Текст книги "Hostile Shores"
Автор книги: Dewey Lambdin
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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 27 страниц)
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Adrift and un-wanted, their little column shuffled its way out further to the right, beyond the head of the baggage train and up to the rear of an infantry battalion, taking their own half-hour break for water as the heads of the Army columns began their ascents up towards the Blaauwberg. Up close, the Blaauwberg looked to be merely a pimple compared to the rocky heights beyond, and its slope looked to be even easier, even for field artillery or supply waggons.
“Simply lovely,” Lt. Westcott commented. “The Cape Colony has the grand landscape of Scotland beat all hollow. As impressive as any painting I’ve ever seen of the Alps!”
“Aye, it is dramatic. Starkly so,” Lewrie agreed as he took a slug of stale ship’s water from his magnum bottle. “Once we’re at the top of this hill, I expect one could see for fifty miles on a clear day.”
“As soon as we clear the Dutch off it,” Westcott said with a chuckle. “If they’re there, that is. They might have decided to fort up nearer Cape Town and make their stand there.”
“They had batteries at the head of the bay when the other ships took them under fire, yesterday,” Lewrie cautioned. “No reason for them t’be run off by a few broadsides. Oh, look, Mister Westcott! Here comes the Thirty-fourth Dragoons!”
The infantry columns had halted for a rest and water break, but the Light Dragoons had been ordered forward to screen. By fours, the squadrons and troops cantered past, raising more dust. Lewrie waved to Captains Veasey and Chadfield, whom he had met, and to the youngster, Cornet Allison, when he rode past. Cornet Allison heaved off a great, rueful shrug, for he seemed to be saddled with the care of the Regimental Ram, which he was leading by a long rope. The Regimental Ram looked as if someone had washed it recently, combed it, and picked “dilberry” shit balls from its arse. To make the Regimental Ram even surlier than normal, it wore a gilt-trimmed royal blue saddle blanket with the 34th’s crest bravely embroidered on it.
“Bleatin’, buckin’, and sure t’attack somebody,” Lewrie joked. “You’d not catch Bisquit puttin’ up with such.”
“The Dragoons appear to be going ahead of the infantry columns, sir,” Lt. Westcott said, flashing one of his brief, savage grins. “We could get up even closer, with them. At least out to the flank of the lead battalions. See, sir? The soldiers are taking off their packs. Preparing to advance!”
“Aye, they are, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie took note, exchanging his water bottle for his pocket telescope. “And changing from columns of fours to line! Yes, let’s go up there, out to the right. It will be a good spot t’watch the show! Mister Simcock? Let’s get ’em up and moving!”
“When they go in, sir, could we go in with them?” Lt. Westcott asked, sounding as if he was begging.
“Don’t know if that’s in our brief, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie mused aloud, considering the risks. “If the leading regiments are to go in, that snotty Army Captain was right. We’d just be in the way of their attack. But, nobody’s tellin’ us we can’t be spectators!”
Up ahead, the regiments were forming two ranks deep, arrayed across a wide front with their grenadier companies on the right, the traditional point of honour, the eight battalion companies to the left of them, and the light companies on the extreme left. Their Colours and commanding officers were in the centre, and their bands, who would also serve as aides to the surgeons, were in the rear. Behind each leading regiment, another thin line of a second regiment was forming. Field pieces were being ordered up to place artillery between, and cavalry took position to either flank.
All this was, of course, accompanied by bugles, drums, and the barks and shouted orders from officers and Sergeants-Major. In all of that stirring and din, Lewrie and his party could amble up alongside the right-most troop of the 34th Light Dragoons, with no one in authority taking any notice of them, at all, or making any objections to their presence, until they reached a small rise, a knob, just a bit ahead of the right-most troop of Horse, and about twenty feet higher than the cavalry, a splendid spot from which to see it all.
“Private Dodd? Keep your waggon a bit further back,” Lewrie ordered. “Mister Simcock? Mister Westcott? I think it’s time for us to load weapons. Load, but do not prime, just in case.”
