Musket for a King

by Todd Shryock

  “Ducking just means you get your head torn off instead of your torso,” Simon yelled over the noise.

  I forced a smile and nodded.

  Every second seemed like an hour. How soon until the bridge was repaired? How soon until we would make our mad rush across it? How soon until we all died? Couldn’t we just get it over with?

  The sky continued to brighten as the morning came into full bloom, but the thunder never ceased. We had been standing for so long now that I began to tire. Other men managed to relax, resting their muskets on the ground, understanding that our bridge-storming attempt was not as imminent as it first seemed.

  I shifted from one foot to the other, my knees starting to ache -- my cold, damp clothes not helping one bit. Another cannonball hissed by, skipping off the road with a shower of sparks before hitting a door, knocking it clean off its hinges.

  “Imagine what that would do to a person,” someone said from behind me.

  I tried not to think about it.

  Time lingered on, and yet we still stood in the street, unmoving, listening to the artillery duel somewhere to our front.

  Several sappers ran by, one carrying long boards pulled from a nearby house, another carrying a small keg of nails brought up from the wagons.

  “Oh to hell with this,” Simon said, unslinging his pack and setting it on the ground, where he promptly used it as a seat.

  Niklas looked at him with a disapproving look, but said nothing. The men were getting tired of waiting. Better to have them sit and be fresh for the assault.

  Soon, the idea spread in every direction, with men either kneeling or doing as Simon did, turning their packs into makeshift seats.

  “Gebhard, what are you doing?” Niklas asked.

  I turned to look over my shoulder and saw the older man standing there, staring straight ahead, his hands shaking. All those around him were seated, so his behavior stood out.

  “Gebhard?” Niklas repeated as he moved toward him.

  Gebhard continued to stare forward, his eyes locked on some distant point, his mouth half open, muttering unintelligible words.

  “Hey,” Niklas said soothingly, touching the man’s arm. “Are you okay?”

  The man continued muttering something, then slowly looked at Niklas, apparently not realizing he was standing there at first.

  “Gebhard?”

  “I … I can’t,” he said.

  “Can’t what?” Niklas asked, uncomfortable having most of the battalion watching the drama playing out before us.

  “I can’t go. I can’t do it again,” he said.

  “Take the bridge?” Niklas asked.

  Gebhard nodded slowly, like a child. “I can’t do anymore war. I just can’t.”

  “You have to,” Niklas said. “It is our duty.”

  “I can’t!” Gebhard screamed, quickly gathering himself.

  Niklas patted the man’s shoulder to try to calm him, but the outburst drew more attention.

  “What’s going on here?” Zorn demanded as he weaved through the seated soldiers to where Niklas was standing.

  Gebhard looked at the sergeant and quickly looked away.

  Zorn glared at Niklas, awaiting an answer.

  “Sergeant, Private Beck here says he cannot storm the bridge with the battalion,” Niklas said.

  The sergeant looked at Gebhard and moved closer until his nose was almost touching his. “And why not, private?”

  Gebhard held up his trembling hand near the sergeant’s face. “I can’t make it stop,” he said. “I can’t load. I can’t shoot.”

  Zorn knocked his hand aside. “You will do your duty.”

  “I’ve done my duty,” Gebhard countered. “I’ve done it for nearly ten years, fighting against the French and fighting with them. I can’t … ” he let his voice trail off.

  The sergeant stood looking at the man with a mix of hatred and pity. He looked around, taking in all the faces riveted to his decision.

  “Private Beck,” Zorn said loudly so that all could hear. “You have served our country well, but you must do your duty and take the bridge with us.”

  Gebhard started to disagree, but Zorn kept talking.

  “For your loyalty, I will recommend that you return home and serve at the training depot so that you might train recruits with the knowledge you have gained over a decade of service.” He paused, his voice growing in anger. “But you will storm the bridge with us. Is that clear?”

  Gebhard locked eyes with the sergeant. He hesitated for a moment -- long enough for me to think he might outright refuse -- then nodded once. “I will storm the bridge with my battalion,” he said.

  Zorn looked at Niklas. “Make sure he does so, corporal. There will be no skulkers in my battalion.”

  “Yes, sergeant,” Niklas said.

  Zorn gave Gebhard one more angry look then stomped off.

  Niklas patted the older man on the arm. “You’ll be fine, Gebhard. And think, after today, you can finally go home.”

  “Home,” the man repeated, trying to picture it in his head. “Just one more day?”

  “Yes, just one more day. Across the bridge -- with us.”

  Gebhard looked around, noticing for the first time that all eyes were on him. He lowered his head. “With you. With all of you.” He sat down and crossed his legs, avoiding eye contact with everyone.

  With the drama ended, we returned to our boredom and pipes were lit, canteens opened and for those lucky enough to have food, it was consumed. I sat on the ground, back to back with another man so that we might lean on each other for support without falling over.

  Two small groups of men moved up along the side of our battalion, each carrying an ax or other tool on his shoulder, with one man pulling a two-wheeled cart full of nails and measuring devices. The men were dressed as our regular infantry, save for a brown leather apron.

