Текст книги "The Fields of Death"

Автор книги: Simon Scarrow

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Текущая страница: 42 (всего у книги 45 страниц)

On either side of Arthur the allied guns were firing back at the enemy. The artillery was under strict orders not to engage in any counter-battery fire, and took aim on the massed formations of infantry and cavalry instead. As he had chosen to follow his usual tactic of keeping the bulk of his army on the reverse slope, Arthur knew that the French guns would not be the greatest danger on this day. The real test would come when Bonaparte launched his foot and horse against the allied line.

Even though the main weight of the French artillery was battering the flanks, the rest of the line was still being subjected to fire. The skirmishers were scattered amid the pale green corn and wheat across the allied front, rising to take aim and fire at their opposite numbers before ducking down again to reload. Every so often the crops around them would swirl as a ball, or a blast of canister, cut through the stalks, and one or more of Arthur’s men would be plucked from sight as they fell.

The drone of a shot passing close overhead caused some of his staff officers to flinch and Arthur looked round. ‘Steady, gentlemen.’

Glancing to his right he saw that one of his regiments, the Fifty-first Foot, was closer to the crest than was healthy, and even as he watched a roundshot hit the ground just in front of the flank company, smashing two men to bits as it bounced on.

‘Somerset, order that regiment to lie down.’

‘Yes, your grace.’

As Somerset galloped off, Arthur saw that his staff officers, over forty in all, were clustered together behind him. ‘Uxbridge, it strikes me that our generals are rather too thick on the ground.’

Uxbridge nodded. ‘I’m sure we make a tempting target.’

Turning Copenhagen, Arthur cupped a hand to his mouth to address his officers. ‘I’d be obliged if you gentlemen would disperse. I will ride to you if you are needed.’

As the staff broke off into smaller groups Arthur saw that more regiments were following the example of the Fifty-first and going to ground, where they would be far less exposed to enemy fire. Turning his attention back to the situation around Hougoumont, he could see a French division forming up in front of the woods, ready to attack the moment their artillery ceased bombarding the chateau and its walled garden. Once the French infantry moved forward the allied guns on the ridge would be unable to fire on them for fear of hitting their own men.

The enemy artillery fire on Hougoumont gradually began to slacken and when the last of the guns ceased fire there was a brief pause before the French drums began to roll, beating an insistent rhythm, signalling the advance. The leading battalions of the division positioned in front of the chateau’s woods began to pace forward.

‘There are too few men defending Hougoumont, your grace,’ said Somerset. ‘They should be reinforced.’

Arthur shook his head. ‘They are adequate for the task.’

Somerset shot him an anxious look but Arthur did not react, and fixed his attention on the action beginning down the slope. The leading French formations disappeared from sight as they entered the trees and an uneven crackle of musketry followed as the British skirmishers fell back towards the chateau. A moment later the first of the enemy reached the garden wall and began to clamber over. The defenders, spread thinly along the wall, did their best to hold the perimeter, but were forced to give way as the French climbed over, or scrambled through the gaps smashed through the wall by artillery fire. The blue-coated attackers quickly spread out across the gardens and approached the chateau and its outbuildings. Sparks of fire and puffs of smoke erupted from windows and loopholes as the defenders opened fire on the French infantry pressing in from two sides.

The enemy had reached the chateau more quickly than Arthur had anticipated and he feared that Somerset might be right. Nudging his spurs in, he trotted over to the commander of a battery of howitzers of the Royal Horse Artillery that stood limbered up and ready to move.

‘Major Bull, isn’t it?’

The battery commander saluted. ‘Yes, your grace.’

‘I need the services of your battery. Follow me.’ Arthur turned and trotted down the slope towards the chateau. Bull and his howitzers followed, the gun carriages rumbling over the ground. Arthur drew up a hundred yards from the chateau. From the far side the din of the desperate struggle filled the air. ‘Have your howitzers fire over the chateau. We must take the pressure off the defenders. But be sure to get the range right, Major.’

‘Yes, your grace. I understand.’

Arthur watched as Bull’s men swiftly unlimbered the howitzers and loaded the fused iron spheres into the stubby barrels. Bull carefully ensured that each gun’s elevation was adjusted so that the shells’ trajectories would clear the chateau by a safe distance. The battery opened fire and Arthur looked up to follow the faint smears of the sputtering shells as they arced over the chateau towards the wood beyond, bursting amid the branches and blasting the attackers with small iron shards.

