Musket for a King

by Todd Shryock

  Our lines were a mess, with companies intermingled with other companies, but until we could find open space and daylight, there was no fixing it for now. If we met the enemy, we would be ineffective with men from different units scattered about, missing their usual leaders and being in an unfamiliar place in the line. But we pushed on, for there was little else that could be done to fix it.

  I followed the mass of men through the dark, marching through the dampness and chill as the road rose and fell across a series of small ridges that were heavily wooded and crisscrossed by muddy streams in the valleys between.

  As the sky lightened, I scanned the ranks around me but saw no familiar faces, only our second-battalion men intermingled with a few stragglers from first battalion and even a few Westphalians, who as soon as they saw their error, fell out of line to wait for their own men.

  An hour later, we entered a broad expanse of fields that sloped away to our right, the ridgelines topped with trees. A halt was called, and officers raced up and down the line establishing rallying points for each company to get the men back in the appropriate order. Now that we could see, the men sorted themselves out fairly quickly.

  “Thought maybe you joined the Westphalian army,” Niklas said when he saw me approaching the rallying point.

  “I heard the food and pay are better,” I said. “But the uniforms aren’t as nice.”

  He smiled and got the men to their final places just as we moved forward again.

  Taking stock of our ranks, I saw they were thinner than before. “Looks like we lost a few more,” I said.

  Niklas shrugged. “Scattering us about like that last night made it too easy for someone to wander away with no one noticing. And with the threat of a battle, I’m sure some of the new recruits decided this isn’t really for them.”

  I didn’t think battle was really for me, either. Maybe I should have taken the chance and gone with them, though the punishment for desertion was death. How you get there seems rather irrelevant, I suppose.

  As we filed out of the rolling hills into a broader valley, the booming of distant guns greeted us. Great clouds of smoke drifted across fields below us, and the crackle of musketry filled the gaps between cannon fire.

  We were about to enter the fire-belching mouth of hell, and I knew some of us wouldn’t return.

  First battalion filed off the road at a forty-five-degree angle and dressed its lines as we lined up beside them. I’m not sure where the Westphalians went, but they were no longer behind us. If they were smart, they all ran away. As the noise increased, I wished I had gone with them.

  Niklas uttered some reassuring words to the men, many of whom had only been fighting partisans and lightly armed villagers, not a professional army.

  As soon as the officers were satisfied with our position, the drums beat the advance and we started off at a walk across the open field toward a line of trees. I saw lines of whitecoats far to my left, but they were engaged with some unknown forces on our side. To the front, only the trees stood ready to receive us.

  A spent cannonball crashed through the canopy and bounded slowly across the field, causing men who were in its path to recoil and move to the side.

  “Back in line! Back in line!” one of the sergeants screamed, swinging his cane about like a knight swings his sword.

  The ball rolled to a stop a few feet in front of our line, its day done.

  We passed through the narrow line of trees and started down a slope on the far side that was mainly open grassland used for grazing before a halt was called. At the bottom of the slope, a lazy stream meandered through the low ground, and on the far side, several battalions of Austrian infantry were formed in perfect lines with a pair of small guns between them.

  From my vantage point, I saw individual officers moving about the lines on foot, and the higher-ranking ones on horses studying us through spyglasses in the rear. Lone men on horses moved to and fro -- messengers no doubt -- behind enemy lines.

  “Not much cover down there,” Niklas pointed out, noting the openness of the ground near the stream.

  Even in skirmish order, we were bound to take heavy casualties. But we weren’t going into skirmish order.

  The captain rode by on his horse, sword raised high. “The emperor has told us we must hold the line at all costs!” he shouted, his horse turning from side to side, responding to the excitement in its master’s voice. “We will hold this line no matter what comes! We are Wurttembergers and we will fight for our king! We will show the Austrians what we are made of!”

  The Austrian battery opened up and showed everyone what we were made of -- flesh and blood, same as the enemy. The first shots impacted the ground well in front of us, throwing up dirt and rocks, and ricocheted upward. One ball bounded over the line, but the other crashed through the ranks far to my left. Screams of agony and fear went up as men were smashed to bits by the heavy iron ball, followed by the shouts of the officers to hold the line.

  I looked longingly behind me toward the line of trees that would offer us plenty of protection from the Austrian cannons while still holding our position, but instead, we stood fifty yards forward for no good reason.

  The captain finished his speech and moved back behind the line. The Austrians slowly disappeared behind an increasing cloud of smoke belched forth by the cannon. I could only hope that if they couldn’t see us, maybe their aim wouldn’t be good.

  The guns boomed again and several more men died, causing great uneasiness along the line as men tried to see what carnage had been wrought.

  “Eyes front!” Niklas snapped, waving his cane menacingly in front of the men. “Your duty lies there,” he said, pointing it toward the Austrians behind the smoke.

  My knees shook as I tried to appear steady for the benefit of the younger men, but it was of little use. Being lined up waiting your turn to be killed with no way of fighting back was demoralizing for even the bravest man. I smelled urine as someone around me wet himself. The young recruit was probably embarrassed, but it was far more common than anyone ever talked about.

