by Todd Shryock
“If the peasants don’t catch them and kill them, they’ll be home in a week,” Niklas added.
Home. It seemed like years, but it had only been a few months since I reported to the depot. I missed my light fowling piece and stalking partridges in the forest, which was a complete contrast to the heavy musket I now carried and the prey that shot back. Even though the birds always ended up on the lord’s table, I found it pleasing to be in the quiet of the woods, where no one told me what to do.
A man in front of me stumbled and fell, nearly taking me with him. He lie on all fours, too weak to stand.
Zorn was on him in an instant, kicking and screaming for him to get up.
“We need every man on the line!” Zorn yelled. “Don’t let your comrades down! On your feet!” He swatted the man with his cane, causing him to flinch, but he still couldn’t muster the strength to stand. “Up!” Zorn yelled, knocking him completely to the ground. “Up!”
Following Niklas’ lead, I moved to one side of the man while he took the other and we scooped him up under each arm and got him to his feet.
Zorn scowled. “Get him moving,” he hissed. “We’ve lost too many weaklings already. If we don’t stand together at all times with our king, we all shall perish.”
The man took several feeble steps, regaining his balance, then nodded. “I’m okay,” he said. “I’m okay ... just let me take a moment.”
I reached into my forage bag and found a mouthful of bread I had been saving and handed it to the man. “Here, eat this.”
The bread was out of my hand and shoved into the depths of his mouth in an instant. “Thank you,” he said with his mouth full, squeezing my shoulder as we stumbled forward.
“Here, hang on to me for a while,” Niklas said.
“Yes,” the man said. “I feel as though I’m on a ship tossing in the wave, for my legs keep giving out from under me.”
Zorn’s voice pierced the air as he focused on another victim along the side of the road.
I shuddered and turned my focus back to marching along the dusty road.
“He’ll get his,” Simon said, an edge of murder in his voice. “You wait and see.”
I glanced back over my shoulder, but I couldn’t see the sergeant, just ranks of gaunt faces in dusty green jackets plodding ahead, one foot after the other.
Chapter 7
I’m not sure if we finally found the Austrians or they found us, but either way, both armies now faced each other across rolling fields interspersed with patches of orchard and clumps of woods. We stood in line, facing what looked to be empty space to our front, but the ground rose and then fell quickly away before reappearing in the distance.
“You could hide half the Austrian army over that ridge,” Simon pointed out.
“We don’t have enough men left to take on half the army,” I replied. Our numbers were much thinner than the last engagement, and as a result, the battalion occupied far less ground than it should have. The other light battalion was to our left, and a line infantry battalion was to our right.
“Be nice if our jagers were around,” Niklas said. “Send them forward to check it out so we don’t get caught by surprise.”
“Or the cavalry,” Karl added. “Be nice to have some of horsies around.”
“Where are our cavalry?” I asked, having not seen them in some time.
“Detached to Marshal Ney, as he was short of horse,” Niklas said, obviously working his headquarter contacts again.
Simon peered down the line to either side. “Doesn’t look like we’re exactly rich in horse ourselves,” he said.
Cheers suddenly erupted from far to our right, moving closer. Heads bobbed and weaved as each man struggled to see past the next, wondering what was happening. I stood on my toes, but couldn’t see anything.
“The emperor!” someone called out.
Finally, I saw him, Napoleon Bonaparte, the man at the heart of all our troubles, and he was magnificent. Physically, he wasn’t an imposing man, but he exuded confidence, and he scanned the lines of men from upon his little white Arab horse. His posture was that of a man not entirely comfortable being in the saddle; he wore a small hat on his head, a dust-gray cloak, white breeches and top boots. If you went by his dress, you would think him a common messenger delivering orders, not the emperor who presided over most of Europe. His pale face and cold features were a contrast to his dark eyes -- oh, those eyes! His gaze lingered on me for a moment, and I knew in the instant he looked upon me that he now knew everything about me and no secret was safe.