‘Very good,’ Arthur called out to Major Bull. ‘Remain here to support the chateau as long as you can.’ He turned and galloped back up to his vantage point to watch the attack. Hundreds of French soldiers were crowded about the chateau and its walled courtyard, but as far as Arthur could see, none had succeeded in gaining entry. The relentless fire from the defenders was cutting the enemy down in droves and bodies steadily piled up around the building. Further back, those still in the woods were being savaged by the howitzer shells. The attack raged for ten more minutes before Arthur saw the enemy begin to fall back, fading into the trees before they retreated over the field beyond the wood. The firing in the chateau ceased and a moment later Bull’s battery followed suit.

Arthur nodded with satisfaction. ‘First blood to us, I think.’

La Belle Alliance, 1.00 p.m.

‘What is Prince Jйrфme doing?’ Napoleon snapped as he watched fresh troops advancing towards Hougoumont from a second division. ‘He is only supposed to be making a feint against the chateau. He was supposed to force Wellington to draw on his reserves, not me.’

‘Sire, do you wish to order the Prince to cease his attack?’

Napoleon watched as the fresh wave began to enter the woods. A moment later the air above them was dotted with the white puffs of exploding shells. He shook his head. ‘No. Jйrфme may still force Wellington’s hand, and if the Duke does not take the bait then we shall take the chateau, and use it to harass the allied line.’

Once again, Hougoumont was shrouded in powder smoke as Napoleon’s men made their assault. He watched the ridge for any sign of movement and then pointed triumphantly as a column of redcoats doubled down the slope towards the chateau.‘There! I knew Wellington would have to send in more men.’

Soult watched for a moment and then said quietly, ‘I make that no more than four companies, sire. Prince Jйrфme has committed the best part of two divisions so far.’

Napoleon glared at him a moment and then turned his attention back to the battlefield. The smoke from the cannon of both sides was eddying above the landscape in dense clouds, threatening to blot out the view of the surrounding countryside. A sudden anxiety caused him to raise his telescope and sweep the horizon from the south round to the north-east. Fields, farmhouses and small woods glided past the eyepiece, and then a dark shadow just beyond the edge of a treeline caused Napoleon to stop. He blinked his eye and called one of the headquarters staff to stand in front of him so that he could use the man’s shoulder as a rest to steady the telescope. Soult, and a handful of others, had seen his worried expression and now turned in the same direction and scrutinised the dark line that was gradually emerging from the trees.

‘There is a column of soldiers over there,’ Napoleon announced. Then he lowered the telescope and hurried across to the map weighted down on a table outside the inn. He scanned the map and then stabbed his finger down. ‘The woods near Chapelle-St-Lambert.’

Soult exchanged a worried look with the other staff officers gathered about the map. One of them swallowed and asked, ‘Could it be Grouchy? Marching to the sound of the guns?’

Napoleon shook his head. The distant column was coming from the direction of Wavre. ‘Prussians. There is no doubt about it.’

There was a brief silence as the staff officers digested the information and then Soult raised his telescope towards the distant woods and spoke quietly. ‘I can see more columns, sire.’

Napoleon stroked his chin. ‘The Prussians are still two hours’ march from the battlefield. They cannot support Wellington for a while yet. There is time enough to win the day.’

‘And what of Grouchy, sire?’ asked Soult. ‘Shall I send for him?’

‘By all means.’ Napoleon shrugged, as he considered the last known position of Grouchy’s thirty thousand men: advancing towards Wavre from the south.‘Though I fear that he is too far away to intervene, even if he were to wheel towards us at once.’

Nevertheless Soult hurriedly wrote the order and thrust it into the hand of one of his aides. ‘There. Take that to Marshal Grouchy. Tell him that the fate of France in is the balance.’

As the officer swung himself up into his saddle and spurred away Napoleon sighed. ‘The fate of France will be decided by those who are already on the field, Soult.’ Turning his attention back to the ridge in front of the French battle line Napoleon pointed to the stretch of the slope to the right of the Brussels road.‘We cannot delay the main attack any longer. Soult, tell d’Erlon to prepare his corps to advance. It is time to see if these Englishmen you are so afraid of can really stand before our columns.’

Chapter 61

The Ridge of Mont-St-Jean, 1.30 p.m.

