Whose Business is to Die, page 4
The German hussars followed, striking with cold fury as they caught their opponents unaware – the corporal chopped another member of the elite company from the saddle, and then one of the privates sliced down hard to sever the wounded arm of the man Williams had struck. No longer feeling pressure on the reins, the Frenchman’s horse turned and bolted, coming straight at Hanley, who sawed at his own reins as he tried to get out of its way. Instinct made him flinch away and he leaned to the left, lost his right stirrup and was half falling as his own horse started running again into the crowd. A Frenchman on a bay ran into him on that side, helping him back up, but his grip on his sword loosened and he let go. He ducked as the dragoon launched a cross-bodied cut at him, felt the wind of the blade as he swayed away from it and it sliced through the air, thankful that he was on the man’s wrong side. The Frenchman had his cheeks gashed open so that the flesh flapped as he moved and his cries were horribly distorted.
Hanley’s sword was heavy as it hung by the cord of the sword-knot and he fumbled for the grip and then swung his arm at the dragoon just as the Frenchman raised his blade for another cut. His own weapon slapped his horse on the neck and it bucked, kicking out behind and breaking the leg of another animal, which fell and pitched the dragoon riding it on to the wet grass. The Frenchman with the slashed face screamed at him, spitting gobbets of blood and saliva through the gashes in his cheeks. He had checked his last blow and now raised his blade to lunge. Hanley’s horse bucked again, flinging him high and bringing him back down to slap hard against the saddle. The Frenchman watched him, taking careful aim, determined to make no more mistakes.
One of the 13th appeared, Tarleton helmet gone, spatters of blood dark on his face and over the buff braid on the front of his tight-fitting blue coat. The Frenchman shifted his blade in time to parry the man’s first cut, giving Hanley time to regain his lost stirrup and then get hold of his sword. He saw sparks as the Englishman and Frenchman’s blades met again. The light dragoon was red faced and breathing heavily from the effort – the Frenchman’s mangled face made his state hard to read. Hanley pushed his horse forward and without really thinking thrust straight into the dragoon’s body. The tip of his sword was not very sharp and pressed the heavy cloth of the man’s jacket back for an instant before punching through and sliding between two of his ribs. Hanley was a big man and the blow had all the added strength of his fear. The dragoon made more odd noises, but his eyes fastened on the British officer as they widened. Hanley watched them, saw them flicker as the life faded from them. The man slid from the saddle, his weight dragging at Hanley’s sword because he could not pull it free. Only when the dying man was almost on the ground did the steel slide out with a ghastly sucking sound Hanley heard over all the other noise.
‘Bloody good, sir!’ the private from the 13th said, and then tugged his horse around to seek new prey.
The crowd of horsemen was thinning. Hanley took one last look at the Frenchman he had killed and then pushed on to escape him. He sensed that the dragoons in green were starting to go back a little. Yet they were still fighting, and he was relieved when the corporal and another of the hussars closed on either side of him, sabres held at the guard save for when they actually delivered an attack. There was blood on the corporal’s sabre, and yet when he looked there was little on his own and that puzzled him. He struggled to accept that he had just killed a man – something he had never before done even after four years of campaigning. It did not seem real.
There was a fresh shout and three French dragoons were spurring forward, urging the others to rally and return to the attack. Williams rode at them, beside him a squat, broad-shouldered man who wore the blue jacket of the 13th with the buff chevrons of a corporal on his sleeve. The Welshman was a little ahead, his normally simple, almost innocent expression, contorted with savagery – Hanley wondered whether he had looked like that a few moments ago, but doubted it.
Williams took the attack of the first Frenchman on his blade, deflecting it and then flicking his own sword quickly to jab at the man’s face. His opponent went back, leaning away to avoid the blow but losing his balance for an instant and making the mistake of bending his arm. Williams got inside his guard and jabbed again, pricking the man on the inside of his elbow. A second dragoon closed with him, and the lieutenant hurriedly parried this fresh attack until one of the hussars appeared alongside him and evened the odds. The third Frenchman made for the corporal from the 13th, who feinted left but went right, and opened the man’s throat to the very bone with a strong and very well-directed cut.
‘Vive l’empereur!’ A French officer surged forward, his deep voice raised in anger as much as challenge as he went for the corporal. There were the gold epaulettes of a colonel on his shoulders, and his helmet had a leopardskin turban rather than the usual plain brown. The corporal pulled away and avoided his first attack, and then the two men began to circle, a wide space having opened around them. There were still plenty of other fights raging, but it was almost as if they no longer mattered. Hanley stopped, guarded by the hussars, and watched.
The French colonel was a slim, elegant man, he and his horse so well-practised that they seemed to move as one, stepping carefully, waiting for the moment. Unlike those of his men, the colonel’s sword had a gentle curve to the blade, and was polished to such a high sheen that it glinted even on this drab day. With no visible signal Hanley could see, the horse bounded forward, and the sword lunged at the light dragoon’s face. The corporal parried the blow with a careful flick of the wrist, using the heavy sabre as if it was as light as a feather. Sword and sabre clashed once, twice, and then the horses were apart again, stepping lightly as if in a riding school. The corporal lacked the colonel’s elegance, but matched his skill. Neither man spoke, and their eyes never left the other for a second.
