The Last Legionnaire

by Paul Fraser Collard

  The surgeon gave a short gasp. It was followed immediately by the solid thump of the severed leg hitting the ground. Ballard felt the hussar give a great shudder, his body twisting with one last lurch before going still.

  ‘Merde.’ The surgeon leaned forward and peered into the hussar’s face, a bloodied finger poking at the man’s eyes. There was no reaction to the clumsy touch, so he bellowed for his orderlies to come and collect the fresh corpse.

  Ballard stood back as the two overworked assistants dragged the hussar away. There was no time to reflect on the man’s passing. Another pair of orderlies bustled over, a white-coated Austrian soldier held awkwardly between them. No distinction was made between the soldiers of the two armies. Here, in the hell of the field hospital, they were just men.

  The foreign soldier was shrieking as they carried him, his arms and legs jerking uncontrollably. The moment he was laid on the table, he jackknifed, his hands clawing at Ballard as he tried to escape the surgeon’s knife. He was pushed down cruelly. There would be no escape.

  One of the two orderlies stayed to help Ballard hold the patient down. Both of the Austrian’s legs had been crushed below the knee. There was little left except for a pulsating mass of flesh and bone that had twisted and fused together so that what remained barely looked human. Ballard could only suppose that the man had been run over by an artillery limber, or the wheel of a cannon. He had seen a similar wound in the Strand when a young boy had been run down by a hackney carriage. That boy had died, and he held out little hope for the Austrian soldier.

  The surgeon snapped a command and Ballard pressed down with his whole body weight on the man’s chest. His arms were shaking with the effort, but somehow he managed to pin the Austrian in place long enough for the surgeon to take off first one leg and then the other. The second severed limb hit the ground and an orderly returned to help haul the Austrian away. The man still fought against them, his cries unaltered throughout the whole dreadful process. To Ballard’s surprise, he had survived the double amputation, whereas the French hussar had died when having just a single limb removed. He wondered why that would be, what force there was hidden in the Austrian’s physical form that was lacking in the hussar’s.

  He stood back and wiped his sleeve across his face. It was sweltering in the farm outbuilding that had been requisitioned as a hospital, and the sweat was running freely down his face. His blue uniform was streaked with ordure, the sleeves bloodied and the golden lace on its front half hidden under a sheet of gore. He had never felt so dirty. It was as if the blood and the filth was somehow seeping inside him, polluting his soul for all time.

  The orderlies were slow with the next wounded man. It gave Ballard an opportunity to look for Mary. He saw her almost immediately. She was crouched next to a wounded French soldier, carefully spooning water into his mouth. The man clutched at her arm as he sucked on the wooden ladle, holding on so tightly that she had to force his fingers loose before she could shuffle over to the man lying next to him.

  There were so many wounded. The ambulances, limbers and carts arrived non-stop, each packed full. Still more men staggered in, those able to walk drawn to the aid station by the sight of its black flag. The buildings had been filled in the first hour; now the wounded lay in long lines outside. There was no shade or respite from the heat. Their only comfort came from a handful of local women, who were offering what aid they could. The wounded were desperate for water, and many of the volunteers were pressed into service hauling bucket after bucket from a stream a few hundred yards away, so that at least some of them could have a mouthful or two.

  Mary felt his gaze and turned to look at him. From somewhere she summoned a tight-lipped smile, the gesture fleeting but one he appreciated greatly. He hoped he was winning her approval, that his efforts as surgeon’s mate were improving her opinion of him.

  His reverie was brought to an end as the next body was thumped on to the table. He pressed down, not caring that his hands slipped across a man’s chest sheeted in blood.

  The rasping sound of the bone saw at work came almost immediately.

  Billy hid behind the tree. He did not know how long he had been there. He had moved to screen himself from view when the first men had come past. It had seemed a wise thing to do, even though he could not do the same for the horses, which were still tethered where Palmer had left them.

