the far side of the fort a drum roll echoed across the interior. As Napoleon watched, the British line rippled forward at an even pace, closing on the French with muskets still resting on their shoulders. Napoleon could not help smiling in admiration at the coolness of the enemy.Then the smile faded at the realisation of the imminent danger he and his men were in. He drew a breath and shouted the order.
'Advance your muskets!'
Those in the front line thrust their weapons out at an angle towards the enemy.
'Raise muskets!'
Up and down the hurriedly formed line the muskets rose up, butts held firmly into the shoulder and right thumbs poised over the firing hammers.
'Cock your weapons!'
As the ratchets clicked along the line one man's nerves overwhelmed him and he fired his weapon immediately.
'Hold your fire, damn you!' Napoleon shouted in the direction of the puff of smoke that betrayed the man's position. 'Hold your fire until I give the order!'
Opposite them the British line halted, little more than fifty paces away. Close enough that Napoleon could make out the individual features in their faces and the face of the officer who had found a mount in all this confusion and now towered over his men. The British officer barked an order and the redcoats lifted their muskets from their shoulders and advanced them towards the enemy in a bristling hedge of deadly steel. Napoleon raised his sword.
'Prepare to fire!… Fire!'
The French volley went off in a ragged flurry of explosions that instantly wreathed the air in front of them in a temporary veil of sickly yellow smoke. The men in the rear ranks cheered, but as the smoke dissipated the cheering quickly died in their throats. Only a handful of the enemy had fallen and now it was their turn to fire. The redcoat officer gave his orders with stentorian precision; up came the muskets, back went the cocking hammers, then there was a short pause and a dreadful quiet hung over the fort, save for the moans and feeble cries of the injured.
The redcoat officer shouted an order that was instantly swallowed up by the roar of a massed volley as flames stabbed out from the British muzzles and they were obscured from view by a thick bank of smoke. The volley swept through the French line like a hailstorm and the air around Napoleon was filled with the sharp whip and thud of musket balls as they shot past or struck his men. The head of a man in front of Napoleon snapped back and dissolved into a messy pulp of bone, brains and blood that splattered across Napoleon's face and chest like hot rain. Then came the gasps and cries of the victims, and as Napoleon wiped his face he saw that scores of his men were down and the rest looked at the carnage about them in horror.
'Fire back!' he shouted, and those still possessing the wit to act, snatched cartridges from their pouches and began to reload. From the line of redcoats came the sound of ramrods rattling down barrels. As they prepared another deadly volley the fastest loading of the Frenchmen fired back, an uneven ripple of pops with the occasional fizz of a misfire. Then the second enemy volley crashed out and more Frenchmen buckled over and crumpled to the ground. A handful of men at the rear melted away, creeping back towards the ramparts. As soon as Napoleon saw them he charged over to the nearest man.
'Get back! Back into line!'
The man looked at the young officer as if he was mad, shook his head and scrambled desperately through the embrasure, knocking aside the hand that Napoleon thrust towards him. Napoleon stared after the man, his heart sinking and for the first time he felt the icy hand of mortality upon him. That he might die here, on this muddy, corpse-strewn rampart when there was so much still to achieve, appalled him. If only there were reinforcements. Where the hell was Carteaux? Then beyond the rampart, over by the French trenches, he saw a column of men marching across the open ground to the fort. It would still take them some time to reach the ramparts. Too long. Napoleon swallowed nervously, aware that there was only one chance left to him now.
He ran forward, pushed his way through the line and called out to his men, 'Carteaux is coming! We have to charge! Charge now, before they can fire again.'
They looked back at him in astonishment.
'What are you waiting for?' he cried. 'To be shot down like dogs? Charge! It's your only hope!'
Lieutenant Junot took up the cry and some of the sergeants and corporals and the braver of the men joined in. The French line rolled forward in a ragged wave, the men screaming in battle frenzy as they rushed forward towards the silent ranks of the redcoats. In amongst them Napoleon shouted too, feeling his lungs strain with the effort as he was carried on by the men around him. They were almost upon the British when the third volley crashed out, right in their faces and many more Frenchmen were cut down in the billowing bank of smoke that filled the air. The survivors rushed on to the bayonets of the enemy and Napoleon found himself face to face with the grizzled face of a veteran, teeth bared, as he thrust at the lithe shape of the French officer. Napoleon ducked down as the bayonet stabbed over his head. When he glanced up the redcoat was stumbling back, with a pioneer's axe buried in his neck. A huge figure in blue thrust past Napoleon, yanking back on the haft of the axe before turning to look for another opponent.
In the bank of smoke, men hacked and stabbed and clubbed at each other with feral fury. Napoleon backed away and looked towards the rampart, willing the reinforcements on. As long as the redcoats were forced to fight hand to hand they could not unleash any more of their terrible volleys.
'Forwards!' Napoleon shouted over the din. 'Carteaux is coming!'
Then he heard the familiar call of trumpets and his heart soared for an instant, before he knew something was wrong. Something he would never have expected. He strained his ears, and then the sound came again, carrying across the melee with unmistakable clarity.
'The recall!' a voice cried out close by. 'They're sounding the recall!'
'No!' Napoleon screamed, his heart clenching up in a knot of pure rage. 'No!'
'The recall! Fall back! Fall back!'
Already it was too late to stop them.The silhouettes of men in the smoke swept past Napoleon, running back towards the rampart.Then they were all fleeing and there was Junot at his side, grasping his sleeve.
'Sir, come on!'
'No.'
'There's nothing you can do. Come on!' Junot pulled him away and thrust him towards the rampart. At first Napoleon responded woodenly, every instinct telling him to turn and face the enemy, even as his legs carried him along with the others. Then he was at the embrasure, and Junot pushed him through so that he half fell, half slithered down the slope into the ditch. All around him, splashing through the mud, men were fleeing for their lives. Then he was through the obstacles, climbing the far slope and running back across the open ground towards the shelter of the battery. His breathing was laboured and he paused a moment to grab a few deep breaths and looked back towards the fort. The rampart was back in the hands of the redcoats and now they were hurriedly loading and firing their weapons after the scattered Frenchmen. Inside Napoleon felt sick at the opportunity that had been lost and the strident notes of the recall signal seemed to mock him as he shrugged his coat straight and forced himself to march back to his own lines.
When he reached the battery he brushed Junot aside and continued marching up the hill, past the artillery camp and on to the general's headquarters outside Ollioules. As he approached a staff officer stood up and blocked the entrance to the tent.
'Let me pass,' Napoleon hissed, breathing hard. 'I want to see the fucker who ordered the recall!'
'You can't go in, sir,' the staff officer replied with an anxious glance over his shoulder. 'The general's busy.'
'Busy?' Napoleon stared at him, and shook his head in outraged astonishment. 'I'll bet he's busy. Better be writing his will.'