The massed guns of the French had been firing for the last half-hour, tearing up the hedge that ran along the road stretching across the ridge. The British skirmishers had lain down and pressed themselves into the earth as roundshot whirred overhead and canister hissed through the rye stalks like a sudden squall. Just in front of the ridge, spread out in line across the slope, were the Dutch soldiers of Bylandt’s brigade. Arthur had not ordered them to withdraw to the reverse slope for fear that Bonaparte might think that the allied centre was retreating, cut short his bombardment and order his infantry forward. The brigade would have to be sacrificed to buy time. Word had reached Arthur that the Prussians had been sighted, but would not reach the battlefield for some hours yet. Arthur’s heart was heavy as he watched the Dutchmen stand their ground and endure terrible punishment as the French guns tore bloody gaps in their ranks again and again.

Beside him, Somerset watched the sickening slaughter and turned to his commander. ‘Your grace, I beg you, allow me to recall Bylandt.’

‘No. They must stand and take it.’

Somerset shook his head. ‘They will not endure it much longer. No men could.’

‘They must. We must snatch at every chance for delay, until Blьcher arrives.’

The French fire began to slacken and in less than a minute the last of the guns had fallen silent.

‘What now?’ Somerset wondered. ‘Cavalry or infantry?’

His question was answered by the faint rattle of drums. Arthur trotted forward towards the large elm tree that grew close to the junction of the Brussels highway and the lesser road running across the ridge. Below, perhaps six hundred yards away, a dense bank of powder smoke obscured the French on the other side of the valley. The surviving British skirmishers were cautiously rising to their feet and peering into the smoke. Behind them the remains of Bylandt’s brigade closed up and advanced ten paces to clear the shattered bodies and limbs of their fallen comrades.

Arthur strained his eyes, trying to penetrate the smoke as the sounds of the French drums drew closer. Then he saw the first of them, dim figures edging through the smoke as the skirmishers advanced ahead of the main columns. As they emerged into clear sight Arthur saw that the line stretched from in front of La Haye Sainte to his right for over half a mile across the battlefield towards the farmhouses of La Haie and Papelotte on the left.

‘This is no feint, Somerset,’ Arthur decided.‘They mean to break our centre at one stroke. From the frontage, I would think Bonaparte is sending three divisions against us.’ He looked to his left, where the men of Picton’s division were standing in battalion columns on the reverse slope. ‘Three to our one. Not good odds.’

‘If Picton breaks, then the enemy will cut our army in two, your grace.’

Arthur nodded, and then gestured towards the cavalry reserve. ‘Ride to Uxbridge. He is to order his cavalry to make ready to charge.’

Somerset wheeled his horse and galloped away and Arthur turned back towards the enemy. There was a steady crackle of muskets as the skirmishers began their one-sided duel. The outnumbered British fired and fell back before the onslaught. Here and there, a red-coated figure was struck down and stumbled out of sight. The French columns continued their inexorable advance: one great mass of men who toiled up the muddy slope towards the ridge. They continued to emerge from the smoke, rank after rank, seemingly without end, and Arthur gazed upon the spectacle with a cold heart. It was a magnificent sight, he thought, more than ten thousand men boldly advancing to do battle. Magnificent, but those fine regiments must be destroyed.

The British artillery crews on the ridge took aim on the French line and opened fire, over the heads of the skirmishers, so that the roundshot plunged down amid the rear ranks, sweeping away files of ten or fifteen men at a time. The air was filled with the crash of cannon and the concussion shook the very air about Arthur. As he sat in his saddle and watched, the allied officers recalled their skirmishers and the men trotted back up to the ridge and through the gaps in the hedge to re-join their regiments. Only Bylandt’s brigade stood before the oncoming mass. The persistent rattle of the drums was accompanied by the cries of the French officers as they urged their men on, and the soldiers cheered for their Emperor in a deafening roar.

The British guns were now firing canister directly into the face of the columns, felling groups of men in an instant, but the gaps closed up and they continued forward relentlessly. At fifty paces, Bylandt gave the order for his men to make ready. Their muskets came up and a moment later the order to fire was lost in the crash of their volley. Directly before them the leading rank shimmered under the impact and men crumpled to the ground. Those following quickened their pace, but before they could close the distance the Dutch troops, shaken by the terrible losses they had already endured, gave way, falling back through the hedge. Their officers did their best to rally them on the far side, and for a moment most of them stayed with their colours and began to reload. There was no attempt to fire a volley and individual soldiers shot at the enemy as soon as their muskets were ready, then turned and fled after their comrades.

