The Last Legionnaire

by Paul Fraser Collard

  Each regiment’s colours led the way, the bright tricolours lifted high so that every man in the ranks could see them. Deep in the formations, drummers beat out the staccato rhythm of the march, the young boys charged with taking the instruments into battle driving the great columns forward.

  Jack and Palmer stood and watched as the regiment they had sought for hours went on the attack against the town to the south of their current position. From what Jack had seen, the Austrians were there in good numbers. They had been given enough time to prepare a series of fixed defences, and the garden walls and squat stone buildings would offer them a dozen strongpoints from which to fight off the French attack. It was a solid defensive position, and the French would have to fight hard to force the Austrian infantry to retreat.

  It took several long minutes for the two assault formations to pass them by. As the last ranks marched past, Jack and Palmer forced their tired bodies into motion. The Legion was marching in battalion column on the right flank of the advance, and so the two Englishmen took up a position behind its rearmost company.

  No one told them to go away, or asked them why they were there. Jack quickly gave up trying to see if the man they sought was in the ranks ahead of him. All they could do was tag along, and hope to find their target in the chaos of the assault.

  It was not much of a plan, but it was the best they had.

  The French marched to the hypnotic rhythm of the drums. It was the pas de charge, the same nerve-rending beat that had driven the great French columns against the enemies of the first Napoleon.

  Jack walked at the rear of the formation, yet he still felt the mesmerising power of the drumbeat. He wondered at the bravery of Wellington’s men in red coats who had stood in their two-man-deep line waiting for the ponderous columns to come against them. The French must have seemed unstoppable, the massed ranks certain to swamp the thin red line that stood in its path. Yet the British had held their ground, the power of their battalion volleys bludgeoning the great columns to a halt.

  Now the French army had come back to a European battlefield. Jack did not know if MacMahon had finally located his second division, or if its commander was acting independently. Either way, one of them had ordered an entire brigade to assault the Austrian-held town ahead. It was a test of their bravery as much as of their musketry, and not one French soldier doubted that the Austrians would fail to stand against them.

  Whoever was in command had ordered every gun they could find to take up a position to support the attack. The batteries had been massed together on a railway embankment, the raised ground giving them a good line of fire. Jack counted thirty-nine guns, all aimed at the barricaded streets and wooden palisades behind which the Austrian infantry waited, ready to turn back the massive formations coming towards them.

  As one, the cannon opened fire. The heavy shells seared towards the Austrian defences. They landed in one dreadful, apocalyptic storm, ploughing up roads, smashing walls and ripping through the houses in which hundreds of Austrian reserves sheltered. More shells landed within moments, every one pounding into the defences. The wooden palisades were torn apart, and red-hot shards of shrapnel ricocheted in every direction. The heavy shells wrought a dreadful destruction on the densely packed ranks. Limbs were torn from bodies, flesh ripped apart as the French artillery threw the defences into chaos.

  The infantry cheered as their gunners pounded the town. The new rifled cannon were unerringly accurate, and the cheers doubled in intensity as the gunners began to fire at will, great gouts of flames leaping from the barrels.

  Jack could not help but flinch as another massive volley ripped through the sky. He knew what it was to endure such a barrage; the Russian gunners holding the Great Redoubt on the banks of the Alma river had created similar carnage in the British ranks marching towards them. He could not bring himself to cheer as the shells ground the Austrian defences into so much dust.

  He had heard something of the La Hitte system the French used to convert the smoothbore cannon they had at their disposal. The rifling inside the barrel doubled the cannon’s range, vastly increasing their accuracy. The system did for cannon what the new rifling and Minié bullets had done for the infantry’s rifles. Now the Austrians were on the receiving end of an artillery barrage the like of which had never been seen on any battlefield. And it was decisive.

