away from something in their midst. They were too tightly packed for those closest to escape and when the thing went off it flattened a whole group as though they had been swatted by a giant invisible hand. But the blue coated ranks at the front of the column marched on and behind them the now disordered men followed. Just as they came off the end of the bridge and left the protection of the parapet there was furious crackle of musketry.
Only now did we see infantry on our side of the river. There did not seem many of them and they were not standing in ranks. Instead they were dug well in amongst the stone and rock on the western bank. They had been hard to spot amongst the ground cover which was why we had not seen them before. But now the puffs of smoke from their firing gave away their positions, and not just to us.
The French cannon now opened up again, a dozen heavy iron balls smashed into the ground at our end of the bridge. I saw one demolish a hastily built loose stone wall and, judging from the screams, it destroyed some men standing behind it. Another ball hit an angled face of rock with such force we heard the crack and saw the ball ricochet fifty feet into the air. I looked back at the French. Their front ranks had been destroyed by the early firing and a pile of dead and dying lay across the end of the roadway where the parapet stopped. More French were trying to climb over their comrades to continue the attack but despite the best efforts of the French cannon, a steady fire was continuing from the men on our side of the river. The moment a blue coated soldier reached the end of the bridge he was met by a hail of bullets and none were getting away.
I realised now that there were more soldiers on our side of the bridge than I had first guessed. Not nearly as many as the French army but there could be up to a thousand, I thought, as I watched men furiously reloading muskets and passing them up to those with a better vantage point to shoot.
‘Who are they?’ asked Downie impatiently.
‘Some seem to be riflemen as they have green jackets. Wait though, no, they are firing muskets too.’ I paused trying to make out a common thread in the uniform of the bulk of the men by the river. The green jacketed troops made up no more than a third of the number, the rest were dressed in a myriad of uniforms or seemed to have no uniform at all. There were some with green uniform coats and red facings of the Spanish army, others in uniform coats that must once have been white, and yet more in brown homespun coats. ‘They must be some kind of militia,’ I concluded.
Whoever they were they were making tidy work of the French who seemed unable to get past the bottle neck at the end of the parapet. Some tried to drop over the side but either there was a steep drop or the Spanish had men hiding under the bridge, for none appeared on the shore afterwards. The bridge itself was now a tightly packed mass of men. The cannon on our side fired again and both and the howitzers managed to get their shells amongst the men on the bridge. This time the French were too wedged in to move and when the howitzer bombs exploded there must have been terrible carnage. Seeing that they were unable to go forward and were sitting ducks for the guns on our side, the troops on the bridge now started to edge back the way they had come. Those at the front of the column however gave one final effort and with a cry of ‘ vive l’empereur ’ they threw themselves forward once more. The French artillery that had managed to reload in time supported them and more balls crashed into the river bank. But it was not enough; a fusillade of musket fire threw the blue coated soldiers back. Now with room to retreat behind them, there was a general movement of the French back the way they had come.
‘Well that was right handy work,’ exclaimed Sergeant Butterworth riding up alongside us. ‘The frogs have lost a fair few men there, sir,’ he pointed down at
Only now did we see infantry on our side of the river. There did not seem many of them and they were not standing in ranks. Instead they were dug well in amongst the stone and rock on the western bank. They had been hard to spot amongst the ground cover which was why we had not seen them before. But now the puffs of smoke from their firing gave away their positions, and not just to us.
The French cannon now opened up again, a dozen heavy iron balls smashed into the ground at our end of the bridge. I saw one demolish a hastily built loose stone wall and, judging from the screams, it destroyed some men standing behind it. Another ball hit an angled face of rock with such force we heard the crack and saw the ball ricochet fifty feet into the air. I looked back at the French. Their front ranks had been destroyed by the early firing and a pile of dead and dying lay across the end of the roadway where the parapet stopped. More French were trying to climb over their comrades to continue the attack but despite the best efforts of the French cannon, a steady fire was continuing from the men on our side of the river. The moment a blue coated soldier reached the end of the bridge he was met by a hail of bullets and none were getting away.
I realised now that there were more soldiers on our side of the bridge than I had first guessed. Not nearly as many as the French army but there could be up to a thousand, I thought, as I watched men furiously reloading muskets and passing them up to those with a better vantage point to shoot.
‘Who are they?’ asked Downie impatiently.
‘Some seem to be riflemen as they have green jackets. Wait though, no, they are firing muskets too.’ I paused trying to make out a common thread in the uniform of the bulk of the men by the river. The green jacketed troops made up no more than a third of the number, the rest were dressed in a myriad of uniforms or seemed to have no uniform at all. There were some with green uniform coats and red facings of the Spanish army, others in uniform coats that must once have been white, and yet more in brown homespun coats. ‘They must be some kind of militia,’ I concluded.
Whoever they were they were making tidy work of the French who seemed unable to get past the bottle neck at the end of the parapet. Some tried to drop over the side but either there was a steep drop or the Spanish had men hiding under the bridge, for none appeared on the shore afterwards. The bridge itself was now a tightly packed mass of men. The cannon on our side fired again and both and the howitzers managed to get their shells amongst the men on the bridge. This time the French were too wedged in to move and when the howitzer bombs exploded there must have been terrible carnage. Seeing that they were unable to go forward and were sitting ducks for the guns on our side, the troops on the bridge now started to edge back the way they had come. Those at the front of the column however gave one final effort and with a cry of ‘ vive l’empereur ’ they threw themselves forward once more. The French artillery that had managed to reload in time supported them and more balls crashed into the river bank. But it was not enough; a fusillade of musket fire threw the blue coated soldiers back. Now with room to retreat behind them, there was a general movement of the French back the way they had come.
‘Well that was right handy work,’ exclaimed Sergeant Butterworth riding up alongside us. ‘The frogs have lost a fair few men there, sir,’ he pointed down at
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