Arthur ignored them as they ran past his position. A moment later the last of the gun crews in front of the oncoming columns discharged their cannon and trotted back to safety through the gaps between the regiments of Picton’s division.

Somerset had passed the orders on to Uxbridge and came galloping back to his commander’s side. ‘Your grace! You must move back; the French are almost upon us.’

Arthur nodded and turned Copenhagen away, and the two riders trotted towards the rear of Picton’s division. A hundred yards away Picton spied his commander and raised his top hat in greeting before turning his attention to his men and bellowing an order to his Highlanders. ‘The Ninety-second will advance! All in front of you have given way. Be brave, my boys! Forward!’ He drew his sword and waved it above his head.

The leading ranks of the French columns had reached the hedge and now some of the battalions halted to fire, while others pressed through the hedge and halted a short distance the other side. Arthur could not help holding his breath as the French muskets came up and a voice called out, ‘ Tirez!’

Flashes lit up the line and the volley tore through the Highlanders running forward to engage the enemy. As scores of kilted figures tumbled down, the line staggered and almost came to a halt. Picton spurred his horse forward and called to his officers. ‘Rally! Rally the Highlanders!’

At that moment his head snapped backwards. His fingers spasmed and the blade fell to the ground. As the horse trotted on, Picton slumped to one side and fell from his saddle, rolled across the trampled grass and lay still.

‘Good God,’ Arthur muttered. ‘Poor Picton.’

A groan passed through the ranks as they became aware of their commander’s death, and then the Highlanders let out an angry roar and plunged towards the waiting French. It was a valiant charge, but Arthur knew that the weight of numbers was on the enemy’s side and that Picton’s men could not hold the centre of the allied line unaided.

From behind came the call of a trumpet, three blasts ending in a long, higher pitch, again and again. Uxbridge had ordered his heavy cavalry to attack. Two brigades edged forward. There was too little space to launch into a gallop and they could only trot through the gaps in Picton’s division as the infantry hurriedly closed up to let the horsemen by, cheering their mounted comrades on. The horsemen cantered forward, into the massed ranks of the French infantry, hacking and slashing with their heavy blades. For a moment the enemy’s nerve held, but as more British cavalry flowed round their flanks and loomed above them like giants in the thick smoke, their courage left them. The leading ranks turned and pressed into those behind, desperate to escape the swishing sword blades, and the panic communicated itself through the entire formation in moments. Thousands of infantry turned back down the slope and ran, desperately wriggling out of their cumbersome packs as they sought to escape.

‘By God, that was well timed!’ Somerset said as he rose up in his saddle and cupped a hand to his mouth. ‘Ride, men! Ride! Run ’em into the ground!’

Arthur turned to frown at him, about to tell his subordinate to show some restraint, when he caught sight of Uxbridge dashing past, sword drawn and urging his men on at the top of his voice. Then Uxbridge’s’s mount leaped a low stretch of hedge and thundered down the slope in pursuit of the enemy.

On the ridge the battered lines of Picton’s division re-formed their line and Arthur let out a low sigh. The centre had survived the first great test of the battle.

La Belle Alliance, 2.30 p.m.

Napoleon stared in silence at the fleeing mass, borne towards him like confetti. Surging forward through the fleeing figures were the riders of Wellington’s cavalry, closing up on the line of cannon stretching across the middle of the battlefield. The gunners dared not fire for fear of slaughtering their own men and could only watch in dread as the danger swept down the slope towards them. As the first of the British horsemen reached the guns some of the crews tried to defend themselves, using ramrods, handspikes and short swords. It was a brief, unequal struggle and the gunners were quickly driven away from their cannon, hurrying back to find shelter amid the limbers and under caissons. The horsemen pursued them, sabreing any man who came within reach. They also slashed at the tendons of the draught horses to disable them, and the helpless animals collapsed in their traces, whinnying in agony and terror.

Around the Emperor, his staff officers watched the cavalry charge aghast. Only a short time earlier, it had seemed that nothing could stop d’Erlon’s corps from smashing its way through the heart of the allied army. Now all three divisions were scattered and the slope was covered with thousands of bodies.

‘Sire, what are your orders?’ asked Soult. ‘Should we move the headquarters to safety?’