  He had mastered his fear. Cannon fire still thundered out, the noise ever-present, but he could not maintain his terror for ever. Somehow it had dulled, the unceasing pounding fading into the background so that now he barely even heard it, even when it intensified so that the individual blasts blurred into one great roar.

  Safe in his hiding place, he had watched the first wounded stagger past. Two men had walked together, their arms intertwined. He had heard them laughing, their loud voices reaching him as he cowered away.

  Since then, he had seen a steady stream of men descending from the high ground. Most came in ones or twos. All had been wounded. It was not hard to see where they had been hit. Some were dragged, their legs shattered or even missing completely. Others staggered along by themselves, pressing their hands into open wounds, or cradling an arm or shoulder shattered by an enemy bullet.

  Some had not made it past his vantage point. He had counted at least a dozen who had either collapsed or been left by their comrades, their attempt to reach help ending in death. The bodies lay where they had fallen, untended and ignored.

  A fresh wave of men came past. He peered at them, trying to see their injuries. He frowned. These were the first he had seen who appeared whole, their uniforms unblemished. They were moving faster too, pressing forward urgently.

  He did not recognise their uniform, but he could see that it was not the same one that Jack and Palmer had donned before they had left him. He shrank deeper into his cover. He did not know whether these men were French or Austrian. The idea that they could be the enemy both frightened and excited him. He slipped his hand into the waistband of his trousers and pulled out the revolver. He knew how to use it; Jack had taught him on the journey. He remembered Jack’s hand ruffling his hair as he declared him to be a fine shot, the memory making him smile.

  The weapon was heavy in his hand. It felt solid. Powerful. Reassuring. He squinted at the men running past. He imagined them rushing towards him as they spotted the horses. In his mind’s eye he pictured himself standing, the revolver in his hand. He saw their faces twist in fear before he gunned them down, one after another, not a single bullet missing.

  A shout shattered his imaginings. It came again, louder this time, the voice horribly close. He shrank away, his childish notion of fighting swamped by a sudden rush of fear. Heart pounding, he peered around the tree. Four men were running directly towards him.

  The shouting came louder then. He knew it was directed at him, that the men had spied the horses and were coming to take them for their own. He rose up on his haunches, the instinct to run taking over before the thought had fully formed. Yet he held himself back, refusing to obey the urgings. Jack would not run.

  He stood, even though his legs were shaking so hard they were barely able to support him. The four men saw him immediately. They shouted at him. He understood nothing, but he heard the anger in their voices. And he heard their fear.

  ‘Go away!’ The command emerged with little force. ‘Go away!’

  The men were coming on fast. They showed no sign of heeding him.

  ‘Go away, or I’ll shoot.’ He lifted the revolver, holding it in both hands. He swallowed to clear the knot that had tied itself in his throat. His fear was surging through him. He felt weak, and his backside puckered and quivered. Yet he stood his ground, holding the revolver as steady as he could.

  There was no more shouting. The men were thrashing through the undergrowth at the edge of the copse. They were close now. No more than twenty or thirty yards away.

  A face appeared over the end of the barrel. Billy saw reddened cheeks above a thick bl
ack moustache, and brown eyes that blazed in anger. It was the face of the first man he would have to kill.

  The man was saying something. The words spewed forth. He came closer, moving fast.

  Billy’s finger tightened on the trigger. He felt sick; fear choked him. The moment to fire came. And passed.

  The man was upon him in an instant. The gun was snatched from his grasp. He had time to cry out before a fist slammed into his face.

  He fell hard, blood pouring from his nose. He cried then, the fear and the pain mixing inside him. He was still crying when the boot caught him in the pit of his stomach.

  The blows came fast. The man he had come close to shooting attacked relentlessly, kicking and punching without pause.

  Billy screamed. He could not hold it back. He screamed again, even as his mouth filled with the blood that streamed across his face. The noise goaded his attacker, and he lashed out with his heavy boot, catching the boy in the side of the head.

