‘A volley, then the bayonet,’ he said. ‘Remember Albuera, men, and die hard!’
That regiment, known since Albuera by the proud nickname of the ‘Die Hards,’ needed no second bidding. They sprang upon the flank of the Russians and rolled them up; but another battalion appearing, General Pennefather ordered both the 20th and the 57th to retire to the top of the ridge, where they lay down, and with concentrated fire held the enemy in check.
For three hours, then, the battle had waged, and everywhere, in spite of occasional advantages, the Russians had been defeated. A lull now ensued; the enemy were preparing for their great final effort.
The weather cleared a little, so that surrounding objects could be seen; and, riding behind heroic General Pennefather, Jack presently saw the Russians coming up the slope towards the Home Ridge in enormous columns. They covered the advance of their infantry with a raging artillery fire, and the ridge was swept from end to end.
Presently, just by Jack, the head of a Russian column gained the ridge. There were no English troops in sight; but a French regiment, the 7th of the line, was moving along the crest. It was smitten by the Russian artillery, it wavered and faltered. An English staff-officer rode up and harangued them in broken French. Jack, speaking the language fluently, also galloped up.
‘Comrades, brothers, stand firm!’ he cried; ‘prove that you are the sons of the heroes who under the great Napoleon conquered half Europe.’
The battalion advanced; but the Russians poured in a volley when they retreated down the hillside. The troops on the Home Ridge were in danger, the victorious Russians were advancing, when two hundred men of the 55th and 77th flew at the mass, charged it, tore through it from end to end; and the Russians, paralysed by the very audacity of the attack, retired down the hill. They were not defeated though; they rallied and returned to the attack.
The French 7th Regiment advanced; some English troops who had been driven back formed up beside them. The French deployed right in the face of the advancing Russians. They delivered a volley and were reloading when a panic seemed to seize them. They saw the Russians would be upon them before they had finished loading, and they had not that calm confidence in their prowess which enables the British to charge home with the bayonet. They began to fall back, when General Pennefather, in strong, vigorous language, bade them stand; many of his officers did likewise, and the English soldiers on their left shouted out encouragingly. The French soldiers listened; they took heart, but the Russians were then only a few paces from them.
Suddenly the enemy’s leading battalions halted, and began to gaze nervously over their shoulders. A tremendous tumult broke out behind them. They saw their supporting battalions reel and stagger, then weaken.
The English around their General, looking from the vantage of their seats on horseback, saw the gallant Daubeney with thirty men of the 55th dash at the flank of the whole Russian battalion, strike in, lose itself in the horde of Russians; then—by stabbing, kicking, punching, heaving—literally tear a way through from flank to flank, throwing them into fearful disorder. This disorder spread to the first battalion of Russians, who, thinking they were attacked by numbers, wavered.