Rifles - Mark Urban [64]
Beckwith could not allow his brigade to be pummelled like this for long. No men, however highly trained, could stand all day under canister from howitzers less than a hundred yards away. Riding forward, he ordered two companies of the 43rd (about 150 or 160 men) to advance behind him, and they set off towards the dark mass of thousands of Frenchmen to their front.
At the very least, Beckwith wanted to stick the French artillerymen with bayonets, but in leading forward this desperate charge, he hoped also that the French might somehow be intimidated into yielding a little ground, so conceding the eminence that commanded the British position. Reynier’s three regiments were about to receive just two companies, but they were not ideally deployed. When they had set off towards the British, their commanders had formed them up with caution. Having come forward in columns, they could not now deploy into firing lines because the French battalions were packed too close together and the countryside would not admit it. When the 43rd got close, they were therefore able to fire a volley in their faces, with only a small proportion of the French – those in the leading ranks – able to reply. Having given their fire, the little band of the 43rd, menaced by the French columns, was soon heading back down towards their mates.
Beckwith rallied them and went up again. The result was the same. ‘Now my lads, we’ll just go back a little if you please,’ Beckwith boomed above the firing. Some of the men were running: ‘No, no I don’t mean that – we are in no hurry – we’ll just walk quietly back, and you can give them a shot as you go along.’ His voice, though loud, remained utterly calm even when one of the French marksmen finally hit him. The bullet had creased Beckwith’s forehead and blood started running down his face. The colonel’s soldiers looked up anxiously, only to hear him call out, ‘I am no worse; follow me.’ When they were back with the main firing line he told them, ‘Now, my men, this will do – let us show them our teeth again!’
The French, having been stalled for forty-five minutes, could now see the battlefield well enough to want to bring the fight to its conclusion. Some cavalry was ordered up, to move around and take Beckwith’s brigade on its unprotected flank. The infantry columns, meanwhile, stood motionless, their progress checked by the firepower of the 95th, Portuguese and 43rd.
Not for the first time, the riflemen watched enemy officers going out in front of their men, sometimes putting their hats on the ends of their swords, sometimes jumping up and down, waving their arms, exhorting them forward for the honour of their regiment and of France. ‘Their officers are certainly very prodigal of life, often exposing themselves ridiculously,’ wrote one Rifles officer. Beckwith galloped up behind one group of riflemen to point out one of the senior French officers who had come forward on horseback. ‘Shoot that fellow, will you?’ he ordered them, knowing that the French would only move forward again if they were inspired by brave commanders. Several riflemen fired and Beckwith watched both the officer and his horse collapse to the ground. ‘Alas! you were a noble fellow,’ exclaimed the colonel before galloping off. The regiments facing the British brigade in this part of the fight had eighteen officers shot, including two of their three colonels. Another French brigade, consisting of the 17ème Léger and 70ème regiments, was now being fed into the battle.
Colonel Drummond, having heard the firing while one mile to the south-east, had begun marching towards the battle. General Erskine sent him an order to stop and not engage himself, but thankfully Drummond ignored it.
While Beckwith