  The screaming stopped as the blackness took Billy away.

  The French did not linger. With the Legion reinforcing their battered ranks, the men of Bataille’s brigade went on the attack. The Legion had regrouped into a mixed formation, with four companies forming a two-man-deep line supported by two companies on either flank arranged in column. All the battalions in the attack were arranged in a similar fashion, and they advanced en échiquier, spaced as though each was on a separate square of a chessboard. Hundreds of men in tightly packed ranks were committed to the assault on the Austrian infantry divisions that had come so close to folding the French army’s right flank.

  The Legion marched through clouds of dust. It blinded the troops, the wind whipping it across their faces so that they were forced to advance with their eyes screwed almost shut. It scoured their faces dry, leaving them red and sore.

  ‘We still need to keep an eye on this one, Jack.’ Palmer protected his mouth with his hand as he called across from where he was walking on the far side of Fleming, their company marching in line in the heart of the Legion’s formation, on the left of the advance. ‘Remember our mission. We keep this fellow safe, come what may.’

  ‘I’m right here, you know.’ Fleming laughed. Palmer spoke as if he were incapable of understanding the conversation.

  ‘I know, old son, and I intend to keep it that way.’ Palmer marched easily, even as the Legion picked up the pace.

  Jack had no time to listen to Palmer. He was watching the large body of French cavalry that was rushing to form up on the infantry’s left flank. He saw three different uniforms in the mix as the cavalry manoeuvred into two long lines. Two regiments formed the first line, with the second consisting of just one.

  He was pleased to see the French horsemen. Now that they were on the wide expanse of the plain, their flanks were vulnerable. If the Austrians got the chance, they would send their own cavalry to attack the advancing French infantry, who would then be forced to form square, the only defence they had against rampaging horsemen. The formation would keep the cavalry at bay, but it would leave the infantry in tightly packed ranks, unable to either advance or retreat. They would then be at the mercy of the Austrian artillery. The enemy roundshot would be sure to massacre them where they stood. The walls of bayonets would be ripped apart. Then the cavalry could ride them down unopposed, any man left standing certain to be butchered by the merciless Austrian riders. The French cavalry would protect them from such a fate, their role vital if the assault was to result in victory.

  The cavalry did not take long to form up, and Jack kept watching them as they began to advance, their ranks ordered and steady.

  ‘There they go.’ Fleming was watching too. He flashed a smile in Jack’s direction.

  Jack kept his eyes on the horsemen. The three regiments were picking up the pace and were already advancing faster than the men they were there to protect.

  ‘Where the hell do they think they’re going?’ He did not understand the cavalry commander’s decision. ‘They should be guarding our bloody flank.’

  Fleming gave a very Gallic shrug. ‘They do as they please.’

  Jack shook his head as the cavalry started to canter. It was folly. He looked to their front. He was taller than most of the legionnaires. At that moment, all he could see of the Austrians was a skirmish line; a thin, dispersed chain of light troops whose job it was to screen the main line from any scouts the French sent forward. The French cavalry had seen the same and now pressed forward to ride the light troops down.

  ‘Fucking plungers.’ Palmer spat as he saw the same as Jack. ‘They should stay on our flank.’

  Jack could only agree. The French cavalry were already moving fast, the noise of hundreds of hooves drumming into the ground washing over the slower-moving infantry.

  ‘What a damn waste.’ There was time for him to give his own verdict before the French cavalry swept into the line of enemy skirmishers.

  It was not a fight. The French riders in the first line attacked stirrup to stirrup. They rode over the thin screen of skirmishers like a wave washing on to a beach. The Austrian light troops simply disappeared, with not one French rider unhorsed.

  Buoyed by their success, the French cavalry pressed on. Bugles blaring, they inclined to the left then galloped on, now heading for the main enemy line. The horses were at full speed and they hurtled over the ground, their riders cheering, swords raised high.