  “Where are our cannons?” one man lamented.

  “Who said that?” Lieutenant Idiot screamed as he pushed his way through the ranks, trying to identify who had asked such an obvious question.

  A ball hissed overhead, causing men to duck and dodge the unseen missile, and the lieutenant decided his inquisition could wait and moved further back as Niklas worked to reform the line.

  The pounding continued for what seemed like hours, though I’m sure it was only minutes. Each dull thud marked the likelihood that more men were dying. I longed to be told to charge, to retreat, to do anything but continue standing there.

  “The emperor himself told me of the importance of this position!” the captain shouted from behind us. “It must be held!”

  “Let the emperor stand here if it’s that important,” someone said from behind me, but not loud enough for the captain to hear him over the din.

  The shelling continued, and so, too, did the dying. Men were torn apart by the iron shot, splattering blood and gore on all those unfortunate enough to be nearby.

  “We need to move, or no one will be left to hold the position,” Niklas said quietly so that only I could hear. He began looking around impatiently, looking for an officer. Spotting one, he began calling out. “Lieutenant!”

  The lieutenant moved between the ranks with a look of abject fear on his face, as if moving out from behind the ranks of men exposed him. “What is it?” he snapped.

  “We cannot hold this position like this,” he said as quietly as possible so as to not be challenging an officer in front of the men.

  “Hold your tongue!” the lieutenant hissed. “How dare you question … ”

  “I’m not questioning anything, sir, just pointing out that these men are inexperienced and will soon break and run. I’m relaying my observation to my superior officer.”

  “Your observation has been noted!” he said between clenched tee
th, wincing as another pair of rounds ripped through the line.

  A man in the back cried out, “We’re all going to die!” and began to whimper.

  “Silence, you!” the lieutenant yelled, temporarily taking his attention from the sergeant.

  The boy’s breathing was rapid and he began to glance around behind him. He was about to run.

  “Hold your position!” the lieutenant yelled.

  The boy looked directly at the lieutenant and began shaking his head. “I can’t.”

  “You will!”

  The guns boomed and the boy staggered to one side in fear, bumping into the man next to him. His face turned red, tears running from his eyes. “I can’t.”

  “You will hold your position!” He turned to look at Niklas. “See what you have done? You’ve put fear into everyone!”

  The boy dropped his musket, the weapon slowly toppling over like a felled tree.

  “Pick up your weapon,” the lieutenant ordered.

  The boy sobbed as the officer got closer. As the lieutenant reached for him, the boy stepped back. “I can’t,” he blubbered. “I’m sorry.”

  The boy quickly turned and darted away.

  The lieutenant calmly drew the pistol from his belt and leveled it at the retreating boy, whose progress was slowed by his heavy pack. The hammer on the pistol snapped forward and smoke shot out of the barrel, the ball smacking the boy in the left shoulder next to the pack, spinning him violently around and tossing him to the ground.

  The boy cried out in pain, blood darkening his jacket.

  Several men moved to help.

  “Don’t!” the lieutenant threatened as he reloaded his pistol. “Leave him.”

  I looked at Niklas as the boy lie helpless on the ground. “He’ll bleed out,” I said.

  Niklas looked at me, looked at the boy, then looked back. “So he will,” he said, dejected.

  “We have to do something.”

  “There’s nothing we can do.”

  “He’ll die.”

  “I know,” he said, but his mind was in some distant place, his eyes staring at the smoke in the valley below.

  The lieutenant’s voice rose above the noise of battle. “Let that be a lesson to anyone else thinking of leaving their position!”

  I looked around for help, but there was no one willing to leave the line. I saw the captain, but he saw the whole drama unfold and did nothing, granting his tacit approval to the slow execution of one of his own men. My thumb found the hammer of my musket. All I had to do was turn and fire, and the lieutenant would be dead. The cool metal of the hammer urged me to do something to save the boy.

  My eyes drifted down to him as he lay on the grass, clawing helplessly at the ground in agony. When I looked up, the captain was looking right at me with stern eyes, daring me to do something.

  I wanted to kill them all.

  But I turned to face the enemy. The enemy in the white coats to our front and not the enemy in the greencoats to our rear. I hoped for the cannon to find the captain and his lieutenant and for them to be torn asunder.

  And then I thought of poor Simon, his mutilated body left on the ground so long ago. How many more of these lads would suffer the same fate? How many would die because of the stubbornness of the officers to move us back a few yards? And for what? Because the French emperor pointed to a spot on the hill and said hold it? Couldn’t the same line be held just a little further back?

  The guns boomed. Men screamed.

  I shrugged.

  Let death come. Let it come and save me from this nightmare. Let it drag me to its dark home.

  ***

  I stood resigned to my fate, my mind drifting across time and space as the battle raged on around us for what seemed like an eternity.

  “They stopped,” Niklas said.

  I wasn’t sure who was speaking or why, my mind was that far away from my current predicament.

  “Henri, they’re gone,” Niklas said, nudging me with his elbow.

