“Fall back by companies!” Major Dunnett shouted. “Johnny! Take your two back!”
“Fifty paces, go!” Murray’s two companies, accompanied by the Quartermaster and his mule, stumbled back the fifty yards and formed a new line across the road. “Front rank kneel!” Murray shouted.
“We’re always running away.” The speaker was Rifleman Harper. He was a huge man, an Irish giant in a small-statured army, and a troublemaker. He had a broad, flat face with sandy eyebrows that now were whitened by frozen sleet. “Why don’t we go down there and choke the bastards to death. They must have bloody food in those bloody packs.” He twisted round to stare westwards. “And where the hell’s our bloody cavalry?”
“Shut up! Face front!” It was the Quartermaster who snapped the order.
Harper gave him a lingering look, full of insolence and disdain, then turned back to watch Major Dunnett’s companies withdraw. The Dragoons were dull shapes in the middle distance. Sometimes a carbine fired and the wind snatched at a smear of grey smoke. A greenjacket was hit in the leg and swore at the enemy.
The new Lieutenant guessed it was now about two hours before midday. This fighting retreat should be over by early afternoon, after which he would have to hurry ahead to find some cattleshed or church where the men could spend the night. He hoped a commissary officer would appear with a sack of flour that, mixed with water and roasted over a fire °f cowdung, would have to suffice as supper and breakfast. With luck a dead horse would provide meat. In the morning, the men would wake with stomach cramps. They would again form ranks; they would march, then they would turn to fight off these same Dragoons.
Dragoons who now seemed happy to let the Riflemen slip away. “They’re not very eager today,” the Lieutenant grumbled.
“They’re dreaming of home,” Murray said wistfully. “Of chicken and garlic in a pot, good red wine, and a plump girl in bed. Who wants to die in a miserable place like this if that’s waiting for you?”
“We’ll retire by column of half companies!” Dunnett, convinced that the enemy would not risk closing the gap, planned to turn his back on them and simply march away. “Captain Murray? Your men first, if you please.”
But before Murray could give an order, the new Lieutenant’s voice called in urgent warning,“
“Ware cavalry behind!”
“They’re ours, you fool!” Dunnett’s distaste for the Quartermaster could not be disguised.
“Oh, Christ!” Murray had turned to look up the road along which the four companies must retreat. “Rear rank! About turn! Major Dunnett! They’re crapauds!”
God alone knew how, but a new enemy had appeared behind. There was no time to wonder where they had come from, only to turn and face the three fresh squadrons of Dragoons. The French cavalry rode with open cloaks which revealed their pink-faced green coats. They carried drawn swords. They were led, curiously, by a chasseur; an officer in the red coat, scarlet pelisse and black fur hat of the Emperor’s Imperial Guard. Alongside him, mounted on a big roan, was an equally strange figure; a man dressed in a black riding coat and boots that were gleaming white.
Dunnett gaped at the new enemy. Riflemen frantically reloaded empty weapons. The Quartermaster knelt, braced his rifle by looping its sling about his left elbow, and fired at the chasseur.
He missed. Rifleman Harper jeered.
A trumpet sounded from the enemy. There was death in its shrill note.
The chasseur’s sabre was raised. Beside him the man in the civilian coat drew a long slim sword. The cavalry broke into the trot and the new Lieutenant could hear the hooves on the frozen ground. The Regiment of Dragoons still rode in squadrons that could be distinguished by the colour of their horses. The first squadron was on black horses, the second on bays, and the third on chestnuts; it was an arrangement common in peacetime, but rare in battle that swiftly diluted the pattern with remounts. The trumpeters were on greys, as were the three men who carried the guidons on their long staffs. The small flags were bright against the low clouds. The Dragoons’ long swords were even brighter, like blades of pale ice.