  The enemy infantry had witnessed the destruction of their skirmish line. They were no fools. They knew the fate of infantry caught in line by cavalry.

  ‘They’ll form square.’ Jack was watching the fight even as the Legion marched forward. He knew what was about to happen. A tight knot had tied itself deep in his gut as he bore witness to what he was certain would be the destruction of the French cavalry.

  It was now a race, one where the loser would die. Already the French cavalry were closing in on the enemy line. Their horses were slowing, the long gallop sapping their strength, but the momentum of the charge was with them and they powered towards the closest Austrian regiment.

  The men in white coats knew what they had to do. The line was already breaking up, the infantry rushing into the formation that would save them from the rampaging cavalry. Once the four walls of the square were formed, they would be safe. Each wall would be at least four ranks deep. Those in the front rank would squat down, the butts of their muskets ground into the earth so that the bayonets pointed up, ready to disembowel any enemy horse that should come close. The men standing in the ranks behind would thrust out their own bayonets, forming an impenetrable wall of steel that no cavalryman, no matter how brave or foolish, could hope to cut their way through. With their attack thwarted, the cavalry would be easy targets for the infantry’s muskets. They would be shot down as they milled around outside the square, their attack over the minute the infantrymen closed the last gap in the formation.

  The Austrian infantry knew it as well as he did. Already the first battalions were nearly fully re-formed. Jack could almost hear the howls of frustration coming from the French cavalrymen, their charge about to end in either death or the ignominy of a long gallop to the rear.

  But one Austrian battalion was too slow.

  Jack spotted them first. They were just to the left of the French cavalry’s line of attack. He could see no reason for their tardiness. Perhaps they were new recruits, not yet adept at the manoeuvre. Perhaps their officers had delayed, the order coming too late to give their men enough time to get into the new formation. Whatever the reason, they were now doomed.

  The French cavalry swerved to the left. Their pace seemed to increase as they saw a target for their charge. Their bugles blared, the sound urgent and demanding, and the line of riders hurtled towards the half-formed square, their horses spurred hard for every last vestige of speed.

  ‘The poor bastards.’ Jack could not hold back the verdict.

  ‘The stupid bastards.’ It was Kearney who had the last word.

  The cavalry hit
the enemy hard, driving deep into the half-formed ranks. It was bravely done. Some of the horsemen were unseated, the enemy fighting on even in the face of death, but most rode the white-coated infantrymen down, hacking at any man standing. Many Austrian soldiers tried to flee. Their attempt turned the massacre into sport, and the French cavalrymen competed to ride the runners down.

  The destruction of the enemy battalion was hard to watch. No foot soldier could look on easily as the men on horses butchered others who fought on their own two feet. Not one man in the Legion cheered as their comrades in the cavalry won their victory.

  Within minutes the fight was over. Hundreds of Austrian soldiers lay dead or dying, the ground smothered with bodies. The French cavalry were in disarray, the ordered ranks of the charge long since broken. Their horses were blown, their strength spent. It was time to retreat, to re-form the ranks and return to the flanks of the infantry columns.

  But the Frenchmen wanted more.

  ‘Come back!’ Jack was the first to shout. The cry was picked up as men throughout the Legion beckoned to the cavalry. It was to prove a futile gesture.

  As the French horsemen milled around the bodies of the men they had slain, the bugle called, summoning them back to the charge. The riders responded, surging away from the remains of the slaughtered battalion. They rode in a mob, any last vestiges of cohesion lost, cheering as they charged for a third time. They brandished swords that were bloodied to the hilt and kicked hard with their spurs, forcing their mounts

  on as they sought another victory, another target for their insatiable desire for glory.

  The closest Austrian battalions waited in fully formed squares. They had stood by, powerless to intervene, as their comrades were butchered. Now they were being given a chance for revenge.

  The French cavalry advanced gamely. Their horses laboured along, lathered in sweat and covered in blood. Yet still they managed to pick up the pace, the wild joy of the charge driving them on.