Behind the plain rider were his bejeweled and dazzling marshals and generals, trimmed out in silver and gold lace, their royal appearance a complete contrast to the mundane dress of their leader -- our leader. While he exuded natural confidence and a marshal air, his generals had to dress themselves up in baubles and drapes to try to achieve the same effect. It didn’t work.
Cheers followed the emperor down the line, men shouting “Long live the emperor!” in French, muskets and hats waving.
Our crown prince came riding from the other direction and the two men acknowledged each other as their horses were reined in. Words were spoken and the emperor waved toward the ridge to our front before riding on along the road.
Officers ran about the prince like a swarm of angry bees, shouting orders and putting men in motion. Soon, the drums beat and Zorn appeared with Lieutenant Hasbling at his side.
“What is he doing here?” Simon asked.
“The emperor is watching, so I imagine he’s looking to gain some glory by leading us to our deaths,” Niklas said.
Simon frowned. “Well, as long as he gets shot first, I suppose.”
“Third line, skirmishers forward!” Zorn yelled out.
I checked to make sure my musket was loaded and my bayonet was firmly affixed.
The drums beat.
“Here we go,” Simon said.
“Again,” Karl added.
The ridge loomed ahead, keeping its secrets to itself. Would we find half the Austrian army or more empty fields?
Guns began to boom in the distance. Whatever plan the emperor had, it was now in motion.
We spread out as we moved forward, but I was careful to stay close to Niklas. As we approached the ridge, we instinctively crouched, ready for the worse.
One of the men trotted ahead and crested the ridge, then looked back, shaking his head. Half the Austrians weren’t there, and I relaxed a bit -- until I crested the ridge and saw for myself. It wasn’t half the Austrian army, but it was certainly a good part of them in the flatlands -- a long white line stretching along a meandering stream. A large clump of woods was the only thing breaking up the rolling fields between us and them.
“Forward!” the lieutenant ordered.
I looked behind me, but our lines were still where we left them. “They’re not moving up,” I said to Niklas, who chewed on his lip in worry.
“What’s he doing?”
“If they aren’t moving up in support, we should at least form our own here before moving forward,” I said, stating the obvious.
He shook his head in disgust. “He’s a fool.”
We continued down the gentle slope toward the Austrian line, its men standing motionless, a long white line with glittering muskets shouldered, bayonets pointing to the sky.
The sergeant said something to the lieutenant, who shook his head and pointed his sword on down the slope. The woods loomed ahead and to the right. Zorn wanted to either halt or send men to check the woods, which would be the prudent thing to do, but apparently the lieutenant was having none of it.
“Men go mad when the emperor is near,” Niklas said over his shoulder. “They … ”
His words were cut off by the sound of bugles and a rumbling of the ground. From behind the woods, ranks of horsemen wheeled out onto the plain, their helmets and long swords giving them an imposing appearance. Before I could say anything, bugles sounded again and the wall of horsemen spurred forwa
rd, the men yelling.
A few shots rang out from our spread-out skirmish line and men turned and ran.
“Come on!” Niklas said, running back up the slope. “Don’t fire, whatever you do!”
I followed and ran, looking over my shoulder. The storm of horses and sword-wielding men were bearing down on us, a human storm of noise and steel.
“We’ll never make it!” I yelled, envisioning myself being trampled to death by the angry horde.
“Here!” Niklas yelled, grabbing me before I could run past. “We stand together here!”
He began yelling for Simon and the others nearby to join us, the wall of horses rapidly approaching. Soon, we have a half-dozen, and then a dozen men, but I saw little point. We were going to be a spot of sand against a rolling ocean wave.
“Stand back-to-back and don’t fire!” Niklas yelled.
During training, we had worked on forming a square for such attacks, but it required the entire battalion and some intricate maneuvering by companies to pull off. “We don’t have enough for square,” I protested.
