The Last Legionnaire

by Paul Fraser Collard

  The Austrians watched them come. Their ranks stood firm, the wall of bayonets presented, the men ready to fire.

  The Legion was still marching towards the enemy line. They were too far away to be anything other than spectators. Their ranks were silent as they watched the cavalry ride to their doom, every legionnaire certain of what was to come.

  The first Austrian square opened fire. First one wall, then another fired a volley. At close range, even the outmoded muskets were brutally effective. Each volley cut down swathes of riders.

  The cavalrymen rode on. They were committed to the charge now. Their momentum drove them past the first square and into the face of the next. Another volley roared out, cutting down the leading riders before they were even close to the wall of bayonets.

  The pace of the charge was slowing. Some horses fell as they stumbled over the bodies of the slain. Others baulked as their riders rode them at the squares, the animals refusing to obey no matter how hard they were spurred.

  The Austrian soldiers stood firm. Volley after volley seared into the broken ranks, killing men and horses alike. The French cavalry had won a great victory, yet now they died in droves. Those left standing tried to escape the vicious close-range fire that was decimating their numbers.

  At last the cavalry turned for the rear. The survivors of the charge streaked away from the slaughter, riding hard. The Austrians cheered as the French broke. The sound rippled from one square to the next, reaching the men in the French columns as they marched to fight on the same ground.

  The cheers continued even as the squares broke up, the Austrian infantry quick to return to the formation they had started in. The long three-man-deep line reappeared almost as if nothing had happened, the lost battalion forgotten as the ones on either side closed the gap in the line.

  The French cavalry had tried to win the battle by themselves. Many of their number had died for such foolishness. Now it was down to the infantry. The men marching to the beat of the drums did not hope for glory, nor did they seek to write their names in the history books.

  They marched to fight.

  The infantry pressed on, the drums driving them forward. Their officers understood the need for speed now that the foolishness of the cavalry had left their flanks exposed. Without their protection, the infantry had to press home the attack before the Austrian commanders saw an opportunity to send forward their own mounted troops.

  Deep in the heart of the Legion, Jack felt the pulsating rhythm of the drums resonate in his soul. The men around him advanced with a relentless purpose, the young drummers beating out the staccato rhythm of the march without pause.

  They were approaching the small village that Kearney had been unable to name. Ahead, the Austrian line was interspersed with lines of cannon standing wheel to wheel. Now these guns opened fire, the large French formations offering a fine target.

  Jack heard the roar of the first massed volley. He stared at the sky, picking out the pencil-thin lines that raced towards the Legion at breakneck speed.

  ‘God keep us.’

  There was time for the muttered prayer before the fast-moving roundshot hit. The iron balls tore into the ranks, ripping through bodies before slamming into the ground with ferocious violence and skipping back into the air, the collision with the earth doing nothing to stall their progress.

  The screaming began.

  Every roundshot had found a mark. Men were flung to the ground, their bodies torn by the solid shot. Huge gaps were gouged in the line, dozens falling to just the first volley.

  The Legion’s sergeants bellowed the orders that closed the ranks, the litany of battle that would continue unabated as the infantrymen walked into the face of the enemy fire. The dead and wounded were left behind, their fellows deaf to their cries.

  The second volley seared out across the plain. Jack could not help but flinch as the roundshot ripped into the Legion. Somehow it kept grinding its way forward. Another volley tore through them, followed by another. Jack saw men die just feet away from where he walked. A roundshot hit a sergeant five files to his right, the man’s head disappearing in a shower of blood and bone. The body tottered on, marching in time by itself for at least five or six paces before it fell, the legionnaire in the rank behind using his rifle to lever it to one side.

  Jack focused his gaze on the back of the man in front. His body was on fire, and every nerve screamed at him to run from the merciless bombardment. Somehow he controlled his mind, forcing himself to keep placing one foot after the other.

  He stayed close to Fleming as the ranks closed to fill the gaps torn in the line. Everything was happening in a rush now. They were still moving forward, but every other step seemed to be to the left as more and more gaps opened up.

  ‘Hungarians.’ Fleming bellowed the word at him.

  ‘What?’ Jack didn’t understand.

  ‘Those bastards are Hungarian.’ Fleming fired back the answer.

  Jack stared at the men to his front. He did not know if Fleming was right, but he could see that although they sported the same white coats as the other enemy troops he had seen, their trousers were tighter than those worn by the men he had fought on the slopes near San Cassiano. The Hungarians were a part of the great Austrian empire, and its soldiers had a reputation as vicious, merciless fighters who took no prisoners.