‘There is no need,’ Napoleon said wearily. ‘The counter-stroke is already under way. Look there.’ He gestured to their right where General Jacquinot’s cavalry had emerged from the broken ground on the east of the battlefield. The force was made up of cuirassiers and lancers and they swiftly deployed to charge into the flank of the British cavalry, many of whom were still engrossed in the destruction of d’Erlon’s men and the artillery train behind the grand battery, and so carried away by their exuberant spirits that they failed to realise the danger, or respond to the desperate recall signal sounding from the top of the ridge.

When his men were ready, Jacquinot led the charge himself, steadily building the pace until he unleashed his cavalry a short distance from the enemy. The charge crashed through the British horsemen, who were cut down as they struggled to meet the attack. Their horses were blown, and many who gave up the fight and turned back towards the ridge to try to escape were overtaken and killed.

Napoleon watched with grim satisfaction as his cavalry avenged their comrades, riding down and killing one enemy after another and leaving their bodies in the mud alongside those of d’Erlon’s men. Both sides had suffered a bloody reverse, Napoleon reflected, but the allies still held the ridge, as well as the strongpoints that lay before it.

‘We can only win this battle if we break Wellington’s centre,’ he announced. He looked towards Hougoumont, shrouded by smoke, not all of which was caused by the furious exchange of musket fire. A billowing column was rising into the sky from amongst the buildings, and flames glittered along the roof of a barn. With luck the fire might spread and force the defenders to fall back. That left the smaller farmhouse of La Haye Sainte, directly in front of Wellington’s centre. Napoleon had observed the withering fire that had been poured into the flank of d’Erlon’s division by the defenders of the farm. Clearly, La Haye Sainte must be taken, if any attack on the ridge was to have a chance of success. He turned to Soult.

‘Tell Ney we must have the farm if we are to win the battle. He must take it at any cost.’ He pointed to the stretch of ridge behind La Haye Sainte and Hougoumont. The slope there seemed more gentle than where d’Erlon had made his advance. It was also less muddy, and would not be such a hindrance to any attack on the ridge. ‘That is where we must strike next. Tell Ney to use every available gun to pound the allied centre before he sends in an attack.’

Soult nodded and made a quick note. As he wrote, a courier galloped up to the inn and dismounted from his exhausted horse. Spotting Soult he hurried over and handed him a despatch. Soult quickly finished his order to Ney and read the report. Then, with a grim expression, he approached Napoleon and spoke softly so that the other officers would not overhear.

‘A message from Grouchy, sire.’

‘Well?’

‘He is still advancing on Wavre. He will not be able to reach us until late this evening.’

Napoleon pursed his lips. ‘Then we must forget about Grouchy.’

‘And what of the Prussians, sire?’

‘We must delay them. Send Marbot’s hussars towards Lasne, and alert General Lobau to have his corps ready to move to guard our right flank.’

Soult finished his notes and strode across to the officers sitting at the table set up outside the inn to have the orders copied into a fair hand and sent off. Meanwhile Napoleon’s attention fixed on La Haye Sante. It was far smaller than Hougoumont and there would be fewer men defending it. Ney should be able to take it with ease.

Chapter 62

There was a brief lull across most of the battlefield while as many French guns as possible were positioned between Hougoumont and La Haye Sainte. All the time, the assault on both continued. Napoleon could see his men right against the walls of the latter, snatching at the muzzles of any muskets that appeared through the loopholes and trying to wrench the weapons from the hands of the defenders. The door of the barn was missing and a ferocious mкlйe was being fought out at the entrance. As they pressed forward in a desperate bid to overwhelm the defenders, more of the enemy fired down on the French from the wall beside the barn. Some even hurled bricks on to the heads of the men below.

Once again the attack failed and the French fell back, passing through the shattered trees of the orchard out of range. As soon as they had retired to a safe distance a battery of howitzers resumed their bombardment of the farm and the shells burst over the tiled roofs with a flash and puff of white, or landed before exploding and briefly illuminating the interior of the farm’s walled yard in a lurid red glow.

To Napoleon’s left there was a rumble of hooves and he turned to see the cavalry reserves moving forward to form up behind the line of guns being trained on the ridge. Regiment after regiment of cuirassiers, lancers and dragoons came forward until the floor of the shallow valley was a mass of horsemen, sitting silently in their saddles as they awaited the order to attack. Ney took his place at their head and raised his feathered hat to signal the guns to open fire. With a staggered roar the bombardment began. Each gun spat flame and smoke as it jumped back a short distance with the recoil.