“Aye, sir!”
“Once we’ve done that, we’ll all move atop the knob, and rest easy,” Lewrie added, swinging his Ferguson rifled-musket off his now-sore shoulder and digging out a paper cartridge from his slung box. One at a time, he did the same for his four pistols, then stowed them in coat pockets or thrust them behind his sword belt.
Someone must have tutored his cabin-steward, Pettus, in the handling of firearms, for Pettus had torn a cartridge open with his teeth, poured the powder down the muzzle of his Tower musket, rammed it down, added the ball and wad, rammed them home, and replaced the ramrod into the rings under the barrel. He did it slowly and carefully, but he got it right, and got a congratulating nod from Lewrie.
“Right then,” Lewrie called. “Up on the knob, and take your ease.” As much as he sorely desired to sit down and get off of his feet, too, he strolled up near the head of the cavalry troop.
“Captain Lewrie?” Captain Veasey exclaimed, goggling. “What the Devil brings you up here? ’Tis a long way from salt water, don’t ye know, haw haw!”
“Idle curiosity, Captain Veasey,” Lewrie said back, grinning, and explaining for the umpteenth time about the forming of the Naval Brigade. “We were guarding the baggage train ’til some staff officer shooed us off, so I thought we’d come up and see the battle. If there is to be a battle, that is.”
“Oh, there will be, mark my words, sir!” Veasey chortled with impending glee. “The Dutch are at the top, in some force. You can see ’em, plain as day.”
Lewrie pulled out his pocket telescope and had a squint. The Dutch were there! Shakoed heads, bayonet-tipped muskets, and a hint of epauletted shoulders and the tops of white cross-belts could be seen along the crest. He looked for the muzzles of artillery pieces, but wasn’t sure if there were any. He did a long and careful sweep of the entire crest, from the far North end to the South end above their position. There was another slight rise at the South end, before the land fell off, and there was some movement there, which he—
“Ah, Leftenant Strickland,” Captain Veasey said as a mounted officer came up to join him. “Captain Lewrie, have ye met Leftenant Strickland? O’ course ye didn’t. Strickland was on the transport with the horses, not the troops. Allow me t’name him to ye. Captain Lewrie, Leftenant Strickland. Leftenant, Captain Lewrie commanded the frigate that saw us here.”
“Happy t’make your acquaintance, Mister Strickland,” Lewrie said, distracted from his inspection of the crest. He doffed his hat, whilst Strickland raised his right hand in salute, palm outward, to the brim of his helmet visor. “Glad to make your acquaintance, as well, sir.” Though he didn’t sound glad, which made Lewrie recall the brief conversation he’d had with Veasey before the voyage had begun. He had been dismissive of the unfortunate junior officers placed aboard the horse transports, with all the filth and stinks that that had been, and had sneered over the fate of one officer in particular who did not possess the wealth needed to purchase a full string of mounts, when most other officers had four or five.
This Lt. Strickland was a tall and well-knit fellow with a swarthy complexion, and a scar on one cheek, and gave the general impression of someone who had soldiered before.
“Where’d ye get that, sir?” Lewrie genially asked, sketching a slash at his own cheek.
“India, Captain Lewrie, with Gordon’s Light Bengali Horse,” Strickland replied, squaring his shoulders as if expecting a slur. Soldiering with “John Company”, or with the few British units shipped out there, was not considered “proper” soldiering in most Army messes.
“I was out there, ’tween the wars in the ’80s,” Lewrie told him with a smile. “And my father was, too, in Calcutta, when he had the Nineteenth Native Infantry. Were you there for the campaigns against the Tippoo Sultan?”
“Yes, sir!” Strickland said, perking up. “Your father, you say?”
“Then Colonel Sir Hugo Willoughby,” Lewrie replied, pulling a face. “I expect you heard of him, at least.”
“I did indeed, sir,” Strickland replied, shifting in his saddle and grinning slightly.
“Aye,” Lewrie said with a knowing nod. “Hamare gali ana, acha din, hey?”