He grabbed my shoulder and squeezed hard. “Just do as I say! Stand in a clump and we’ll form a wall of thorns -- the horses will not impale themselves. But don’t fire unless I say so!” He turned his attention to our small group. “Understand me? Don’t fire.” Heads bobbed in acknowledgement.
Some of the men followed our lead and formed their own groups, forming a circle of bayonets, but others panicked, threw away their guns and continued to run.
A familiar figure struggled up the hill, his hat and rifle gone, his pear-shape and red hair telling me it was Karl, even though I couldn’t see his face.
The horses were on us and I braced to be run down, but the cavalry flowed around us like water flowing around a stubborn old stump. Swords slashed, but we crouched down out of reach and the riders thundered on, happy to go after those fleeing.
A half dozen horsemen, their white coats contrasting against their gray breeches, peeled off to come at us again as the rest of their line moved on. One of the men drew a pistol from his saddle.
“Henri, take him down,” Niklas ordered.
Without thinking, I dropped to one knee, took aim and pulled the trigger.
The flint snapped forward, and the gun bucked hard against my shoulder, spewing thunder and smoke. When I looked again, the rider was on the ground, the horse running wildly away, spattered with blood.
The cavalrymen hesitated, the death of their comrade testing their resolve. Niklas pointed his rifle at one of the other men, which was enough for them to spur their horses in pursuit of the rest of their unit, which was now starting to scatter about as they rode down individual men here and there.
“Walk up the hill, but stay in a tight cluster,” Niklas ordered. “If they come back at us, stop and wait.”
As we began to walk, Niklas yelled for the other nearby group to join us, doubling our numbers.
Like a frightened herd, we rapidly walked up the hill, passing the sabered bodies of our countrymen, wicked gashes across the backs of their head, some with hands and parts of arms missing where they had raised them to try to defend against the sword strokes.
A bugle sounded again, and the horsemen began to turn back toward us.
“Halt!” Niklas ordered.
The cavalry swirled about as lone riders rejoined the group.
“Look, one of our men!” said someone from the group, pointing across the hill.
A lone man was struggling to get to his feet, his coat torn open and covered in dirt, and his back bleeding from a sword cut.
“To the right!” Niklas said, causing our mob to shuffle sideways like some strange crab. He never took his eyes off the cavalry as we moved. “They’re reforming, we have a minute.”
“But we’re not going to get to him at this pace!” Simon pointed out.
I looked up the hill and saw the last of the riders rejoining the group. Musket fire boomed from over the ridge, so I assumed the rest of the battalion was at least firing to discourage the cavalry from coming any closer. As I looked to gauge how far away our man was, I saw him drop back to the ground.
There was no time to waste. “I’ll get him!” I yelled, breaking from the mob and rushing toward the downed man. What if it were Karl? Wouldn’t I want him to do the same for me?
Niklas did not protest as I raced away, urging the mob to move faster after me instead.
I reached the man and saw by his hair it was not Karl.
“Skulking as always,” Zorn whispered, before coughing heavily, blood dripping from the side of his mouth.
I stared down at him, frozen in place. All I had to do was walk away and Zorn would be gone. He seemed to sense my thinking, looking away. Behind me, the others were yelling my name.
The cavalry was approaching.
“Go on, boy, save yourself,” Zorn rasped. “Leave this old soldier on the battlefield where he belongs.”
I reached down and grabbed his arm, pulling him to his feet. Placing his arm around my neck, we stumbled toward the safety of the approaching mob of soldiers as the horsemen bore down on us.
Gauging the distance between the fast-moving horses and the mob, I saw that they would be upon us before we reached safety.
Several men broke from the mass, took careful aim and fired, dropping three men from their horses, with one mount tumbling down and taking another with it, throwing its rider across the ground until he rolled to a stop.
Their line hesitated and shied away from the men, parting around us, those on the inside pushing hard against their neighbors to give us as wide a berth as possible.