  “They build things,” Jannick said as they marched by.

  “And destroy things,” Simon added, still annoyed they were there -- and blaming it on his comrade.

  They disappeared down the line, but some of them soon came back empty-handed, ready for another load.

  Sappers came and went for the next half hour, ferrying materials of one sort or another, hastening our departure to the afterlife.

  “Hey digger!” Jannick called after one of them as he passed nearby with another small keg of nails. “How long on that bridge?”

  The man, sporting a large droopy mustache tinged in gray, scoffed. “Why don’t you come up and help and it will be done all the sooner.”

  “Come on, how long?” Jannick begged.

  “That’s a man’s work up there,” he said as he walked away. “And a man will not be rushed.” With that, he was gone, leaving us to our solitude and random cannonball as the thunder continued unabated to our front.

  “Sappers,” Jannick spat. “They work for an hour in one battle and do nothing else and act like the privileged class.”

  We all knew sappers actually did a lot, including clearing roads and our campsites when required, but we rarely saw them. According to Jannick, he was the only man in the army who ever did anything.

  Another quarter hour passed, allowing me enough time to convince myself that my clothes were starting to dry, but that only meant moving from wet and uncomfortable to dry and stiff. The smell of gunpowder and smoke hung in the air, mixing with the dampness hanging over the puddles on the ground. I began to wonder whether we would ever move from this spot.

  With everyone sitting, I could see past our battalion into the ranks of the first battalion ahead, most of whom had followed our lead and sat down.

  Suddenly, the first battalion men began to stand.

  “Something is happening,” I said, causing everyone to turn and look.

  Niklas stood to get a better view and retrieved his musket from the ground. “Everyone up!” he cried as the sergeants and corporals, seeing movement for the first time in hours, began prodding everyone to their feet.
“Check your muskets!”

  I looked at my musket for what seemed like the millionth time this morning, and satisfied the powder in the pan was still good, flipped the cover shut and flexed my legs.

  “Form up! Dress ranks! Dress ranks!” the cry went up and down the column. We adjusted our positions, transforming from a random mass of humanity and equipment to a perfectly aligned killing machine, ready to do the bidding of our masters.

  The men around me stretched their arms and legs, preparing for the inevitable rush across the bridge – some more of a nervous twitch than any attempt to loosen muscles.

  “Right shoulder arms!” came the order.

  We hoisted our muskets so they rested on our right shoulders, the butt of the weapon in our palm, ready to advance.

  For several minutes we waited, silent, expecting the call to move forward. Nothing came.

  Simon looked around and relaxed. “We aren’t going anywhere,” he muttered.

  “Silence in the ranks!” someone barked from the other side of the column, probably another corporal.

  Simon stopped talking but unshouldered his musket and rested it on the ground.

  No one else dared to follow his example, at least for another quarter hour.

  “Enough of this,” Jannick said with disgust, lowering his musket. Soon, all sense of discipline broke down until even the sergeants gave up and ordered everyone to rest at ease.

  The thunder continued as somewhere to our front, men firing iron balls from iron tubes murdered each other from across the river while we stood, bored.

  At ease devolved into sitting and resting on our packs; one man slept, despite the racket around us.

  “We’re never going across,” Jannick speculated. “It’s been hours. The battle is probably over by now.”

  “Then why are the guns still firing?” Simon asked.

  Jannick shrugged. “Probably too much smoke. Austrians are probably long gone, but the gunners can’t see that.”

  “Is that right?” Simon said, skeptical.

  Jannick pursed his lips and nodded. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

  “He has been known to be right,” Niklas said sarcastically. “Like when he predicted he would be in the cavalry.”

  The men around me snickered as Jannick protested, claiming it was the artillery and that only politics kept him from being a gunner.

  “You know,” Simon started, “if he ever … ”

  His voice was cut off by a steady beating of drums. I looked to the front, and once more, the first battalion was rising.

  A familiar cascade of commands trickled down the line until we were all standing at the ready, this time more doubtful of our eventual move.

  “I’ve got two potatoes that says we don’t move this time,” Jannick said quietly so the sergeant wouldn’t hear him.

  “I’ll take that bet,” Niklas said quickly. “Let’s just hope you live to pay it.”

  “You heard him, lads,” Jannick said. “He’ll owe me two potatoes as soon as we sit down again.”

  The words had barely left his mouth when the shear twill of an officer’s whistle cut through the air.

  Niklas smiled. “This corporal is eating well tonight.”

  “We haven’t moved yet,” Jannick said, but we could all see the distant glimmers of the first battalion’s front rank bayonets bobbing as they moved forward.

  “You have no luck” Simon said. “Try not to stand too close to me as we cross the bridge, okay?”

  Jannick mumbled a curse under his breath as the rest of us laughed at him.

  Our captain unsheathed his sword, put the back of the blade to his shoulder and marched us forward, following closely behind the back rankers of the first battalion.

  As we moved farther into the village and closer to the village, the damage wrought by the artillery became more pronounced. The occasional hole or battered window turned to entire sections of destroyed walls, furniture lying in the street and debris forcing us to choose our steps carefully. Smoke drifted between buildings like the fingers of the blind wraith, reaching, scratching and clawing for its next victim, burning our noses and draping everything in a veil of mysterious death.