“Let us say, his reputation preceded him, sir,” Strickland replied, laughing, for Lewrie had quoted the traditional greetings of Calcutta’s whores; “Hello, won’t you come into our street.”
“Oh God!” Veasey groaned. “Two who can sling Hindoo! Much of a piece with Dog-Latin, or crow squawks, t’my ears! Why can’t the whole bloody world learn English, and have done?”
“I was noticing some movement out yonder, sirs,” Lewrie said, returning to his inspection of the crest with his telescope, “on that knob. But, I don’t think it’s the Dutch. Can’t quite make out—”
“Irregulars?” Veasey wondered aloud, his own attention drawn. “Brown or grey uniforms? There’s someone there, as you say, Lewrie.”
“Not like any soldiers I’ve seen,” Lt. Strickland agreed.
“Baboons!” Lewrie exclaimed. “They’re baboons, a whole troop of ’em! Ugly red-arsed beasts. They wouldn’t be there if the Dutch had men near them. The last Dutch unit on their left would be over … there,” Lewrie guessed, pointing to a spot closer to the centre of the crest. “So, what happens now? Will you charge ’em?”
“Not very likely!” Captain Veasey said with a barking laugh. “Not into the teeth of an entrenched foe, with no clue as to what’s on the back slope, waitin’ for us. No, the artillery may have first go, before the infantry is ordered forward.”
“Guns’d be wasted,” Lewrie told him. “Firin’ uphill at a thin target is useless. The shot’d strike short, clip the crest, and ricochet off, or sail right over and land half a mile beyond. It’d be like shootin’ at a ribbon. Howitzers at high angle might do some good, but mortars would be best. Might you happen t’know if the Army brought any along, Captain Veasey? Perhaps some of the infantry regiments still have some old Coehorn mortars.” They both looked puzzled; evidently, cavalry didn’t bother with such in-elegant things. “Coehorn mortars are light, short, and fat, fixed to wood blocks and man-carried instead of carriage-mounted,” he had to explain, “like a prouviette that tests the strength of gunpowder?” He was still speaking Greek to them.
“I s’pose that you, sir, bein’ in the Navy and all, must know miles more about artillery and such,” Veasey said with a guffaw as he shook his head. “Cavalry has no need of howitzers or mortars, or any knowledge of ’em. We stick to our last, hey?”
“Perhaps if our gunners have Colonel Shrapnel’s bursting shot, they could work good practice on the Dutch, sir,” Lt. Strickland said to Veasey, though looking at Lewrie and winking. “They are fused, and explode in the air right over enemy formations, flinging chunks of the roundshot in all directions.”
“Now, that I’d like t’see!” Veasey enthused, oblivious.
“Might General Baird be delaying his assault because he has no idea what’s on the back side of the crest, sir?” Strickland continued. “Perhaps a reconnoitre from that knob which Captain Lewrie pointed out might be in order. It appears high enough to offer a good view right down the entire length of the Dutch positions, and what lies on the reverse slope, as well. A small party could make it up there with ease,” Strickland suggested, pointing to indícate a path. “From where the sailors are, there’s a saddle that runs to the base of the knob. A small party could go a bit below the crest of the saddle, out of sight, hopefully, and get about halfway round the knob, where the way up does not look all that bad a climb, sir. Once there, a runner could return with a report.”
“There’s only baboons up there, now,” Lewrie stuck in. “Else, the Dutch would’ve run ’em off. Small party, my eye, sirs! One could put a whole dis-mounted troop up yonder, along with my sailors and my Marines, and threaten the Dutch left flank!”
“Yes, what say you to that, sir?” Strickland eagerly asked.
“Our Colonel’d never allow it,” Veasey countered, shaking his head again. “He’d wish t’keep the regiment intact, ready to exploit any breakthrough by the infantry … t’harass and ride down the Dutch when they flee. No, no, we’ll let the Heavy Brigade go in.”
“Half a troop, sir,” Strickland pressed. “Fourty men.”