  Under such devastating fire, no infantry could hope to survive, and the Austrians manning the palisades and barricades broke. They jammed the streets in their haste to escape, unwittingly making the French gunners’ job all the easier. The artillery poured on the fire without mercy, their new conical shells gouging great holes in the enemy’s broken ranks. The streets were littered with the dead and the dying, the living trampling both into the dirt as they tried to get away.

  The French infantry pressed on, covering the sloping ground quickly. Their gunners fired without pause, the roar of the concentrated artillery fire loud enough to drown out the beat of the drum so that the columns appeared to advance in silence.

  They reached the outskirts without taking a single casualty. Still the French gunners continued, the flatter trajectory of the new rifled cannon allowing them to fire over the heads of the advancing infantry.

  Even from his place in the rear of the Legion’s column, Jack could hear the dreadful sound of the exploding shells, the meaty slap of shrapnel hitting piles of bodies and the higher-pitched crack as it ricocheted off trees and buildings.

  With a great cheer, the French charged. The ground was littered with bodies and broken weapons. The Frenchmen pounded over it all, their callous boots crushing any wounded man left lying in their path.

  Jack went with them, driving into the rearmost ranks as the men stormed into the narrow streets. He ploughed ahead, feeling nothing as his boots thumped into a headless corpse left lying on the ground. He had no idea where Palmer was, but he did not care. He freed his weapons as he ran, pulling his sabre from its scabbard and hefting his revolver into his left hand. He was not there to fight, but he would not be unprepared.

  The Legion’s column was breaking up fast. Men ran in every direction as they hurtled into the narrow streets that led into the heart of the town. Already rifles were cracking out, the first shots being fired as the French troops started to find Austrian soldiers hiding in the closest houses.

  Jack went with one group. He tried to look at their faces, but they were going too fast and he had no choice but to go with them.

  The artillery barrage stopped. The French gunners could no longer fire without risking hitting their own men, and so the infantry were left to clear the town with nothing more than their rifles and bayonets.

  More rifle and musket fire crashed out from the street that Jack was running down. He saw men fall just ahead, a handful of legionnaires paying the price for being brave enough to lead the attack.

  ‘Come on!’ He roared encouragement as the men around him charged on. They burst around a corner and saw half a dozen white-coated Austrian soldiers formed into a makeshift line. The Austrians had fired the volley that had killed the legionnaires’ comrades, and now they were frantically reloading.

  They would not get the chance.

  The men with Jack cheered, then stormed forward. They hit the Austrian line hard, their bayonets thrusting forward as soon as they were close enough to attack. The Frenchmen fought with vicious intensity. Not one Austrian landed a blow before they were all cut down dead.

  Almost immediately the legionnaires came under fire. Muskets were thrust out of upper-floor windows and fired down into the street. A man in front of Jack spun around, his hands clasped to his ruined face. Another cursed as a musket ball gouged a crevice in his upper arm, the blood spurting from between his clutching fingers.

  ‘Off the street!’ Jack shouted the order. He grabbed the wounded man and threw him to one side. ‘Follow me!’

  He did not know if the legionnaires understood him or not. He ran towards one of the houses he had spotted musket
fire coming from. He saw a door so ran at it, kicking it open with his boot the moment he was in range.

  The door crashed back on its hinges. He caught a glimpse of a terrified Austrian soldier before a musket was fired almost directly into his own face. He screamed then, the cry torn from him in a moment of pure terror. The ball spat past so close that he felt the wind of its passing on his cheek.

  There was no time to dwell on the near miss. The Austrian soldier shouted in defiance, then thrust his bayonet at the man he had so nearly shot down. Jack battered it away. He heard the Austrian’s howl of frustration turn into a shout of horror as he shoved the barrel of his revolver into the man’s face. He didn’t stop to think. He did not care that it was not his fight, that he had no place being in the thick of the action. He saw only a man trying to kill him.

  He pulled the trigger. The tip of the barrel was so close to the man’s face that the jet of flame spat out as it fired and licked against his skin before the bullet half tore his head from his shoulders. He fell away, his scream cut off.

