by N. C. Reed
“Makes sense,” Weir nodded in agreement. “And we are here to raise hell and get attention,” he added, rubbing his chin. “What are your orders, sir?” he asked Stone.
“Shake out 2nd Division then and attack this roadblock,” Stone ordered. “While you do that, I'll post orders for a strong demonstration in two more directions to try and confuse and split up whatever forces are out there, and hold the others in place. Roll over them,” he ordered Weir.
“We'll give it a shot,” the other man nodded grimly. “Half hour?”
“Half hour,” Stone nodded.
~*~
“What do you think?” The scout post was now occupied by Pierce's chief of scouts, a young major who knew the area quite well.
“They're gonna hit the Nashboro Road,” he replied, using the ancient name for the road that his parents had always used. “Gonna try and roll right over the roadblock.”
“What about the other forces?” the young captain beside him asked.
“Feints to hold us in position,” the major shook his head. “Still, we need to let the general know. If he don't reinforce those outlying roads then the Nor will be able to break through anyway. A feint that works stops being a feint.” He scribbled a hasty note for his general in his notebook, tore the sheet loose and handed it to a young corporal he doubted had ever known a razor.
“Get this to General Pierce without delay, soldier,” he ordered. “We'll remain in place and try to see what they do next.”
“Sir!”
~*~
“Even if that's a really good guess, Nelson, it's still a guess,” Colonel Jared Whit said softly as he read the note from the scouting unit. “If we devote everything to stopping-”
“We won't send everything, but we will send the greater part of our forces against them there,” Pierce cut the other man off without rancor. “Get your boys in the saddle and get going. You've got extra arrows, yes?”
“Twenty per man,” Whit nodded. “An extra ten per man for the others on post as well. What will you do?” he asked.
“We'll send a battalion of cavalry to each of these other spots the major thinks they will demonstrate before,” Pierce replied. “I'll keep the rest of our forces here, able to move and react to any breath-through or any new threat.” Left unsaid was that the 'rest' of their forces wouldn't quite number a full brigade of men.
“Very well,” Whit was clearly unconvinced. “We're on our way.”
“Good luck.”
“Luck is for fools,” Whit threw over his shoulder. “We're going hunting.”
“Good hunting then,” Pierce smiled. “And give them hell.”
~*~
Silas Weir studied the debris ridden road before him through his glass, a doubtful look crossing his craggy features that he was careful to keep his men from seeing. He lowered the glass and looked at his assembled brigade commanders. After the debacle in the west a few weeks before his units were at barely three-quarters their nominal strength, with some individual battalions being well below even that. He shook his head in resignation. Stone had ordered this attack and that meant he had to carry it out, but it was doomed to fail and he knew it.
“Sir?” He turned at the questioning tone to find Colonel Terry Wiskowski sitting his horse beside the Brigadier, awaiting orders. The look on the Colonel's face showed all too clear what he thought of this operation, but professional soldier that he was, he didn't share it.
“Dismount your brigade and form regiments to advance in line against their position, Colonel,” Weir spoke almost against his will. “The rest of us will come up on each flank and see if we can force them to turn. You'll have to hold their attention while we do that.”
“You know we can't carry that position, sir,” the younger man said softly so that no one else could hear. “I doubt the whole division will be able to if the enemy is there in any strength. That is a strong and well sited position with excellent cover and fields of fire. We're walking into a hornet's nest here sir.”
“I know,” Weir nodded. “But we have to try. Stone won't hear that this is anything other than locals trying to stymie our drive south. For my money we're at least facing well trained militia. No way a bunch of unorganized locals hit our men that hard in so many places.” He looked at Wiskowski again.
“So shake your men out and get moving, Colonel,” his order held a grim finality to it. “We'll support you on either flank, so concentrate your men toward the roadblock itself. Lets see if we can't at least take the position from them. In the event that it is just a small number of locals, I'll sound the charge and all commands will center their attack on the roadblock itself. We'll bowl right over them.”