“Along with mine,” Lewrie insisted.
“And how far off might the closest Dutch soldiers be, once ye get up there, Strickland?” Veasey snapped. “An hundred yards or more? Our short-barrelled Paget carbines couldn’t hit the side of a palace at that range, much less a man-sized target! I pressed the Colonel for the Elliot-pattern carbines, you will recall, but no!”
“The Dutch don’t know you have Paget carbines, sir,” Lewrie said quickly. “If we do open upon them, all they’ll hear is lots of gunfire, see a lot of powder smoke, and have shot throwin’ up dirt round their feet … and all my men have Tower muskets. Good ‘Brown Bess’! Along with one Pennsylvania, rifle, a fusil musket, and this rifled Ferguson of mine.”
“Half a troop, sir, and I will bear all the responsibility for it!” Strickland swore.
“And, do remember two old military adages, Captain Veasey,” Lewrie said with a quick laugh. “One, it’s easier t’beg forgiveness than ask permission, and Two, success will always trump anything else!”
“Colonel Laird won’t miss half a troop, sir,” Strickland added. “Even if the regiment’s loosed to hack through the whole Dutch Army! Let me go!”
Veasey’s reddish-complexioned face looked even ruddier, and he twisted his features and groaned as if in great physical pain to make such a rash decision.
“Oh, very well, Strickland,” he gruffed a long moment later, “but on your head be it, hear me?”
“Thank you, sir!” Strickland cried, wheeling his mount about to trot back down the line of their troop. “The two right files … prepare to dis-mount! Dis-mount! Horse holders, Sarn’t Strode! Bring sabres and carbines, and follow me!”
“Up, Mister Westcott! Up, Mister Simcock!” Lewrie was yelling to his men at the same time as he sprinted back to them. “We’ve work t’do, up yonder on that knob t’the right.”
“We’re to get into a fight, sir?” Lt. Westcott asked, springing up from lolling on the grass.
“We are. The Dragoons’re sendin’ fourty men up to see what’s waitin’ for the infantry, and we’re t’back ’em up,” Lewrie cheerfully told him, as eager as a teen-ager at the prospect of action. “Choose two relatively sober hands … along with Pettus and Yeovill, to stay with the waggon and keep the cavalry troopers out of our goods whilst we’re gone. Drop bed-rolls and packs in the waggon, bring nothing but water, weapons, and ammunition!”
Lt. Strickland and his fourty troopers were already moving past Lewrie’s party before Lt. Simcock got his Marines sorted out into two files, and Lt. Westcott got the sailors into a somewhat organised herd. Strickland and his troopers looked oddly comical afoot, with sabres in one hand and their carbines in the other, and their tall knee-boots looked wholly un-suitable for dis-mounted work, especially so as they moved at the trot, half bent over as if that might hide them from the Dutch above.
“Double time,” Lt. Simcock ordered, “and hang the step! Sling your muskets to keep your hands free.”
Strickland led at the head of their re-enforced column, down below the crest of the saddle which lay between the first knob and the one at the end of the ridge. Lewrie looked up at their objective as he trotted along. The baboons had grazed their way a bit down the slope above them, still peacefully rooting for grubs, insects, and succulents. One or two of them took notice of their approach and stood on all four feet, heads swaying to right and left, and baring their long teeth in warning as they made tentative chuffing barks to alert the rest.
Hope that ain’t an omen! Lewrie told himself; Hope they don’t alert the Dutch. Lousy, flea-ridden bastards!
The first of Strickland’s cavalrymen reached the base of the rise, halfway round from the line of the Blaauwberg’s crest, and out of sight of any Dutch sentries at long last, and began to ascend, going much slower. Some had to drop halfway to their knees to use their hands to make the climb.
More baboons were barking warnings, the big males dashing a few feet forward, then back, as if they would fight for their hill.
BOOM! BOO-BOO-BOOM!
The British artillery had at last opened fire, and the roars from their muzzles were echoed seconds later by lesser but sharper cracks from air-bursting shrapnel shells above the Dutch positions.