Hanley’s horse shifted beneath him, and he looked down to see a good part of an arm lying beside him, still partly covered by a green sleeve, the gloved hand holding on to its long sword. There were several light dragoons on the ground, even more wounded and making their way to the rear. He was not sure that there were so many French dead, but there were many more wounded and they were horribly mutilated. The British sabre was a clumsy, scything weapon that in well-trained and strong hands worked butchery on the enemy. The colonel and the corporal closed again, and their blades met, each probing the other’s defence. Not far away Williams had again wounded his opponent, this time higher up near the shoulder, and the man’s arm was so weak that he could barely hold his sword up to defend. Beside them the hussar and dragoon defended more than they attacked. Hanley sensed that all of them were half watching the struggle going on near by.
With a cry of victory the colonel lunged and the light dragoon only just had time to block the blow, then recovered faster than Hanley would have believed possible and raised his sabre. He cut down hard, the blow ringing against the Frenchman’s brass helmet like a cracked bell. The officer swayed, struggled to bring his own sword up to parry, but was not fast enough to stop a second cut which snapped the scaled chinstrap and sent the helmet spinning off. With a grunt of immense effort the broad-shouldered corporal sliced down a third time, the heavy blade passing through scalp and skull. The colonel slumped to the left, and his corpse dropped down, blood and grey matter spilling from the great gash in his head. Hanley saw the corporal nod, as if in approval of his victory, and then say something in what sounded like Gaelic. The officer was not sure whether to exult or vomit.
The French were fleeing, the spirit gone with the death of their colonel, and the British were starting to follow, chasing after the dragoons and striking at their backs. Williams and the hussar with him took their opponents prisoner. The one Williams had wounded was a sergeant old in war, who knew when it was time to fight and when to quit. The other one was a young officer, nominally his leader, who seemed more confused than anything else. There were other prisoners guarded by a few lightly hurt men from the 13th, for the rest were haring off in pursuit.
Baynes appeared, and Hanley wondered how far away the man had gone during the fighting. If he had been killed or taken then it would have been a serious loss – perhaps a critical one if he was taken and the French realised who he was.
‘You should not have come,’ he said to the smiling merchant, who did not appear appalled in any way by the sight of the carnage around him. Instead his expression was one of curiosity.
‘I fear it must be my insatiable spirit of adventure. Dear God, look at that man!’ Baynes had noticed the corpse of the French colonel. ‘That must have taken considerable strength,’ he went on, impressed, but not moved to any other emotion. ‘You seem to forget, William, that you and I have ridden battlefields before.’
Shouted orders drifted towards them. Brigadier General Long was forming two of the Portuguese squadrons into columns to follow the 13th Light Dragoons and act as a solid support should the French rally.
‘Ah, it looks like our lieutenant has won his prize,’ Baynes said as Williams came towards them, the two prisoners behind him and the hussar bringing up the rear. The man’s horse was limping from a gash on its hindquarters. ‘What is that fellow’s name?’ he asked the corporal.
‘Becker, sir.’
‘Well, Becker, you will take these men to the rear, but remember that one of their horses belongs to Mr Williams, here. You will take the officer’s, I presume?’
‘I should prefer the sergeant’s,’ Williams said. ‘Only let it carry him to have his wounds tended first.’ In response to Baynes’, questioning look, he offered an explanation. ‘I have generally found that an experienced sergeant will be better equipped than a young officer, sir.’
The statement amused Baynes. ‘That does have the ring of truth – the old servant oft-times eats and drinks better than his lord! Well, you must stay with me and we shall keep one of the hussars. Corporal, choose another man and stay with Captain Hanley.’
‘Sir.’
‘Hanley, follow on with those stout fellows’ – Baynes gestured at the Portuguese as they set off after the light dragoons. ‘Do everything you can to ensure that we secure the guns and the rest of their train. I dare say more soldiers will be coming along behind you?’ The question was directed at Williams, who looked for a moment at the two French squares and the supporting hussars on the highway.
‘The heavies are not far behind us, and part of my brigade not much farther behind them. We should be able to force the column to surrender. Though perhaps we should attend General Long to discover his intentions.’ From where they were, they could see the French around the road, but could not see much behind them of their own supports. There was no sign of the heavy brigade, although it must be close.
‘In a moment perhaps. Go, Hanley, be off with you and do not come back without plenty of cannon!’ Baynes dropped his voice. ‘And better yet one of those rogues for me to talk to. I’ll keep Williams so that he can recognise Sinclair or Dalmas if it turns out that they are with the column. Now, off with you.’
Hanley cantered towards the Portuguese, the corporal and the private just behind him. He exchanged greetings with the English colonel leading them, who showed no particular interest, but was happy for them to tag along. They dropped to a trot to match the two squadrons as they went steadily on, the ground rising a little before again dropping away. They passed a couple of bodies stretched on the ground, Frenchmen with their heads badly cut about, and a wounded light dragoon leading along some bloodstained and battered prisoners.