“Yes sir,” Wiskowski nodded, snapped a salute, and moved away to where his regimental commanders were waiting. It took twenty minutes for the bulk of the dismounted division to form lines and prepare to advance. The cavalrymen had trained to do this of course, but most of their training had centered on fighting from horseback. Fighting on the ground was as foreign to them as the ground they were walking on itself.
Looking over the lines and finding them satisfactory, Wiskowski signaled to Weir that he was ready. Weir looked to the other commanders and received similar signals from them. He nodded to the signalman next to him who raised a long, slender pole into the air with a red banner fluttering in the light breeze. As pennants raised along the line in answer, Weir raised his arm, then lowered it sharply. The signalman slapped the red banner down in the direction of the enemy position and the lines began moving forward.
Weir sat his horse behind the line, watching pensively.
~*~
“Looks like a division of cavalry, sir,” Whit's aide reported softly, though Whit could clearly see that for himself.
“Are our men in position?” he asked, looking through his glass at the approaching enemy even as he spoke.
“Hernandez left, Richards right and Gates in reserve, sir,” the aide reported, looking to each command as he called it off to reassure himself that he was giving his commander an accurate report.
“The group that was here first is supporting the center?” Whit asked. He had left the two companies that had engaged the enemy here first in place. They were all expert rated archers.
“Yes sir,” the aide replied. “Two hundred twenty-seven effectives combined. All bowmen. They've been resupplied from the earlier engagement.”
“Very well,” Whit nodded. “Nothing for it but to wait, now.”
His plan was simple. He wanted the enemy to think that they were still up against the few bowmen who had defended this position earlier. To do that he had ordered the original companies only to fire, leaving them in position and moving his regiments to either side of them. The first three volleys would be from that group only, which hopefully would trick the Nor commander into committing his forces piecemeal, or in some haphazard fashion that Whit could counter.
There was real danger here as few of his men were overly skilled archers. All of them knew how to use a bow of course, but very few of them could claim the title of military archer. Still, two hundred bows would put up a small cloud of arrows at least for a minute. That might be enough to suck the enemy in and get them to commit to something stupid.
“Sir, the enemy appears to be working to flank us,” his aide mentioned. Turning his glass, Whit noted that the enemy was indeed spreading out, what looked like a full brigade to either side of the initial attack.
“Runners to Colonels Hernandez and Richards,” Whit snapped out. “Reserve fire until enemy is within one hundred yards, or until the center fires their third volley, whichever happens first.”
“Sir!” the aide replied and moved to inform two waiting runners of the new orders. Whit silently cursed the enemy commander for trying to force the flanks of a hilly position like this. It was unlikely he could carry Whit's position without suffering mass casualties first, but if the Imperial commander was willing to pay the price he might well do just that, us
ing his much greater numbers to overwhelm Whit's smaller command.
“Message to Brigadier Pierce,” he said without lowering his glass. “Estimate under attack by one division of dismounted cavalry. Expect to be hit with far superior numbers but believe we can hold at least for a time. Advise if we should hold or fall back if the position begins to fall. May prove impossible to hold this position against a determined attack. Message ends.”
“Right away sir!” Soon another runner was galloping away. It would take twenty minutes to reach Pierce, another twenty to get an answer, and however long Pierce debated on what to do. In all likelihood, the battle would be decided before he got an answer, but this was a stronger attack than he had anticipated.
All he could do now was wait. At least he didn't have to wait long.
~*~
“Why come we're stuck right here 'n the midst o' all this?” March was, predictably, complaining.
“Shut up Rye,” Mike Cado growled. Unlike before when they were facing a fairly equal number of Nor cavalry, they were now outnumbered about two-to-one at least. The veteran NCO was understandably concerned and March's muttering wasn't helping his calm any.
