13th June: Locusts and honey

Dripping and covered with mud, Freddie followed, his ears strained for the sound of approaching steps or hooves. He was glad when he could leave the bank of the stream and climb up the slope of the other small hill. Whatever happened, at least now they had the slight advantage of height.

Crouching behind the tree next to Freddie and keeping his head just above the low grass, he tried to see for himself what was going on in the small valley below. What he saw made his blood turn cold.

Knowing that they had only moments to reach a decision, he looked questioningly at Pye and motioned with his rifle to a large wind-thrown tree, the best position he could see if they decided to join in the fight.

Pye nodded. He got up into a crouch and motioned for the lad to follow. The spot was perfect and would allow them some safety while keeping a fairly good open view of the enemy.

He knelt by the wind-thrown tree, resting his rifle briefly on its bark. He flexed his fingers. The moment of truth. When next they would rise to look over the tree, it would probably be to fire.

There were some idiots in his regiment, Billy Stubbins thought acidly. Some right brainless idiots. He reined his mare around and put his heels back, a trifle harder than intended, and headed at a gallop for the hill from which the rattle of musketry could be heard.

If it was one of those fools who had run afoul of those two infantry officers yesterday... Stubbins did naturally assume his comrades were innocent, or at least less than guilty, but such things were still bad for the regiment. Especially for their troop, as Captain Gaines was never fond of hearing about them creating difficulties with land-trampers.

Stubbins pulled out his sabre, for the moment shunning his carbine, as he got near the disturbance. No matter what was going on, he hoped fervently that support from the infantry picquets would not take ages to arrive.

Freddie sat down besides Pye for a moment, his back leaned against the trunk of the tree. Methodically he checked his rifle one last time. The flintstone was still in order and the rifle correctly loaded. The powder on his pan looked dry, but Freddie replaced it just in case. He did not want his former misadventure to endanger them even now.

Then all preparations were finished. He turned onto one knee, adjusted his grip on the rifle and looked at Pye. He felt strangely calm. For best effect they should fire their first shot at the same time, but if that wasn't enough, they would have to establish a continuous fire to keep the enemy away from their position.

He saw Pye flex his fingers. Was it pain? Had he hurt himself during the approach? Speech was dangerous now, so he simply looked his question, ready to bring his rifle up over the tree the moment Pye did.

Pye nodded Friedrich and a moment later he was up and leaning against the wrangled tree, his rifle aimed in the direction of the enemy. He noticed the horseman with the corner of his eye. Did he belong to the French? Their own?

Gritting his teeth he averted his gaze towards his target and then pulled the trigger. His finger still ached when used but it obeyed and his rifle, nestled safely against his shoulder gave its usual kick and then the lad waited for the smoke to clear to see whether his target was hit or not.

The moment Pye moved, Freddie did the same. He only saw blurred shapes, green and brown, and some occasional red in it, some blue figures and someone on a horse, also in blue.

More by default than by conscious decision, he aimed for the nearest blue shape. As soon as the rifle's sight was lined up, he pressed the trigger, then immediately dove down behind the trunk again. Even before his rump hit the earth, his hand had already begun the sequence of loading his rifle again.

Antoine Severíe, until moments ago proud soldier in the Grand Armee and even prouder owner of a relatively new pair of boots from the dead English deserter, never knew what killed him. He had looked up at the sound of a galloping horse, but even before he had had time to comprehend that it wasn't one of their own, a bullet in his back - chance guiding it to his heart - ended his thoughts.

Still clutching the boots to his chest, he fell to the ground.

God damn it! Stubbins gripped his sabre in white-knuckled determination and rode clean over a Frenchman who tried to run at him with a fixed bayonet. Fool! There were several others that wanted sorting out, however...

A fresh burst of fire rang out, but it didn't come from the chaos through which Stubbins had just galloped. What in the devil...?! He reined sharply around, jerking his horse's up roughly, and paused for only a heartbeat to assess the situation before charging straight back in again.

There was a dead redcoat sprawled on the ground and perhaps half a dozen French infantry scrambling to reorder themselves to better repel him. Stubbins noted the presence of another hussar and wondered immediately what in the hell that man was doing.

Pye had just finished loading when he lifted his gaze to his present firing partner. "Lets switch positions whenever we fire." He spoke quietly. "It will make it appear that there's more of us, than there is."

That, and if they were able to come closer more of the enemy could be shot, with greater certainty. Then there were the hussars. To fire at them, or leave them off? If they were their own, firing at them might proove a very daft practice. He frowned. Ah.. they attacked the French, that answered his question after all. Theirs.

When he heard Pye's suggestion, Freddie was just ducking down again after his second shot. He didn't think that he had hit much this time either. Getting closer would probably be a good idea for him.

"Left side. Bushes." He managed around the end of the next cartridge before he bit down, but then he had to pause for a few seconds to place the powder. Only when he pushed the ramrod down, he added:

"Two horses. Ours?"

Then he pressed the freshly loaded rifle into Pye's hand.

"Get them!" Stubbins thundered, slashing at a Frog unlucky enough to be in his way. That other hussar was not simply going to stand there and watch!

Not that either of them could do much, for the remaining Frenchmen had drawn together in a tiny, pitiful excuse for a square. But it was a defence against the two horsemen. Stubbins spat out a curse and swung his horse away, exchanging his sabre for his carbine. There was more than one way to skin a Frog!

"Yes." Two horses were theirs, and at the next glimpse it appeared the second Hussar had finally gone along after the first, and was posing a fairly decent threat to the small party of the French.