  Jack was pushed forward by men desperate to escape from the musket balls being fired down into the street. His boots caught on the body of the man he had killed. He stumbled, and only caught his balance as he was propelled on to a flight of stairs that led to an upper storey.

  He cried out, fear surging through him as he imagined his own death. The Austrians upstairs had to know what was coming. His boots pounded on the wooden treads. With every pace he expected to see a musket barrel being aimed towards him. This time he knew they would not miss, and he bellowed as he went, his sword flailing out in front of him in a futile attempt to keep himself safe.

  He lost his footing as he went over the last stair and fell forward, pain flashing through him as his knees hit the wooden floor. He was still scrabbling on the ground when the volley reached him.

  The Austrians on the upper floor had held their fire for this moment. They waited for the first few Frenchmen to arrive, and then they fired. At such close range their muskets were dreadfully effective. The two legionnaires driving Jack ahead of them died in an instant, their flesh torn by the multiple impacts.

  Jack felt the touch of split blood on his skin, but it was not his, and his delight at still being alive drove him into the fight. He saw nothing but a target for his sword, and he got to his feet then drove his weapon into an Austrian’s gut.

  The man clutched at the blade buried in his flesh. Jack withdrew it sharply, slicing through the grasping fingers, half severing them. The man staggered away, and Jack backhanded the sword, slicing at a white-coated Austrian driving a bayonet at his side. The sword went wide, but it forced the Austrian to twist away sharply enough to save Jack from his attack.

  In the cramped confines of the upper room, there was little opportunity for finesse. He drove forward, throwing himself against the nearest Austrian, hitting the man with his shoulder, the contact jarring through him. The man staggered backwards, giving Jack enough space to level his revolver.

  The handgun pressed against a man’s side and he pulled the trigger instantly. The sound barely registered over the roars of men fighting for their lives, but he heard his target scream as the heavy bullet tore through his flesh.

  More Frenchmen came up the stairs. This time there was no volley to greet them, and they threw themselves into the melee.

  The fighting was vicious. Jack saw one legionnaire tumble back down the stairs, a bayonet striking him through an eye socket. An Austrian died as a Frenchman disembowelled him, his guts blue and pulsating as they spilt into his hands.

  One of the Austrians swung his rifle butt at Jack’s head. He saw the blow coming so ducked underneath it. A heartbeat later, the man thrust his bayonet at him, the bloodied steel whispering past his face. He stayed low, then rose quickly, driving his sword into the Austrian’s groin. It was a cruel blow and the steel went deep before he twisted his wrist, gouging away the man’s life as he prevented the sword getting stuck fast in the suction of the dying man’s flesh.

  He cried out as the man fell against him. He feared for his life, his backside puckering as he waited for the cold touch of a knife. But the Austrian was already dying, and he slid down Jack’s front, sinking first to his knees then on to the floor.

  The Frenchmen cheered as the last Austrian fell. Jack bent double and sucked in a huge lungful of air, only to gag on it. The rotten egg stink of spent powder mixed with the smell of blood and shit to create the evil miasma of battle. Even as he choked down another breath, the fight replayed in his mind. The closeness of his own death appalled him. He thought about what Palmer had said. He had believed that he had a talent for battle, his skill at killing the one honest thing about him. He shivered as he thought of the musket ball that had seared past his face, and the volley that had missed him only because he had stumbled. He lived because he had been lucky. Not because he was quick, or brave, or cruel. His skill at battle meant nothing.

  The notion that there was nothing he could do to escape his destiny sickened him. He had struggled for years against the future that fate had allotted to him. He had refused to accept that there was just one path for him to follow, and he had fought, and killed, to prove his worth to a world that neither knew nor cared that he was capable of so much more than he was allowed.

  He felt his determination return. It did not matter if Palmer was right or if he was wrong. Jack could do nothing to control chance, but he did control his own actions. If he was not a soldier, he had nothing. He would not stop fighting. Not now. Not ever.