“I'm just sayin' we done an' did ours!” March ignored the order. “Time we was getting' a chance to sit back like that bunch back yonder whilst the rest of this outfit gets them a taste o'-”
“Rye, if you don't shut your mouth I'll shut it for you,” Cado turned to look at the complaining soldier. “We need to be concentrating on what's coming and not worrying about your complaints. Now shut it!” the last order was more of a hiss than anything as Cado's patience ended abruptly.
“Man can't even complain 'round here,” March murmured to himself as he shifted in place, but he fell silent under the withering glare of his sergeant. Cado gave him one more glare for good measure and then turned his attention back to the approaching enemy. An enemy that was getting closer and closer with each passing second.
“C'mon, c'mon,” Cado muttered to himself. “Don't let 'em get right up on us for Gawd sake!”
“Easy Mike,” another soldier said just as softly. “Reckon the Colonel knows what he's about.”
“You reckon all you want,” Cado replied without rancor. “We're the ones sat here in the way, mind.”
“Look,” the other man said in way of reply, pointing toward their left. Cado looked and saw the yellow banner standing tall at the center of the line.
“That's us boys,” he whispered. “Pass it on, yellow flag is up. Nock and ready!” The message passed down the line in a hurry as the men prepared to fire. They didn't have long to wait as Cado looked back to the area where the signalman was standing in time to see the banner being slammed down forward.
“Fire! Fire! FIRE!” Cado shouted even as he rose to his feet and loosed his own first arrow. The battle plan was for the original force to fire three volleys before the rest opened fire. The first three volleys were to be ragged and uncoordinated to give the appearance of an unorganized militia rather than a military unit. Pierce had unknowingly played right into the Imperial thought process with that decision. No other order he could have given would help as much as that one was about to.
~*~
“I'll be damn,” Weir said to himself as the ragged flight of arrows came out of nowhere. Even as some of his men fell to them, Weir felt himself smiling slightly. A second ragged volley came, far too long in coming for trained military archers and even more ragged than the first.
“Stone was right,” he muttered. “Stone was right!” he said louder and his aide and runners looked at their commander in question.
“Did you see how ragged that volley was?” he demanded. “No trained military outfit fired that! Bugler, sound charge!” he ordered without waiting for an answer.
~*~
In front of him Wiskowski heard the charge sounding and grimaced. Weir was jumping the gun with that command the young colonel thought. Two volleys wasn't enough to establish anything except an enemy presence. But orders were orders and there was nothing for it now.
“Double quick boys!” he shouted and heard the order being relayed first by regimental commanders, then battalion and finally company commanders. His lines grew more ragged as his men began to jog forward. NCOs and junior officers tried to dress the lines but that wasn't easy with the entire brigade moving forward and another brigade advancing on each flank.
The third enemy volley was just as ragged as the first two and Wiskowski allowed himself a few seconds of belief that Weir and Stone were right. He was facing locals trying to protect their homes.
It only lasted those few seconds.
~*~
“All troops prepare to fire,” Lieutenant Colonel Carlos Hernandez said calmly. The enemy was behaving just as Pierce and Whit had predicted. How often did that happen? he wondered.
“All companies answer ready, sir,” his signalman reported at his side.
“Fire at will,” was the simple command. He heard the sound of the pennant's pole hitting the brush in front of him, followed in seconds by the twang of thousands of bowstrings being released.
The battle was truly joined now.
~*~
Wiskowski took one second to curse Weir's over-eager orders as the first heavy volley of arrows fell among his brigade. Thousands of arrow, not hundreds, fired in disciplined volleys with concentrated fire that devastated his front ranks.
“Son-of-a-bitch!” he shouted. “Keep moving, keep moving, we have to join with them or those bows will eat us alive!” he ordered. “MOVE!”
His order notwithstanding the men of his brigade were still too stunned to do more than look at the holes in their formation in shock. Officers and NCOs harried and yelled, trying to get them moving. Movement was their only source of self-preservation at the moment. As close as they were to the enemy even running wasn't a good option since they would get several good volleys into the retreating formation.