Wellington’s gun crews stood to, but did not return fire, and Napoleon realised that they must be conserving their ammunition for the French cavalry, when they began their advance. Napoleon saw one of the British gun carriages above Hougoumont disintegrate as it was struck by roundshot. Splinters exploded in all directions, felling the crew. The axle collapsed and the barrel canted up at an angle towards the sky. All along the ridge columns of earth tore into the air, but the lines of soldiers still stationed on the forward slope and the ridge itself stood their ground as roundshot, canister and shell decimated their ranks.

‘They cannot take such punishment for long,’ Soult commented.

Napoleon nodded. But even as he took grim satisfaction from the destruction being dealt out by the French guns, he was aware that time was slipping away. Every minute brought the Prussians closer to his right flank. The battle could still be won, he calculated, but the odds were no more than sixty to forty in his favour. Victory depended on breaking the centre of the allied line. Napoleon reached down and took out his fob watch, and glanced at the hands. Wellington’s soldiers, scraped together from the forces of Europe’s minor powers, had defied Napoleon for over four hours.

‘Their nerve will break at any moment, Soult. I am certain of it.’ Napoleon gestured towards the waiting cavalry. ‘And then nothing will stand between Ney and the streets of Brussels.’

The elm tree, 4.00 p.m.

Even though Arthur had given the order for the battalions on the ridge to lie down the casualties were still fearful. Heavy shot, angled low, smashed through the prone figures, leaving bloody smears and tangled bodies to mark their passage, and there was no shelter from the shells that regularly exploded overhead, sending fragments of iron slashing through the men below.

‘We endured nothing like this in Spain, your grace,’ said Somerset as they watched the bombardment to their right. Even though the French guns were targeting the stretch of the ridge between the two strongpoints of Hougoumont and La Haye Sainte, occasional shot smacked into the slope or whirred through the air close to Arthur and his small party of staff officers. Once there was a dull roar behind them, and Arthur turned to see a column of smoke swirling into the sky from the shattered remains of a handful of ammunition wagons, now ablaze as several dazed figures around the wreckage rose to their feet and staggered away from the flames. Scores more men and horses lay on the ground, unmoving.

‘Lucky shot with a howitzer,’ one of Arthur’s aides muttered.

‘Lucky?’ Somerset snorted.

The officers turned their attention back to the furious bombardment. It seemed to Arthur as if it had reached a climax. He turned to look at the men of the nearest regiment, one of those composed of new recruits fresh from their training battalion in England. There was no mistaking the fear in their expressions. Arthur knew that they had to be moved back, before their spirit failed.

‘Somerset, pass the word. The centre of the line will retire a hundred paces.’

‘A hundred paces? Yes, your grace.’

The aide spurred his horse away and conveyed the order to every unit defending the ground under fire from the French guns. One by one the battalions stood up and formed ranks before turning about and pacing back down the reverse slope, out of sight of the French gunners. Within quarter of an hour the only men still visible to the enemy were the gun crews. Some of the batteries, overcome by the exasperation of enduring losses without responding, ignored Wellington’s order not to engage in counter-battery fire and had started to blaze away.

There was no time to ride over to the gunners and berate them, as at that moment Arthur realised that the enemy bombardment was slackening. The last few guns fired and then the French crews reloaded their guns and closed up to them to create as much space between each gun as possible. The reason for this was at once obvious to Arthur, who spurred his horse forward, down the reverse slope towards the infantry regiments sheltering there.

‘Prepare to receive cavalry! Infantry will form square!’

The order was relayed from battalion to battalion and each of the lines of infantry steadily manoeuvred into blocks, three ranks deep. The front rank knelt, each man resting the butt of his musket against a boot so that the bayonets angled out to present a bristling line of steel points on each face of the formation. Soon the reverse slope was covered in a patchwork of red rectangles, loosely staggered like elongated squares of a chessboard. Arthur and his staff took their place in the middle of a battalion close to the ridge, and waited. Above them the British artillery fired away at the advancing cavalry as long as they dared, then abandoned their guns and rushed for the shelter of the nearest square, throwing themselves flat beneath the outstretched bayonets. A handful of crews had the presence of mind to remove a wheel from their guns and run it down the slope with them, leaving their gun immobilised.