Inferno

Chapter 64

‘So now we wait?’ Maynard asked Adams, over a delayed noon meal.

‘Oh, perhaps we shall,’ he replied airily. ‘Though I can’t see how the Danskers can expect to continue. Surrounded completely, no reinforcements getting through past our Jack Tars – I heard their numbers are less’n half ours.’

‘We haven’t got back anything from the scouts. Could be there’s that out there …?’

‘Yours not to ask questions, younker. Eat up – we’re out on picquet duty next.’

It seemed absurd to think about war as they walked along the road in the sunshine, past daisy meadows and fishponds, and into woodland towards a slight rise. Yet Maynard was aware of the gorget at his throat and the sword at his side – and the file of relieving picquets tramping behind.

Nevertheless, there had been firing here before – they were moving up to a forward position where he might be in sight of some enemy sniper. With tautened nerves, he pressed on until they reached the edge of the woodland looking out over a ploughed field to where the trees resumed.

By a gnarled oak, Adams took out his whistle and gave two blasts. With a rustle of undergrowth a lieutenant appeared, bored and immaculate. ‘Your relief, old fellow. Anything?’

‘Quiet as Aunt Maud’s grave. This morning’s fracas I’d think was only a parcel o’ loobies lost their way.’ He sniffed and lost no time in detailing the disposition of the picquets and lines of sight of landscape features, then left abruptly.

‘You take the left by the windmill, I’ll do the right,’ Adams said, after a careful survey of the ground.

With a corporal and another soldier following, Maynard made off down the woodland path. He felt a touch of unreality as they crunched on through the leaf litter to a fence at the left boundary of the trees. A grey windmill loomed by the road.

‘A fine observation point, I believe,’ he said to the off-going watcher, who touched his hat and waited warily. ‘Have you taken a view yet?’

‘No, I hasn’t, sah.’

‘I think you should. It’s a-’

‘Sah. Too obvious, like, an’ it’s rotten inside. Can’t. Shall I go now?’

‘Carry on, please,’ Maynard said, his face burning.

‘Over yonder, sir?’ the corporal suggested.

He agreed, only too happy to let experience prevail over training. He’d set up a post in the woods, for the brush would allow concealed observation up to the open field. Estimating a halfway point back to the picquet rendezvous he set the man and his number two in position, then considered what to do next.

In his breast pocket, he carried Dundas, Principles of Military Movement, as he had ever since leaving training. He didn’t dare bring it out now but his mind was a blank about what it said of picquet duty. He headed slowly towards the gnarled tree rendezvous point.

He remembered Dundas. Shouldn’t he be discovering the dispositions of the adjacent postings, Adams’s people? Yes. He quickened his stride.

At the tree he fumbled for his whistle but something made him look out over the field.

He could have sworn there had been movement on the far side, at the margin of the woodland. He strained to see and almost missed two figures darting away to the left. Pulse racing, he knew it was the enemy.

Had anyone else spotted them? There were no alarms and he scanned the area. Was that twitch and sway in the under-growth-

On his left a shot rang out – one of the picquets posted near the windmill! Another somewhere on the right.

Several figures scuttled to the left. And more to the right. Skirmishers – but were they merely probing, testing the lines? Or in advance of a main force?

Swallowing hard, Maynard ran back down the path to his men. They were in a prone position behind a fallen tree, calmly waiting. ‘What did you see?’ he demanded breathlessly.

‘This’n? Trying us out, I wouldn’t wonder. Sah.’

Maynard hesitated. His was the decision: to raise an alarm or deal with it himself?

From further to the left there was more movement – and two soldiers scrambled into view. They rushed across to a small bramble copse and disappeared behind it. It was well in advance of the woodland edge and, with a dawning realisation, he understood. ‘Hold your fire! On no account open fire without my express permission.’

They looked at him curiously but rested their arms.

‘Corporal – go to the others and tell ’em the same.’

The man loped away.