Pye took the rifle and shifted his position to the left, before taking aim. The French stood in a neat enough square, and it almost looked as though the two hussars did not need assistance. He hesitated. "They have 'em." He whispered, torn between taking a shot, and having the both of them sneak off before being noticed and identified by their own.

Without the danger of the artillery taking a shot at them, when the hussars were killed, it appeared some of the men thought it wise to make all haste to be able to fire at one or both of them. Especially now that the carbine came into view.

As soon as he could lay his hands on the other rifle, Freddie had begun to reload it. His speech rather disrupted by this process, he said:

"Wait ... French can also have heard ... why only two hussars?"

What was going on? It wasn't the first time that a French foraging party had been surprised by a British patrol, but usually this patrol did number more than just two hussars. And the sharpshooters in the bushes somewhere up the hill were not a common feature either.

Had the deserters been a trap? How many men were they really up against? And where was their own sous-lieutenant?

While he tried to form up his men, Sergent Beauclair pondered his options. If there was more cavalry and some infantry as well, they wouldn't stand a chance. But if it was all a shame and these were just some additional deserters or stragglers, then two horses would be a valuable prize, and surely six imperial soldiers could take down three or four British dogs? But of course the decision was not his, but the sous-lieutenant's. So where had that one disappeared to?

His first shot passed wide of any target, but Stubbins wasn't deterred. He had powder and ball enough to make the French uncomfortable until support came. The other hussar was loading his carbine - for the first time? - and was thus at last making himself useful.

"Mind their fire!"

It should have been a needless warning, but obviously this trooper needed his hand held. The odd shot cracked out from the pathetic French square and while it was easy enough to keep in motion to avoid being too ready a target, it would only take a lucky shot to bring one of them down. Especially as the Frogs seemed to be aiming for their horses.

"Not the horses, damn you! Aim for the men!"

Beauclair snatched a loaded musket from the neares man. One of the husssars appeared to be some kind of officer; if he could just get him out of the saddle ...

He carefully aimed at Stubbins. The horse gave him some cover, but the animal would take his head down occasionally, and then the sergeant would have his chance. And he was a good shot.

With his second shot expended, Stubbins wheeled his horse away. This too had been a miss, though not as bad a one as his first. The third shot should find its mark. Once the carbine was reloaded.

The other hussar was trotting around the opposite side of the tiny knot of Frenchmen, fumbling either with his carbine or his sabre. Stubbins couldn't see which. He bit down on his tongue and forced himself to concentrate on priming the carbine's pan. It would only take a couple of seconds. Then powder, ball, and wadding could go down the short barrel.

Pye decided, and as he picked out his target he steadied his breathing just as he had been taught. He held it a moment then slowly let it out, just as he pulled the trigger.

He squinted his eye as the smoke rose into the air and slipped back down and out of view. His fingers did hurt but.. he realised, they could hold longer. He grinned and looked over at Friedrich." We'll win."

++

The second hussar lowered his weapon aiming at the French square. He had to keep his horse in motion, and steady the aim, which was not easy, and the carbine itself was not all that accurate either.

But turning about, he pulled the trigger, his horse made eager to quicken its pace by the sound but also by a shot from the musket which had gone all to close for comfort.

There was the chance! His finger pulled the trigger, the musket bucked, the shot rang out loud.

Impatiently, Serjent Beauclair tried to see through the acid smoke. Had he hit?

Pull flint back to half-cock. Dump powder, wadding, and ball down the barrel. Draw ramrod. It was a mindless series of actions. Stubbins turned the ramrod quickly, not daring to distract himself by looking up. The thin ramrod rattled in the barrel, driving the ball and powder firmly down.

He had just withdrawn the ramrod when what felt like a hammer slammed against his arm. The suddenness of the impact forced his elbow in against his side, causing him to drop the carbine. It also knocked him partially sideways in the saddle and in an instant Stubbins knew he was on his way to the ground. He kicked his feet out of the stirrups and let himself fall.

God damn it.

"Good!"

Back against the tree-trunk, Freddie handed the next loaded rifle to Pye and took the empty one. Now that he had settled into a rhythm, his hands flew through the motions of reloading, precise like a clockwork. He didn't see what was going on beneath their position, but it didn't matter. Pye's monosyllabic reports were more than enough at the moment.

A burst of French shouting acknowledged the hussar's fall. No-one noticed for a moment that one voice hadn't joined in. Serjent Beauclair lay quietly on the ground.

The second hussar reigned in his horse. He cursed seeing his fellow fall to the ground and kicked his horse to get close and see whether he was fallen and dead, or just injured.

Pye peered over again and the report was clip and urgent. "One of our own down.. one of theirs." He wondered why the hussars ever bothered with their carbines. When a weapon was hardly effective at that distance, or nearly not effective at all, it was just...

"Get out of it!" Stubbins thundered, hearing the other trooper approach. Was the man stupid?!

He dragged himself to his feet, cursing eloquently as he realised his right arm was utterly useless. The French shot had struck him in the elbow. He'd not be much good here if he couldn't even hold a sabre. Damn it, damn it, damn it.

Get back onto his horse. That was all that mattered. He could still ride at least. Besides. He'd be safer in the saddle.

The French now had tasted blood. It seemed that no-one had realized that the man who actually shot the hussar was just dying from a bullet from above.

And of course the man who had kept them in line was now gone as well. All the young recruits saw were two valuable horses and only one man standing between them, and he hadn't appeared that aggressive in the first place.

One reckless soul cried "Charge!", and the small square broke apart, running towards the two hussars.