“Come on, lads! No need for stealth, now! Go, go, go!” Lieutenant Strickland was shouting, echoed by Simcock to urge his Marines up and along behind the cavalrymen.
Now, all the baboons were barking and hooting shrill yells.
They ain’t cheerin’ us, that’s for sure, Lewrie thought.
CHAPTER THIRTY
By the time that Lewrie got to the top, Lt. Strickland had ordered his soldiers into two ranks, with their sheathed sabres at their feet, and loading and priming their carbines. He was in consultation with Lt. Simcock, who was nodding and agreeing with him.
“Ah, here we all are, sir!” Strickland gaily said. “I’ve suggested that Leftenant Simcock should place his Marines in two ranks on the right, and let your sailors fill the gap between, if you have no objections to that, Captain Lewrie.”
“Sounds fine to me, sir,” Lewrie allowed, after he’d worked up some saliva in his cottony-dry mouth; the ascent had been much steeper than it had first looked.
“I’ve also cautioned him that the Dutch have what looks to be a troop of Horse on the reverse slope, un-tended so far,” Strickland went on. “Their riders must be dragoons like us, able to dis-mount and fight on foot. The slope from here to there is slight, but not too wide, thank the Lord, so if they mount up and charge us, they’ll come on a narrow front.”
“I see,” Lewrie said, with half an ear for Strickland, and all his attention upon the view from his pocket telescope.
“If they do, best we shoot the horses, right off,” Strickland suggested. “If they get close enough to use their swords, tell your men to jab their mounts in the nose, the lips, and the eyes with bayonets or swords. That will always make them stop and rear, and then you can get at the riders.”
“I’ll see to instructing our people, sir,” Lt. Westcott said, between deep breaths. “Don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Westcott, First Lieutenant.”
“Strickland, of the Thirty-fourth,” the cavalry officer replied, offering his hand. “Your men are loaded and primed?”
“Loaded, not yet primed,” Westcott told him, “which I’ll also see to, this minute. Christ, there’s rather a lot of them, aren’t there?”
“At least a battalion,” Strickland estimated, looking North along the ridge, “with a four-gun battery of artillery. Duck!”
Several shrapnel shells burst over the Dutch troops in yellow-white blossoms of smoke and fire, one of them near the left end of the lines, and almost uncomfortably close to the knob!
“I don’t know if we can fire as efficiently as a well-drilled infantry battalion can,” Strickland went on, after rising from a half-crouch, “but we might pull it off. My first rank will fire first, and then your first rank, sir,” he said to Lewrie, “followed by Simcock’s Marines. My first rank will be re-loading whilst my rear rank fires, and so on down our line, like the rolling and continuous platoon fire our infantry practices. I do not wish to sound as if I try to supplant your authority as the senior officer present, Captain Lewrie, but—”
“I’ll take good suggestions from the more experienced, every time, Mister Strickland, and we’ll try it your way,” Lewrie assured him with a dis-arming smile. “You’d wish the front ranks kneeling, I take it, and the rear ranks crouching, rising to fire when ordered?”
“That would work, sir,” Strickland agreed as another salvo of shells burst down the Dutch line.
Lewrie walked over to stand behind his sailors, who were passing horns of fine-mealed priming powder between them, drawing their firelocks to half-cock and opening the frizzens to expose the pans. After their first shots, they would tear their paper cartridges open with their teeth and sprinkle powder from the cartridges before pouring the rest down their muzzles.
Lewrie knelt and pulled his own copper priming flask round from being slung on his right hip, and did the same for all of his weapons, stuck all his pistols back into his sword belt or pockets, and rose to use his telescope once more.
Christ, there are a lot of ’em! he thought, wondering if he’d bitten off more than he could chew; wondering also what he had been thinking to bring his men right up to the “tip of the spear”. There were four horse-drawn artillery pieces spaced down the Dutch lines, and an effort had been made to partially protect them with wood barriers under the barrels and down each side. That might have been good shelter from British guns firing uphill with roundshot, but nothing could hide from the shrapnel shells. So far in this war, Britain was the only nation that had them, and the French, or any of their allies, had yet to encounter their use. The gun teams … half their horses were down, already, and the gunners were cowering beneath the carriages and their own gun barrels! The poor infantry had dug some shallow trenches from which to shoot, but they were having a rough time of it, too!
