Captain Featherstone hurried his horse over to Henderson, obviously fuming with the lack of action. James thought he probably was angry at the loss of a chance to use his expensive sword and pistol; the latter using a rifled barrel as the wealthy Captain had boasted to James just days before.
“They’re escaping, Henderson, escaping!” Featherstone raged, not at him, but at the commanders, James assumed.
“I can see that, sir. The outside columns moved too slowly. A little faster and we’d have caught them in a pincer movement,” James offered, knowing his judgement would annoy the Captain because he would have already thought of it and would believe the comment was a tease at his tactical ability.
“I can bloody well see that too, thank you,” the Captain, as he rearranged his falling bicorne. “By God, it’s getting awfully hot.”
But he was interrupted from complaining further about the weather or the lack of action because the approach of Lieutenant-Colonel Lake and Major Way riding over was enough to silence him. This close, James was able to say the extent of his dress. The man had scrupulously cleaned and ironed his uniform, and it’s metallic components dazzled in the sunlight, and the bold red stood out against the already fading red of many of the men in the ranks. He had trimmed his moustache, waxed back his hair, and adorned his medals, sprayed perfume, and many other things. Major Way, beside him, looked diminished in contrast. His uniform was shabby and out of place, and he had taken little effort in his appearance. His grey hair was wild, and his expression dull and uninterested. As far as James had learnt, the senior officer was an overly cautious man, and probably thought of today’s action as a victory of sorts.
Lake trotted over to the Captain and Lieutenant and a grim smile appeared at his mouth. “We didn’t move fast enough,” he remarked, to nobody in particular. James wondered why he had moved over here, but he was answered as the Colonel pulled out his telescope and gazed over at the retreating French. Their position at the forefront of the column and to the right gave a good place for external viewing.
Lake grunted uncharacteristically, and lowered his telescope. “You’ve got to admit they manoeuvre excellently. If they want to leave, there’s nothing we can do to stop them,” Lake observed, and Major Way nodded.
But Lake suddenly threw up his telescope again, eagerly eyeing the ridge where the French were currently climbing. It was taking them time; but while the British stood and waited for orders, they were moving further and further from their reach. But Lake had spotted something peculiar.
“They’ve stopped on the summit,” the Lieutenant-Colonel whispered, hardly daring to believe it.
“Perhaps just to guard the other units moving behind?” offered Captain Featherstone tentatively.
“No! They’re all stopping. Deploying on the top of the ridge! They must think they’ll be reinforced!” he said excitedly, and with that, galloped away with Major Way.
The French had indeed taken up positions on the steeply inclining ridge that dominated the horizon behind Columbeira. James frowned. Just this morning he had wished Major Houghton was wrong, and he would not have to fight up such a place, but the staff officers’ estimation had been proven correct and the fight was not over.
The heat hadn’t given up. It still subjugated the valley to overbearing amounts, and many of the men were beginning to pant despite the fact they were not moving. It was the sort of heat that nothing could escape. Even in the limited shade, the heat was in control. James uncomfortably loosened his collar for some air. It did nothing to relieve his tension upon realising the French were going to offer battle after all. Sweat poured down his brow now, rather than, as before, being just a small nuisance. The rest of the men were suffering too. Some had wanted to sit down but were quickly forced to stand by their respective Sergeants, while others shielded themselves from the sun’s glare by moving their shakos above their eyes. In the short break, Ensign Sullivan came over.
“Thought we might not have to fight then,” he said disappointingly, and then seeing Sergeant Rostern nearby, added a hasty “Sir.”
“Ever hopeful, Derek? Now we’ll have to dislodge them from that nice little fortified position up there,” James teased, taking the matter as a joke, while deep down he was terrified, but used a humourous tone to cover it up.
“And you think that’ll be difficult?” asked Derek, but not confidently. He asked as a hesitant question instead.
“No! Of course not. We’re British and they’re French. Simple logic.” James replied, keeping the same jovial manner to assure Derek and help himself as well. His comment didn’t seem to improve the young Ensign’s expression; instead, if possible, it worsened. His lip was trembling and at any moment he looked as if he would burst out in tears. Some people just weren’t made for war, and James sympathised with the young lad who would be more at home working in an honest profession at home. Derek had told him has farming parents had saved up the money to buy him an Ensigncy because they believed he could support the family income – the boy had six younger brothers and sisters. James wondered whether he was made for war. Perhaps his fears would be answered on that steep ridge.
But his thoughts were interrupted by the order for a new advance.
The drummer boys had begun playing their instruments again, and Captain Featherstone rode over to order Derek to the rear and inform James they were to perform the same tactics again. Except this time the middle column wouldn’t actually attack and instead would be a diversionary assault so the enemy would be distracted and miss the flanking columns, who would hopefully rout the defensive position of the French.
James sighed a breath of relief as his company began the solid march towards the tall ridge as he realised it was doubtful the 29th would see much action. Part of him wanted to fight, and he could be a hero, but another part of him knew war was never as romantic as the poems and stories he had read suggested, and that it might be a terrible, ugly place. He also felt relief for Derek who would be able to avoid fighting, for today at least. Without thinking, he ran his finger along the golden line of his pistol and knew he wouldn’t fire it today, and reckoned it was probably safe to put it away. He looked like a fool holding it the whole time, and he had heard a few men laughing while he had been loading whilst walking and reckoned the men probably thought less of him due to that particular incident.
Sergeant Rostern was beside him. They hadn’t talked since the night before, although James knew the Sergeant probably wanted to ask. The memory of Lorena had gone from his mind. José had run. Lorena would hate him for fighting her father, either way. Those two had left his perspective, and now all he worried about was the fight ahead. While there should be any fighting, small niggle in the back of his brain had begun to worry him. Things could go wrong, mistakes could happen, and he didn’t want to die here.
The redcoats reached the original position the French had occupied, a little hill with a windmill, which the 29th and 82nd now marched past, towards the town of Columbeira, and closer to the waiting French muskets. Closer to death.
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