  ‘Move!’ he bellowed. The Frenchmen were lingering in the blood-splattered room. They were no different to the redcoats he had led before. They were as brave as any and would fight hard when the need arose. But without leadership, they would do only what came naturally, and no sane man walked willingly back into battle.

  He had given the order expecting to be obeyed. He was roundly ignored, many of the men in the upper room simply staring at the foreigner in their midst, any earlier cooperation forgotten. A handful tried to leave of their own accord, but the stairs were blocked. Jack sheathed his bloody sabre, then shoved his revolver back into its holster before pushing forward to find out what was causing the delay.

  At least half a dozen legionnaires milled around in the room below, blocking the exit.

  ‘For God’s sake, get out of the way,’ Jack shouted, trying to get them to move. He was pushed backwards, the legionnaires refusing to listen to a civilian. One of the faces that turned to glare up at him belonged to a blond-haired soldier wearing the blue of the Legion.

  It was a face Jack recognised at once, its likeness to a decade-old portrait startling.

  He had found Ballard’s man.

  ‘Stay right fucking there.’ Jack jabbed a finger at the man with fair hair, who stared back at him, his mouth opening in surprise as he became the centre of attention.

  Jack pushed his way through the crowd of legionnaires. It was not easy, and he had to use his elbows to force a passage downstairs. The blond soldier had ignored the bellowed instruction and was already halfway out of the door when Jack reached the last step.

  ‘I told you to stay there.’ Jack lunged forward and managed to grab his shoulder.

  ‘Who the devil do you think you are?’ The man spun on his heel and shouted the question into Jack’s face.

  ‘I’ve been ordered to find you.’ Jack kept a firm grip on his shoulder. The legionnaires were trying to leave the house, and those behind him were buffeting him as he got in their way. ‘Your father sent us.’

  ‘My father!’ The blond-haired man spat the words out like an oath.

  Jack winced as an elbow caught the pit of his spine. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here.’

  Outside, the sounds of fighting were coming from every direction. Men screamed, whilst others shouted orders. Rifle shots rang out constantly. The Austrians had taken heavy casualties, but they were not giving up the town without a fight.

  ‘Say whatever it
is you have to say and say it quickly,’ snapped the legionnaire.

  ‘Your father wants you kept out of harm’s way.’

  ‘What the hell does he care?’ The man scowled. ‘I haven’t clapped eyes on the miserable bastard for years.’

  Jack felt a surge of relief. He had found his man. He would not have to go into any more houses, or fight any more Austrians. Whatever ration of luck he had left would be saved for another day.

  ‘I am not going anywhere.’ The Englishman’s face twisted with distaste at the idea. ‘I have my duty.’

  ‘You don’t have a fucking choice, chum.’ Jack would not let his quarry escape.

  ‘Do not dare to tell me what to do.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I really am.’ Jack offered a smile. ‘But I have my orders.’ The Colt slipped into his left hand with practised ease. He pressed the barrel into the blond-haired legionnaire’s gut. ‘You don’t have much of a say in the matter.’

  The man looked at the gun poking into the soft flesh above his navel. He contemplated it for a moment, then raised his eyes so that he was looking Jack directly in the eye. ‘Go to hell.’

  He turned his head away and shouted, his French fast and fluent. Jack had no idea what was being said, but he knew it was not going to help his cause.

  ‘Shut up!’ He snarled the words, his spittle flecking the man’s cheeks.

  He was roundly ignored, the Englishman continuing to shout for aid, so he did the only thing he could think of. He slammed his fist directly into the man’s mouth. The legionnaire fell, hitting the ground on his backside, his shouts cut off in an instant.

  Jack was given no time to celebrate his success.

  ‘Drop the gun, my friend, or by God I will spread your brains all over the street.’

  It was Jack’s turn to feel the press of a gun barrel against his flesh. The man holding it was directly behind him, so he could not see who threatened him. The barrel was pushed forward with more purpose. ‘Do it now.’