If he was wrong there was no harm in it but if he was right …

A single pop sounded faintly well to the right. Adams. But it was not followed up.

Another quick scurry – this time to a depression in the middle of the field.

He gulped. Another two raced to join them. He was right, then: they were probing for the position of the British picquets, tempting fire. Like him, Adams had ordered his men not to reply.

The next few minutes would reveal whether it was in earnest or a passing brush.

Suddenly a mass of soldiery burst into view and quickly formed up in line, three ranks deep, drums behind maintaining an urgent rattle. Alien uniforms of red on blue with grey breeches. The enemy!

Blind panic threatened. What could anybody do against this?

Maynard forced himself to a coolness. The enemy clearly didn’t know what forces confronted them and was assembled in defensive line for a general advance. It was a formidable front of two, three hundred yards – the strength of a whole battalion at the very least.

Training came to his rescue. Word had to be sent back, and he should deploy his men in parties along a skirmish line to distract the advance until reinforcements could arrive.

This was the long-feared counter-attack and it was his duty to face it.

‘Alert our advanced posts!’ he snapped at one man, who loped off. ‘Corporal – all men over to the enemy left, we harry him on the flank.’

Was it the right thing to do? Hopefully Adams would do the same on the other flank, putting them under fire from both sides.

By the time Maynard had reached the edge of the wood to the left, the Danes had begun to advance, stumbling across the ploughed field in an unsteady line.

The ‘light bobs’ were trained for just this situation. They paired off and, under his general direction to fall back with the rate of advance, moved out quickly.

Maynard heard the first heartening crack of musketry, a tell-tale gout of smoke arising from a thicket further along. He strained to see the effect on the stolid wall of infantry and, with a leap of satisfaction, saw a marching soldier near the colour party stagger and fall, quickly disappearing under the feet of the oncoming line.

Then, in a wash of horror, he caught himself. He was glorying in the death of a human being. For that man, living and breathing just moments ago, life had ended: everything had finished. How could he-

Maynard pulled himself together. He was an officer. He held the King’s commission and had a duty to lead men. ‘Corporal. That windmill. Go up and get an observation. I need to know if there’s other formations in the field.’

‘But, sir-’

‘I know it’s falling down. Climb up the outside if you have to. Have a man on the ground and shout down if you spy anything.’

The corporal hesitated, then left at the run.

That left only two with him. And the enemy marched on, now within a few hundred yards.

It had been a lucky shot, he recognised. Theirs was not a rifle regiment and muskets were useless in aimed fire much beyond eighty yards – but that was not the point. The distraction of being under fire was what counted. And his men, working in pairs, were getting off three, even five rounds a minute. Ten balls a minute into that mass of men and he had four pairs out. With Adams on the other flank it surely must be having an effect.

He set his remaining two men to work. Fire, reload behind a tree while the other presented and fired. Then back down for another shot – except that instead, there was a sickening smack and a spray of blood and brain burst upward. The man slumped instantly.

Maynard’s mind froze with shock, trying to cope with what he’d seen.

The other soldier knelt down, gently eased the dead man’s musket from him and looked up at his officer questioningly.

Maynard flogged his thoughts under control against the ever-louder noises of the advancing line. And one above all roared to an immediate focus. He had failed as an officer and overlooked the wider scene. While he’d been concentrating on delaying the gathering counter-attack, with individual fire from his free-moving light infantry, he’d forgotten the men they’d seen first – the opposite number to themselves. They would now be ordered to neutralise the harassing fire against their main force, who themselves would never waste their massed volley against them.

Then again, wasn’t galling fire on the attacking force their prime duty, and be damned to personal hazard?

He dropped to all fours, conscious of the target he made in his officer’s uniform, and reached for the proffered musket. ‘Mark where the bugger is,’ he muttered, took off his cocked hat and used his sword to inch it above the leaves. There was a vicious whaap as a ball whipped through the brush not inches from it. This was a rifle pair or they were very close with muskets.

