Whose Business Is to Die (5 page)

They did not go far, and when Hanley was able to turn he saw that the mass of enemy horsemen were wheeling round. It
was no longer a neat formation, but a crowd, each going about at his own pace. No one had followed them, although if they had stayed where they were they would have been in the middle of several hundred Frenchmen.

Officers urged them on, waving their swords in the air and shouting. Hanley heard another big roar, knew that it was the light dragoons, and then the French were answering with their own cries and spurring their horses back the way they had come in a new charge. The two crowds merged into one, not flowing through this time, and then green jackets and blue were locked in hundreds of little duels. Sabre clashed against sword, blades struck ringing blows on helmets or bit into cloth and flesh with a dull sound. Even from this distance Hanley was amazed at the amount of noise. As a boy he had often gone to watch the coppersmiths at work. This was like that noise magnified a thousand times. Men fell, horses reared and screamed.

‘You should go back to General Long, sir,’ Williams said to Baynes, ‘for I must borrow your escort for a moment.’ The words were quietly said, and just as evidently a command. The Welshman turned to the German corporal. ‘Follow me.’ Then he was trotting forward.

The corporal glanced at Baynes, and gave a crisp instruction in his own language before he and his men followed. Williams drew his sword, a light, well-balanced blade with a gentle curve. The hussars copied him, each carrying the heavy 1796-pattern sabre like the light dragoons.

Hanley followed.

‘You don’t have to come,’ Williams said, and then grinned.

Hanley gripped the handle of his own sword and pulled. The blade was unwilling to come. He yanked, tried to turn it back and forth, and with an effort it came free, and his arm swung out high and wide.

‘Scheiße!’
hissed one of the Germans as the tip of the blade swept within a few inches of his face.

Williams laughed, then pointed. ‘On the left. We hit them there and cut our way through.’

Hanley saw that the French were crowding around the British right, and it was only there that the light dragoons were outnumbered and looked to be giving way.

Dear God, just six of us to sway the balance, he thought, but then Williams yelled and charged. Hanley’s horse lurched as its stride changed. He had his sword up now and stared at it. There were spots of rust dotted along the blade. The weapon felt clumsy and awkward in his hand. He had rarely held it and never used it before and wondered why he had come and not stayed with Baynes. Just in time he remembered to loop the rather grubby red sword-knot around his wrist.

The last twenty yards vanished under them, the sound of their horses’ pounding feet adding to the other noise. One dragoon turned to face them. The man wore a tall bearskin cap instead of a helmet and had red epaulettes on his shoulders, so must be from the elite company. Like the grenadiers in an infantry battalion, such men were meant to be the tallest and best soldiers.

Williams rode straight at him, the Frenchman kicking his heels to stir his own mount forward. The Welshman’s mare was much the same size and moving faster, and perhaps that was why the Frenchman’s horse flinched. Williams lunged, beating the man’s guard and striking just above the collar. Dark blood gushed on to the orange front of the man’s jacket as momentum carried the lieutenant on and he jerked his blade free. Williams closed with another man, coming from behind. The Frenchman turned, wheeled away, and his thrust changed into a slash that ripped through the dragoon’s sleeve and gashed his bridle arm. Williams kept going into the mass.

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.