“I think they’ll break if we open upon them!” Lewrie shouted to Strickland, who nodded agreement. “Let’s do! Ready, lads! Ready, Mister Simcock?”
“Front rank … fire!” Lt. Strickland cried.
“Front rank … fire!” Westcott ordered.
“Front rank … fire!” Lt. Simcock yelled, waving his sword.
Lewrie brought the Ferguson to his shoulder and looked for an officer. There—an older fellow with gilt epaulets and a bicorne hat! Lewrie took aim, a foot or so above the man’s head, and pulled the trigger. A second or so later, the officer clutched his left side, looked down astonished, then crumpled up and sprawled flat on the ground. Lewrie quickly re-loaded, hunting for another even as his hands did the re-loading almost by rote. He saw a tall officer with bright blond hair and beard, waving a sword and shouting orders to his men, but that fellow’s head exploded, and, over the crackling of their gunfire he heard a loud whoop down the line among the Marines, turned, and saw Simcock’s sharpshooter pumping the borrowed Pennsylvania rifle in the air in triumph.
“Rear rank, fire!” from Simcock, then “Rear rank, fire!” from Strickland, and the ragged rolling platoon fire continued. At that range, well over one hundred yards, hits with smooth-bore muskets were nigh impossible, but some Dutch soldiers were down, and their bullets were kicking up puffs of dust or quick bursts of sparks when they hit the nearest artillery piece’s barrel.
More shrapnel shells exploded over the Dutch, then the noise of battle was increased by the eerie skirling of Highland pipes and the rattle of drums as the 93rd Regiment stepped off. Beside them, the 38th began to march forward with their muskets poised as if for a full-out charge, and their bandsmen and drummers launched into their own march music.
“I think they’ve noticed us, sir!” Lt. Westcott shouted, his face twisted into a savage grin of joy. “We’ll be having company in a minute or so!”
At least a company of Dutch infantry were leaving their lines, clambering out of the nearest trench where they had been sheltering, and began to form up in the open, three ranks deep. Lewrie put his Ferguson up to his eye, again, sought what he took to be their officer, held high, and fired. As the smoke from his lock and muzzle cleared, he could see that his shot had struck the fellow square in the chest, dropping him as if pole-axed, and spread like an X on the ground. It took the Dutch a gawping few seconds before that company’s junior officer got them to move forward. Lewrie shot down a soldier in the front rank, who stumbled backwards into his rear-rank mates, slowing them a bit more.
Dutch cavalrymen who had been re-enforcing the lines scrambled out of the waist-deep trenches for their horses in the rear, on the reverse slope.
They’ll saddle up and keep on goin’, if they’ve any sense, he thought as he reloaded yet again; But, no … they’ll come up here!
The Marine sharpshooter hit the officer at the head of their column as his horse reared and he waved his sword over his head to rally his men, and he reeled out of the saddle with one boot caught in the right-hand stirrup, to be dragged by his panicked mount down hill several yards before flopping free. The horse kept on going. Again, another junior officer took charge and urged the Dutch horsemen on, up the slope towards the centre of the British line, right at Lewrie’s sailors. The crest of the ridge was narrow as it rose to their knob, so no more than seven or eight riders could attack them, pressed together knee-to-knee.
“Front rank, ready!” Lewrie shouted, dropping his Ferguson and pacing over to stand by the front rank of sailors. “Everyone, fix bayonets and remember t’stab the horses if they get close!”
Lewrie drew the first of his double-barrelled Manton pistols and cocked the right-hand lock, then drew his hanger to prepare for the onslaught.
“Hold fire ’til I order!” Westcott sternly cautioned. “Hold fire ’til we can see their teeth, then skin the bastards!”