‘That bush, sir.’ The soldier indicated a low, straggling shrub not forty yards away, well out in front.

‘I see him, Bailey,’ Maynard acknowledged.

He used his elbows to lever forward next to the corpse and brought the firelock up to aim, holding the sight picture, the trigger to first pressure and waited. To the left side there was movement, a glimpse of colour and a flash of metal. Without waiting for more, he squeezed off the shot.

The effect was instant, a uniformed figure thrown into view twisting and writhing until at last it lay still, twitching occasionally.

‘Good shot, sir – winged ’im only, but he’s a dead ’un.’

Maynard yielded his place to him, shocked – not because he’d taken a life but because he was unaffected by it.

The marching line was nearing – they should be retiring.

The ploughed field would soon be crossed and the line would be into the woods where nothing could be done. Maynard remembered that further back there was another open field before more woodland. They should retreat and take a like position there – if the enemy front was not extended by further formations.

The windmill! He rose to a crouch and, motioning Bailey to follow, went back to the path and sprinted along to the end and the windmill. Two blasts with his whistle, taking care to remain in cover. The ground man did not answer. Annoyed, he was about to whistle again when he felt a tap on his arm and saw where the finger pointed. An untidy and very still form lay by the base of the mill.

But at the same time a nervous hail came from the crazy top structure at the sails. It was the corporal. ‘Sah – there’s another line same size further on. All I c’n see, sah.’

‘Right. Get down here, now! You’ve done your-’

A burst of musketry sent splinters flying around the man, who ducked inside.

Then a ball – and another whipped past Maynard from another direction. They were under direct fire from the enemy skirmish line, which must be very near – it was past time to retreat.

‘Tell ’em all to fall back through the wood, re-form across the field,’ he ordered.

He hesitated. With a stab of pity he knew he had to abandon the corporal – and the other man would know it. He’d have realised that his hail down would have drawn lethal attention but he’d chosen to do his duty by Maynard and his regiment.

And the information was vital. Another line meant at least another battalion formation. And further to the right, so the centre of the assault was there too. If this wasn’t a counterattack he didn’t know what was.

He glimpsed a pair of his men at a crouched run retiring through the woods. It was time to go. Then he became conscious of a change in drumbeat of the oncoming line. It had reached the woods but there it dissolved and the enemy troops began crashing through the brush, no doubt to form line again in the open field.

With a pounding in his ears he ran for dear life – and, with a growing horror, he realised he and his men were now doomed. When they reached the field they would be in the open, unmissable targets as they fled across to the trees on the other side.

He’d left it too late.

Dull with resentment he slowed his pace. The edge of the woods was just ahead and … Facing him was the most incredible, wonderful sight: a hastily assembling line of the 52nd and what looked like the 23rd in an ever-lengthening array. Even as he watched, the deeper-toned British drums spoke and the line began advancing.

Emerging from the trees the Danish milled in confusion until horns bayed and they fell into line, three ranks with colours in the centre. Sharp commands, and the front rank knelt and presented.

The 52nd came on splendidly, in perfect step and dressed right and left by their colour, a thrilling sight as they covered the ground.

The front rank of the enemy volleyed out, nearly hidden in the swirling smoke.

It was much too early but several men fell in the steadily advancing British line. Did the Danish commander feel it necessary to hearten his men by the firing, to deter them from running away?

The second rank came forward and knelt.

The 52nd drew nearer, a hundred yards, eighty – the enemy fired, more fell – and still they came on, in their bright red coats an unstoppable tide.

Fifty yards – the third rank opened fire but with little effect as their aim was wild.

At thirty yards’ range the 52nd halted and in deadly deliberation raised their weapons. Smoke billowed and roiled and through it with a full-throated roar stormed the implacable redcoats in a bayonet charge.

It was too much. The enemy line broke and ran, making for the safety of the woods. It was all over.