In just a few seconds, they were gone as quickly as they had come, their mounts carrying them back to the shelter of the woods.
With the danger passed, the men turned to me, their faces plainly showing disappointment that the man we had saved was Zorn. Niklas motioned for two others to take the sergeant, who placed an arm around each man’s neck to support himself.
“Take him to the rear,” Niklas said.
The sergeant looked at Niklas and nodded in appreciation. “Mr. Weber,” he said. “You did well today.”
Niklas said nothing as the men moved to lead him back up the hill, watching them go.
“Now what?” I asked.
Niklas looked at me, angry. “You should have left him,” he spat.
“He’s a Wurttemberger,” I said. “And besides, I didn’t know it was him until I got there, and at that point, I figured I didn’t want to waste the trip.”
A slight smile broke on his face. “Henri,” he said, shaking his head, leaving the rest unspoken.
Distant drums rumbled from further down the hill, reminding us that there was still a battle going on. The whitecoats were moving about, their lines shifting.
I looked to Niklas, as did the others. The sergeant was gone and there was no officer about.
“Skirmish line, fall back to the top of the hill,” he ordered. “We’ll establish contact with battalion and go from there.”
The men fanned out across the hill and we moved slowly back, not wanting to provide any encouragement to the enemy that we knew was watching us from below. We alternated walking backward and forward, always keeping an eye out for the return of the cavalry, but apparently having gotten their fill of us, they stayed behind the protective cover of the woods.
As we encountered our fallen men, we paused to check on signs of life when warranted, but many required no careful scrutiny, for their heads were lain open to the air or a slash opened up their innards for all to see.
Not far from the crest, a dark coat beckoned me, the lumpy form beneath it, unmoving. I stopped and knelt, then caught my breath, suddenly realizing that the red hair and unique shape of the man could be none other than Karl. Hesitating with my hand on his shoulder, afraid to roll him over, I prayed for courage for what I was about to see.
Setting my musket down, with some effort, I managed to roll Karl over. I was relieved
to see that his boyish face was still attached to his head and that while the front of his coat was sticky and dark with blood, there were no parts of him visible to my eyes that God did not intend for me to see.
He was dead, for sure, poor Karl. His back still not healed from the lash, yet the Austrians saw fit to run him through in several spots, ending his wretched existence. His eyes stared back at me with a look of inquisitiveness, his mouth partly open as if about to ask a question regarding his demise.
“Poor, poor Karl,” I muttered, sad for the boy’s fate.
“Henri,” Niklas called to me from a ways up the slope. “Leave him or join him.”
I looked back down at my former comrade, grabbing my musket. “Goodbye, Karl,” I whispered, patting him gently on the shoulder before sprinting up the hill to rejoin the retreating line, knowing I would probably never see him again, his body destined for a mass grave after being stripped of anything of value by the local peasants.
We rejoined our lines, relieved to the front by our jagers who moved up from somewhere, supported by several squadrons of French chasseurs, horsemen whose dark green coats looked similar to ours. The chasseurs were all business, neither smoking nor talking, unlike the flamboyantly dressed hussars who seemed to care more about their appearance than their duty.
Standing in silence for over an hour, I listened to the thunder of the cannon and the constant crackling of musket fire from below but saw no more of the enemy, their positions hidden by the rapidly thickening smoke.
A messenger thundered past our front, searching for our colonel, but I could not see him -- he was somewhere to my right, lost in the mass of humanity and smoke that boiled across the field of war. Not long after, the drums beat and the orders were given. File off to the right behind the line.
As we moved away from our position, I gave one last look toward the slope where Karl lay in the open as the living moved to and fro, ignoring his fate. “Goodbye, Karl,” I whispered to myself one last time, trying to imagine his body in a quaint graveyard where the local widows kept the weeds at bay. But I knew that his final resting place would be far less peaceful -- a tangled mass of limbs of his countrymen and the Austrians who fell across from them.