“A pity, arrah, sor,” Patrick Furfy said with a shake of his head, “I’ve always liked horses.”
“You’re worth more t’me and your shipmates than ten blooded hunters, Furfy!” Lewrie cried, laughing. “So be sure you kill them, no matter! That goes for all you lads! We’ll show these Dutch sons of bitches they’ve messed with the wrong crew!”
A bugle was blown, and the Dutch horsemen launched into their charge, right off, with no trotting first to approach nearer. Their surviving officers must have wagered that they would suffer less if they closed quickly, with no messing about. Sabres were levelled with the points down and the cutting edges up, stiff-armed. Spurs were cruelly thrust upon their mounts to goad them into a full gallop, and harsh, howling cries came from the enemy troopers’ throats.
“Steady … steady!” Westcott shouted.
The first rank was eight abreast, a wall of flesh and thundering hooves! Closer … closer … within fifty yards …
“First rank … fire!” Lewrie cried, thinking that he might have left it too late, and that dead horses might stumble onto his front-rank men, crushing them and opening everyone to being hacked to pieces.
No! Those first eight horses were down, kicking their legs in the air, flailing in their death throes and screaming! Half their riders were down, as well, shot and flung off, pinned under their dying horses’ great weight with shattered legs or hips, or left helpless if they had managed to leap free of their saddles. The nearest dead horse was only six yards off, but that pile of downed horses made a sudden barrier to the next rank of eight. Their horses tripped over the ones which had preceded them, making an even bigger pile-up! The charge came to a sudden halt, with Dutch troopers savagely sawing their reins to keep from tumbling into the mess!
Gunfire from Simcock’s Marines, and from Lt. Strickland’s men, had not stopped, either, tearing at the Dutch cavalrymen from either flank and killing horses and men who rode behind the leaders.
“Second rank … fire!” Westcott shouted, and the Dutchmen who sat at the halt were hit and daunted, some shot from their saddles and others slumped low over their horses’ necks, trying to turn about and go back down the slope. A bugle rang out and the rest wheeled round to retreat, still under fire, and did not stop ’til they were out of what they thought was musket-range, leaving at least two-dozen of their fellows behind. There was a reef, a shoal, of dead horses in front of Lewrie’s position, which he hoped would end any thoughts of a second try. There was still that company of infantry to deal with, though, coming up to within one hundred yards and almost in decent shooting range.
They’re lookin’ over their shoulders, though, Lewrie told himself as he dropped his spent Manton and went back to re-load his Ferguson. Sure enough, the British regiments were advancing smartly and almost within their own musket-range of the shallow Dutch trenches. The Dutch were firing at them, their artillerymen coming out of their dubious shelter and aiming their guns, readying with grapeshot loads or wicked canister. One artillery piece roared and rocked back on its trail, then another. From their knob above it all, Lewrie indeed had a grand view as the British infantry broke into a rapid uphill charge, their bayonets glittering, and hundreds of wild and feral cries, with the pipers of the 93rd breaking into what sounded as urgent as a reel, a demonic war cry all of its own.
“They’re breaking!” Lt. Strickland shouted, standing fully erect and waving his sabre over his head in glee. “They’re running!”
The Dutch cavalry troop gave the situation a quick look, and wheeled about by fours to clatter away, downhill for the plain below with hardly a backward glance.
“Huzzah! Huzzah!” the men on the knob were shouting as the British charge reached the trenches, and the Colours were carried forward. The Dutch infantry would not be as lucky as their cavalry, for they could not retreat as fast. They melted away, abandoning the trenches and turning their backs in flight. Those unable to scramble out, the laggards and the slowest, got swarmed over by British red and bayonetted. Some knelt in surrender, holding their muskets in the air or planting them muzzle down in front of them, and others just abandoned their weapons and ran like skittered deer. British blood was up, though, and the attacking troops had taken casualties and lost mates. Not all those Dutch who surrendered were taken prisoner; it would be a minute or so before sanity was restored.