  The first battalion disappeared into the smoke to our front, passing by the sappers who sat to one side, exhausted, hatless and covered in sweat, minor wounds wrapped in bandages, the detritus of their bridge strewn about.

  The whistle blew again and the drums beat.

  It was time.

  Chapter 10

  We moved forward at the quick-step, equipment jingling as the thunder from the guns finally ceased, allowing us to clearly hear ourselves for the first time in hours. The smoke grew thicker as we got closer to the bridge. Soon, we would break into a run and charge across to our doom.

  A quick whistle chirp sliced through the air and the rank in front of me suddenly stopped, causing me to run into them and the men behind me to run into my rank. Curses were uttered as we untangled ourselves and attempted to dress our lines.

  “Why the hell have we stopped?” Simon demanded.

  “First battalion has stopped,” Niklas said, stepping to the side of the column to try to see what was happening.

  I noticed now that our cavalry was just off to my right, lined up down a narrow street, ready to follow us across. As the smoke started to dissipate, I saw our guns lined up in a long row along the river bank, their positions dotted with a dead or dying man, a shattered gun lying in splinters nearby.

  The village across the river hung like a gray ghost across the far edge of the water. The enemy was there somewhere, waiting.

  Two quick chirps of a whistle and the drums beat again, but this time we moved off at a normal march, our sense of urgency lost.

  “I told you the battle was over,” Jannick said, boastfully.

  We moved across the bridge, a large stone arch with a makeshift center made of wood planks and some complex bracing, installed by the sappers to repair the damage done by the Austrians to slow our advance. As I stomped across the center, I saw the water through the cracks in the boards, and saw several dark stains on the wood where the sappers had paid in blood for their progress.

  We slowed again near the end of the bridge as our leading ranks came close to the first battalion, which had stopped again.

  “Good god … ” Jannick said, looking to our left.

  The breeze picked up, clearing the lingering smoke from the village and the far bank, revealing the Austrian gun line, or what was left of it, anyway.

  Guns and broken wheels littered the ground, interspersed with wrecked caissons and dead horses. The brown-coat wearing artillerymen were scattered about, some of them in pieces. I saw a wrecked gun not far from the bridge, a pair of legs leading up to a jumbled pile of gore, the rest of the body shredded by our cannons.

  The village fared little better. All the buildings along the waterline were full of holes, looking like dirty gray Swiss cheese, the thin stone walls and wooden frames providing little cover for the Austrian soldiers sheltering inside. A whitecoat hung from a window, his hand tangled in his musket strap, the gun caught across the window frame. Blood dripped off of him, giving the poor soul the look of an animal caught and hung to drain.

  Grass was blackened and smoldering in places, long furrows cut in the ground from the cannonballs and a small wooden building near the far end of the line was engulfed in flames, the dark smoke rising into the blue sky.

  A small shove from behind notified me that the column was moving and I was gawking. I had never seen the destruction artillery could do to a man until now, and I hoped I never saw it again. What had been part of a village and a line of men before dawn was now a smoking hellscape, with bits of men spattered about, a few unlucky survivors crawling in random directions, hoping to find someone to save them.

  I tore my eyes from the scene and focused on the man in front of me. Guns boomed in the distance and muskets crackled.

  There was still much work to be d
one.

  We entered the village, or what was left of it.

  Wounded Austrians, most of them gut shot, had their backs to the buildings, their eyes glassy, hands coated in blood as they tried to keep either their fluids or their intestines inside them. Every wall was riddled with holes and shutters were partially shot away. Debris was everywhere.

  Musketry broke out to our front in random bits, meaning the lead skirmishers had brushed up against the enemy.

  I checked my powder again, nearly stumbling over a chunk of building lying in the street as I walked. We moved out of the village into the open, guns booming to our left. The column of the first battalion began peeling off to the left to form a line. The enemy was near.

  “Okay boys, keep your ranks!” Niklas yelled, trying to encourage us to focus on our training.

  I saw the captain ahead, mounted on a chestnut-colored horse, his sword waving, his mouth shouting orders I could not see. Drums beat and word was passed: Form line to the right flank of the first battalion.

  I followed the men in front of me forward until we reached the captain, then made a sharp turn to the right filing in turns until we formed a three-ranked line in an open field. I was in the second rank when I turned toward the enemy and saw a familiar sight: the brown-coated grenz were formed up across from us a couple of hundred yards away with woods behind them.

  Satisfied we were in position, the captain waved his sword and pointed toward the enemy. The drums beat and we started forward at a walk.

  Step, step, step. I focused on walking, too nervous to think of much else for fear of falling. This was the first time I had been in combat in formed ranks. Skirmishing was one thing -- you had room to move and crouch or take cover as needed. Here, we were in the open with no place to hide.

  Across the field we went in perfect lines, the sergeants and officers making sure we stayed in line and kept our proper distances. The browncoats were clear to me now, their faces stoic as they awaited our advance, bayonets bristling on the end of their guns.