Once over the rise they could see the light dragoons chasing after their quarry, both now spread out.
‘View halloa!’ said the English colonel softly. Without any order the trot quickened and Hanley could feel the exhilaration stirring all of them. More to his surprise, he felt it himself, the sense of power as the horses surged forward. He realised that he still held his sword and then the thought came to him that he had killed a man, and yet the world did not seem so very different.
‘View halloa!’ he said, and laughed out loud.
4
Williams took a rag from one of his saddle holsters and wiped his sword clean before sliding it back into the scabbard. He sat on his horse beside Baynes and the remaining hussar, as they waited at a polite distance for Brigadier General Long to give a message to an ADC.
‘Tell Marshal Beresford that I have lost sight of the Thirteenth Light Dragoons and the Seventh Portuguese under Colonel Otway, but I have the First Portuguese with me. If the Heavy Brigade comes up then we can complete our victory. Go.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Williams caught the hint of an accent before the man galloped off.
‘That is Baron Tripp – a Dutchman, although he now holds the King’s commission,’ Baynes said as if passing the time of day. ‘General Long has been less than a week with the army, and his own staff and camp equipment have not yet arrived.’ That explained why the general was riding a troop horse.
Baynes edged a little closer, but the general’s expression was scarcely welcoming.
‘You may follow if you wish, sir, but I have no time for you,’ Long said, the force of the rebuff weakened by a sudden rumble from his stomach. Without looking at them, he trotted over to the head of the remaining three squadrons of Portuguese horse, with white collars and cuffs to their dark blue tunics. Riding beside the regiment’s commander, he led them forward, veering towards the road. The French column had begun moving again almost as soon as the 13th Light Dragoons had chased away their opponents. The infantry were still in square, which made marching a slow business, yet even so they were making clear progress along the highway. The rearmost squadron of French hussars was several hundred yards away, with just a few skirmishers out covering the withdrawal. They were dressed in a faded light blue and had carbines in hand, although as yet none had fired.
General Long halted just short of the highway and stared at the retreating enemy. Then he looked round to the rear past Williams and the others. The Welshman followed his gaze and realised that the heavy brigade had not followed them. He could see the two regiments, formed in column some distance away, but to the south of the road. They looked to be almost half a mile away, and at this distance their dark horses looked black, topped by a streak of red from the jackets of the men.
‘Mr Williams.’ Brigadier General Long did not shout, but had a carrying voice. ‘Would you be so good as to join me.’
Williams reached the general and saluted. Long looked even paler than before, the red rims around his eyes standing out against his pale cheeks.
‘Mr Williams, I do not have all my staff with me today and so I must ask you to carry a message for me.’ It was politely done, even if neither man could possibly imagine a lieutenant refusing the request of a general.
‘Find Marshal Beresford. I think it likely that he is with the heavies. Give him my best compliments and tell him that the Heavy Brigade must advance to support me. If it does then we have these fellows trapped. If the artillery is up then all the better. Tell the marshal that the Thirteenth and the Seventh Portuguese have gone, and I have only the First Regiment still with me, and so I need the heavy dragoons to finish the job. Have you got that?’
Williams repeated the message, even after a few days used to the routines of staff work, and the solemnity of the moment passed without any more unfortunate eruptions from the general’s stomach.
‘Good,’ Long said, ‘then go, and better take that fellow with you.’ He nodded in Baynes’ direction, his voice raised so that the merchant would hear. Williams glanced at the French column and saw that they were still moving, and then turned his horse, pretending not to notice a fresh churning gurgle from the general’s innards.
‘It seems my presence is not wanted,’ Baynes said drily once they were out of earshot. Williams put Francesca into a canter, and the others matched her pace. Baynes was a better horseman than his looks suggested. ‘Still, the poor man appears most unwell. And he is a twin, of course, and it is always interesting to see how a twin copes without his sibling. Some are not good on their own.’
Williams said nothing, not caring to discuss a senior officer, especially one he scarcely knew. He was surprised to learn that Long was a twin. Williams had three sisters, the middle one already married and widowed, but, growing up as the lone male in a female household, he had often felt that a brother would have been welcome company. The idea of a twin was a strange one, a fellow like himself in looks and much of his character. A gloomy thought, probably inspired by his mix of Scots and Welsh blood, made him suspect that the brother would have possessed all the charm, confidence and poise he felt lacking in himself. Bet the swine would have had better luck in love, he thought.
‘Are you acquainted with Marshal Beresford?’ Baynes’ question thankfully interrupted the inevitable despair concerning Jane MacAndrews.
‘I have not had the good fortune to meet the marshal.’ Beresford was a general in the British Army and a marshal in the Portuguese. Appointed to command Portugal’s land forces, in the last few years he had thoroughly reorganised and retrained them, fighting battle after battle with a sclerotic bureaucracy in a country whose resources had been drained by French invasion. He had brought in officers and sergeants from British regiments, giving some of the latter commissions, and mingled them with the Portuguese. The results were promising indeed. Williams had seen Portuguese infantry fight well alongside their redcoat allies, and had heard of other similar incidents. They were said to have done very well at Busaco the previous year.
