Hostile Shores (35 page)

“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.

The Dutch company that had tried to come up the hill to attack them were now trapped between Lewrie’s position and the British infantry who were now rampaging down the line of shallow trenches, looking for someone to shoot or bayonet. That company was now a herd of terrified men looking in all directions and looking for escape, which was now cut off. Their own retreating cavalry had delayed them too long.

“You, down there!” Lewrie shouted in his best quarterdeck roar. “Surrender to us!” He pumped both arms up several times. “Surrender! Bloody Hell, Mister Westcott. How did our old Master Gunner, Rahl, say it in German? That’s
close
t’Dutch, ain’t it?”

“Haven’t a single clue, really, sir,” Westcott said, shrugging.

“Soldaten!”
Lt. Strickland yelled, raising his own arms as if giving up.
“Haende hoch! Kapitulation! Hinlegen deine waffen!”

The Dutch soldiers dropped their muskets as if they were red-hot fireplace pokers, and littered the ground round them with shakoes, cartridge boxes, hangers, and equipment belts, and knelt with their hands high over their heads in a twinkling.

“What was all that, after
soldaten
?” Lewrie asked him.

“Told them to put their hands up, surrender, and drop their weapons,” Strickland said with a grin. “I had a German nanny,” he further explained, “and she was a right bitch.”

“Whatever, it worked,” Lewrie said. “D’ye think our own soldiers’ve lost their ‘mad’, or should we stay up here awhile more? I’d not like my men shot ’cause they’re not wearin’ red.”

“Oh, I think it’s safe enough now, Captain Lewrie,” Strickland allowed. “The rest of the Heavy Brigade is coming up in march order.”