Their efforts failed as the Soulanie troopers would not grant them the few seconds reprieve they needed to get their troops moving again. Even as Wiskowski shouted and yelled and cursed to get his men moving another cloud of arrows hit his men, felling still more of them, leaving his men in windrows on the ground before the enemy.
No amount of shouting or cursing could prevent what happened next. First it was individuals, then pairs, and suddenly it was entire squads, at least what was left of them, turning tail and running headlong for the relative safety of their line of departure. They didn't have lines of their own to run to but they had horses waiting. They were cavalrymen, trained to fight from horseback. Once more their inept leadership had led them to slaughter and it was too much for many of them. Leaving far too many of their comrades on the ground behind them, the men of Wiskowski's brigade broke and ran.
Their sister brigades didn't fare much better. With Wiskowski's men in headlong retreat, that withering fire soon was falling on them and they fared no better than Wiskowski's men had.
It took less than ten minutes to route an entire Imperial cavalry division.
~*~
Weir watched with anger that slowly turned to horror as he realized the reason his men were running was that they were being slaughtered. Even as he looked on yet another cloud of Soulanie arrows flew into his men, felling them by the hundreds on the field before that cursed roadblock.
Weir was about to castigate Wiskowski for losing control of his brigade in such a way when he realized that his other two brigades were now in headlong flight as well, their own losses almost as bad as Wiskowski's men.
“Sound recall,” he told his bugler, chafing at the necessity but knowing there was no use in trying to maintain the attack. His men had been soundly beaten and the majority of the fault lay squarely with him. He had jumped the gun, eager to make something happen.
His men were paying the price for that overeager attitude right before his eyes.
~*~
“Cease firing,” Hernandez ordered calmly, watching
the withdrawing Nor troops through his glass. “Check for losses,” he ordered his aide.
“None reported as yet, sir,” the man shook his head, waving toward the runners who had just arrived with reports for him. “No damages, either.”
“Good,” Hernandez nodded. “We've either broken them completely, or they 'll be back with blood in their eyes. One or the other. I'd give a month's pay to know what they're saying over there.”
~*~
“What happened?” Weir demanded, angry at having been made a fool of.
“You sounded the charge and we walked into an ambush,” Wiskowski said bluntly. “Sir,” he added almost as an afterthought.
“I don't like your tone, Colonel,” Weir growled.
“My tone?” Wiskowski was incredulous. “I just lost a quarter of my command following your orders and you don't like my tone, sir?”
“You're past the mark of insolence, soldier,” Weir's voice was frosty now. “And insulting as well,” he added dangerously. Everyone knew how touchy Weir was and how prone to dueling he was as well. Wiskowski knew it too, but was far past caring.
“Begging the Brigadier's pardon, sir,” the younger man shot back, “but this clusterfuck can be laid squarely at your feet, not ours,” he indicated himself and his fellow brigade commanders. “I told you we couldn't carry such a strong position if it was held in force. But rather than scout it out or approach with skirmishers you elected, sir, to order a charge by our men and them on foot. And charge we did, Brigadier, right into an excellently set ambush that has cost us heavily. And I doubt we inflicted a single casualty on the enemy.”
Weir was about to explode when he noted the equally surly looks on the faces of his other two brigade commanders. They were just as angry as Wiskowski and had suffered almost as many losses. The look on all three faces staring back at him was about one step below mutiny and for once Weir managed to hold his temper in check as he realized how precarious his position was at the moment.
“It was a rash decision and I regret it,” he nodded instead. “I listened to General Stone state there couldn't be an organized enemy force in this area and when I saw those first ragged volleys I allowed myself to believe it. I ordered the charge because I felt that if you could get among them quickly it would limit our casualties. It was a mistake, but I can't take it back.”