Walking forward now, as the enemy shot began to fly in earnest towards their lines, Steel felt his feet begin to sink into the soft ground. Weighed down by their bundles of faggots, the men soon found they could not gather pace. Four hundred yards, thought Steel. Good God. It seemed more like a mile now, stretching out before him up the hill. No hill now, but a mountain, from the top of which he saw guns belch more gouts of flame as the French artillery opened up with its full force. Ten, twenty roundshot at a time came leaping at them down the slope, finding a home in the ranks behind him. Steel heard the cries to his rear as his own men were blown to oblivion. He repeated a litany in his head: ‘Face the front. Keep looking to the front. Don’t be distracted. Don’t, for pity’s sake, look back.’
He heard Slaughter close behind him, through the cacophany of shot, bark another, familiar command: ‘Dress your ranks. Keep them steady. Corporal Jenkins. Your section. Keep it steady now, mind.’
Keep steady. It was madness in this hail of roundshot and grenades. But there was no other way. A cannonball flew past his left elbow. Steel felt the shockwave. Another roundshot came hurtling towards him and passed horribly close, before taking off the head of one of the second-rank men and continuing down the hill. To his left he could see Henry Hansam advancing at a similar walking pace. The drums were driving them forward now, hammering out their tattoo with frenzied rhythm. Momentarily forgetting his own advice, he looked behind. Saw Slaughter and next to him, his face covered in mud, his coat splashed with blood and brains from the man who had been killed beside him, yet still smiling through his fear, one of the infants of the company. A boy of barely sixteen. Steel grinned at him. He was a Yorkshire farmhand, if his memory served him right. Runaway, most like. He shouted through the cacophany:
‘Truman, isn’t it? All right lad?’
A bigger smile. That was good.
‘Don’t worry. You’re doing well. Not bad for your first battle. Sarn’t Slaughter, let’s get up there and show them how it’s done.’
Looking to his front he could see nothing but smoke and flying shot. The noise was indescribable. A familiar terror began to rise inside him. Like the sudden, illogical panic that could sweep through you when standing on a precipice. Must stay calm, he thought. The men must not see that I am afraid. There was a cold feeling now in the pit of his stomach. Feet like lead. I am not afraid. He bit his lip until he could taste the blood. Good. He was alive. He would live through this. Just put one foot in front of the other and walk forward. That was it. Slowly he began to advance, and got into an automatic rhythm. Easier now. He raised his sword. It was the right time to say something now. The words flew from him.
‘Grenadiers. Follow me.’
Again they started to climb the slope and with every pace more men fell, as more of the deadly black balls hurtled down towards them. Two hundred yards more now, he guessed. All they had to do was carry on and they’d be there. Just keep going. He was suddenly aware of a change in the rhythm of fire from the defences. Instantly, its cause became evident, as a hail of cannister shot – thirty iron balls blown from the cannon mouth in a canvas bag – slammed into the men standing to his left and took away a score of red-coated bodies. At the same instant a crash of musket fire signalled that the French infantry too had found their range. More men fell. Somewhere, through the drifting smoke to his left, another officer called out:
‘Charge. Charge, boys. God save the Queen.’
Steel saw the man fall, but his cry was taken up along the line and as one, the men broke into a trot. Steel too began to run. Breathing hard now, the smell of powder drifting strong and acrid into his nostrils. They passed through a mist of billowing white smoke. When they emerged on the other side of the cloud however, a sunken gulley appeared directly in front of him – from nowhere. Steel pulled up. He yelled at the men behind him to stop and found himself at the top of a muddy bank of a depth of four, perhaps five feet. Behind him the men came to a halt. All around him, and down along the line, he could hear the frantic shouts of corporals and sergeants. A corporal to his left was giving orders:
‘Right lads. This is it. Drop your fasheens. Over we go.’
As the men began to throw down their wooden bundles, Steel wondered. This could not be right. It was too soon. This was no defensive ditch. Merely a sunken track. He turned to the Corporal:
‘No, no. Don’t use them here. This is not the place. Carry on. Follow me.’
The man looked suprised, but it was too late. The front rank had already thrown their precious rolls of wood down into the lane. Men attempted to clamber across, but found the distance too great and slithered off into the mud. At the same time, cannonballs started to crash into their ranks. The French gunners had adjusted their range and were aiming directly for the thin stripe of the track. Some of the men began to panic; unsure of whether they should stand, use their fascines or drop down without them into the gulley. The more athletic managed to cross the makeshift wooden causeway, only to find themselves all the more prone to the hail of roundshot. Steel jumped down into the ditch and half clambered up the other side, using the bank as cover. He heard Slaughter’s booming voice.
‘Keep to your ranks. Dress your ranks.’
For they were ragged now. And to the Sergeant ragged ranks meant ragged discipline. Lack of confidence. Lack of nerve. Steel knew equally well that if their nerve went this soon, then the attack would just dissolve. But he could see too that, whatever Slaughter’s instinct, this was no time for parade-ground drill. He called up to the big Sergeant.
‘Jacob. Forget the bloody ranks. Get the men down here. Form on me.’
Startled out of his automatic manouevre, Slaughter checked and began to herd the men into cover. Quickly the half-company of Grenadiers descended into the gulley, followed Steel’s example and pressed themselves hard against the cover of the far bank. Removing his hat, Steel peered gingerly over the top, up towards the fort. He could see them more clearly now. The figures in white coats up on the parapet. French infantry. They were standing quite still; drawn up in silence as if on parade. They made an eerie, unnerving contrast to the shouting mass of his own men that milled around him, pressing themselves into the muddy wall of the sunken road. Up on the fort Steel saw officers begin to shout commands. Saw the front rank of the French take one pace forward. He saw them reach behind and unbuckle a black pouch. Grenadiers. He knew all too well what was coming next. He turned to the men:
‘Keep well into the bank. For God’s sake, lads, keep well in and keep your heads down and you’ll be all right.’
Two smooth black spheres, smaller than roundshot and sputtering flame bowled by the defenders underarm, like cricket balls, came bouncing into the makeshift trench. Steel looked to see where they had landed and moved quickly away from them.
Men pushed themselves deeper into the muddy bank, trying in vain to make the ground swallow them up. The fuse of one of the round black bombs fizzed to a stop and failed to detonate. The other one though, which had come to rest by the far bank of the gulley, exploded in a hail of red-hot iron, instantly killing three of the Grenadiers and blinding another who lay shrieking in the mud, clutching at the bloody ruin of his face. Steel could hear the cries of other wounded men echoing from above, where behind them, among the second-wave assault troops on the lower slopes of the hill, more grenades had found their mark. There was only one thing to do now. He turned to Slaughter.
‘We’ve got to get out of this death trap. Now. Come on.’
Looking out again above the rim of the bank, Steel tried to find a way forward. To the left lay the bulk of the storming party, mired down in the torrent of shot, not knowing whether to stand or advance. He saw men stumbling forward into the ditch. All was confusion. He thought he saw Goors himself fall. To his right though, there was no one. He and the Grenadiers were the very end of the line. The extreme right wing. For an instant a wild idea entered his mind. Might not the French, observing that the allied attack was going in on their right, perhaps have grouped their men principally towards that area? Surely that would mean that they would have weakened their own left flank. The flank that now lay obliquely to his own command. He peered through the