  Instinctively, I tried to step to the side like we had been doing all morning as casualties mounted. One man went down, everyone closed ranks to keep the line intact. Sometimes we were moving several spots at once.

  He finally grabbed my arm and shook it. “Henri! The cannon, they are gone.”

  Only then did I snap out of my reverie. The smoke had dissipated somewhat, providing a better view of the enemy positions. The cannons were indeed gone, with no sign of where they went. The infantry was still there, but they were beginning to withdraw, the battle being won far to our left.

  I expected the order to come to press the matter and I was looking forward to taking out my anger on the hapless enemy soldiers below.

  But we continued to stand as the enemy drew off, unmolested, my anger unslaked.

  There would be no justice today.

  I looked at the shattered bodies on the ground around me.

  No justice today.

  Just death.

  Chapter 16

  We pursued the beaten Austrians into the night, or at least our cavalry did. The poor infantry gathered up what we had left, did a quick roll call and filed back to the roads to follow the retreating whitecoats as best we could.

  Few words were uttered as our equipment clanked on our hips and our boots pounded the earth. If a single Austrian had jumped out from behind a tree and fired his musket into the air, I think what was left of the battalion would have fled, using the miniature ambush as a reason to run away from the leaders who made us endure so much terror today. Men grumbled under their breath about the murder of our troops and how the captain and officers had a comeuppance well overdue.

  I marched, musket shouldered, in silence, a prisoner of the army being led off to the next slaughter. The younger soldiers -- those who survived -- moved in stunned silence all around me, unsure of what they had just witnessed. I knew that there would be more death to come, perhaps before nightfall.

  Onward we marched, one foot after another, the bland road moving past, the side of the road littered with discarded muskets, bloody bandages, dead Austrians, broken wagon wheels and empty packs. Anything that could be discarded by the fleeing army was cast aside, to be plundered by those who followed.

  We rounded a bend in the road where a pair of overturned wagons with broken wheels were covered with enemy prisoners, most sitting hunched up on parts of the wagon, as if it were a safe island in a sea of rising dread. A middle-aged sergeant sat calmly at the front of his band, puffing on his clay pipe, his feet firmly on the ground as if to show the others it was safe. The two dozen or so Austrians watched us parade by under the watchful eye of four French infantrymen, who were a combination of bored with their task and relieved their fighting was done for the day.

  I met the eyes of the smoking prisoner, who nodded in respect when he saw me.

  One of the younger men to my front stepped out of line, grabbed the man’s pipe and yanked it from his hand, cursing his existence.

  The sergeant, his hand still raised as if holding the pipe, looked disappointed, but not surprised by the event.

  I moved up out of line, grabbed the young soldier by the shoulder and spun him around, prying the pipe from his hand.

  “Hey, that’s mine!” he yelled, ignoring my superior rank.

  I shoved him hard, having little tolerance for his insolence. Seeing my face, he decided his best option was to return to the column, where many curious eyes were watching us. He muttered something about me under his breath and moved on.

  Examining the small clay pipe in my hand, I saw that it was unbroken. I walked over to the prisoner and handed him back the pipe.

  He looked at me as if expecting a trick, then slowly reached out and accepted it.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  I had no words, so I just nodded once and returned to the column, ignoring the looks of those around me.

  To hell with them, I thought. To hell with all of them.

  ***

  We marched u
ntil someone said to stop, which didn’t come until well into the night. More groups of prisoners were left along the side of the road as we moved forward, guarded by a few lucky men from the units that had captured them.

  Assigned to a field to make camp, the battalion moved off the road and began to collapse in groups, too tired to light fires or look for better cover.

  Niklas found me as I tried to herd the men further from the road to make room for the end of the column.

  “Come, we have been assigned picket duty,” he said, leading me through the men toward the far side of the field.

  I thought it strange that he was taking me and me alone with him away from the rest of the encampment, but I figured that Lieutenant Idiot was at work once more.

  We pushed through some brambles and out onto the edge of our camp, where the pickets were just now being set out for the night under the direction of an officer whose voice could be heard in the distance. Niklas stopped next to a large oak and nervously glanced around.

  “I’m leaving,” he said.

  “Leaving? Where are you going?”

  “Home.”

  “You’ve been discharged?”

  Niklas let out a frustrated hiss of breath. “No. I’m leaving by choice.”

  “You can’t do that,” I protested. “They’ll shoot you for sure if you are caught.”

  “Then I won’t get caught.”

  “Why are you leaving?” I asked, but I already knew the answer. Anyone who had been through what we had understood. The human mind could only take so much carnage before it melted into a useless lump, like a spent candle, and Niklas had been soldiering longer than I had.

  He stood silently gathering his thoughts before speaking. “I can’t take this any longer. Any of it.”

  Now it was my turn to stand in silence. What should I say? That he was wrong? That he should tough it out? No, I didn’t believe any of that. We were the unwanted stepchildren of the French army whipped by our officers to do their bidding so that our king could maintain the favor -- and riches -- of the emperor. It was not a cause worth dying for.

  “What will you do when you get back?” I ask. “If the police figure out you deserted from the army, the fate will be the same as if you are caught on the way.”