  As he stared, the Hungarian line seemed to take a quarter-turn to the right and raised their muskets. He was close enough to hear the enemy officers shouting their orders, the foreign words coming clearly enough even over the bellows of the French commanders.

  With a great roar, the Hungarians opened fire.

  Jack held back the cry that sprang to his lips. The air around him was filled with a violent storm, as if a thousand snapping, biting insects had been released. Men to his left and right screamed as they were hit. Some fell; others reeled away, the force of the impact knocking them backwards.

  The Legion was ordered to halt. Jack glanced to his left. Palmer and Fleming were still with him, as was Kearney. The legionnaire sergeant was hauling more men into position, plugging the gaps as the Legion prepared to return fire.

  ‘Ajustez la visée!’

  Jack could not see the men who gave the order to prepare to fire. But the legionnaires around him raised their weapons and it was easy to copy them. He pulled his rifle snugly into his shoulder. There was time to squint down the barrel, to line up a Hungarian face above the sights.

  ‘Feu!’

  Every man in the line fired instantly.

  Jack saw the white-coated ranks showered in a red mist. Dozens fell, the neatly formed ranks gutted by the legionnaires’ close-range volley. Then he looked down, the rifle already falling from his shoulder, his hand reaching for a fresh cartridge.

  The Hungarians fired again before he could get more than halfway through reloading. The power of the enemy volley was as nothing when compared to their first. Still dozens of Frenchmen were hit, their screams adding to the chaos. He paid them no heed, the air around him wonderfully still, and worked to reload with as much speed as he could muster.

  Then the Hungarian cannon opened fire once again. If their infantry’s first volley was dreadful, the cannon fire was hell unleashed. With the range closed, the gunners had switched to canister shells, metal cases packed full of musket balls that turned the cannons into glorified shotguns. The volley scythed through the French ranks, killing and maiming with wanton destruction. Men were torn apart, their lives ripped out of their bodies in an act of impossible violence.

  It was as if the line simply ceased to be. Groups of men were left standing, but in between, great swathes of empty space showed where each canister shell had been aimed.

  The legionnaires paused in their reloading and stared at one another, the shock of such destruction reflected in every expression. Veteran soldiers who had fought a dozen battles wept as they saw their precious regiment wiped out around them, the scale of the slaughter beyond comprehension.

 
Jack glanced at Fleming, checking that he was unharmed. The Englishman stared back, eyes wide, his mouth open in a silent scream of horror.

  The Legion stubbornly stood fast. Those men still alive pushed away the horror, then raised their rifles and fired at the enemy.

  More men in white coats fell, the heavy French bullets cutting them down all along the line. The legionnaires cheered then, goading the Austrians, throwing insults after their bullets. It was a fine display of courage, the battered, bleeding ranks roaring in defiance. The cheering intensified, men baying with anger and fear, the sound taking on an unearthly tone.

  Then the enemy guns fired a second volley of canister.

  Jack flinched. The clumps of French infantry were gutted, the last of their cohesion shattered. Many died, their bodies falling alongside those already shot down, the firing line now composed more of corpses than of living men.

  With a great cheer, the Hungarians charged.

  Jack saw the enemy’s faces as they were unleashed to the attack: twisted, sneering, teeth bared and lips pulled back. They ran hard, bayonets thrusting forward, their officers’ swords pointing at the remains of the French line. The air was filled with their battle cry, a dreadful banshee wail that grew with volume as they charged.

  The last legionnaires stood firm. There was no order to retreat. No thought of running. The men of the Legion would stand and fight.

  ‘Chargez!’ The command came when the Hungarians were no more than twenty yards away.

  Jack did not know who gave the order. As one, the remains of the Legion threw themselves forward. They did not care that the Hungarian line contained at least twice as many men as their own. They did not care that their flanks were exposed. They cared only for violence; for revenge.

  Jack bellowed as he ran forward. He released his fear and let the fury of battle fill his head. Nothing mattered. Not Fleming. Not Ballard. Not even his own life. He just wanted to kill.

  The two sides closed in a rush. Jack picked his target, his eyes flickering from the Hungarian’s bayonet to his face. There was time to look into the other man’s eyes and see fear. His first victim was young, little more than a boy, his pale cheeks darkened with a thin pelt of hair and his expression revealing his terror at finding himself in the front rank.

  The boy’s mouth opened as the two lines collided. It was still open when Jack battered his opponent’s musket to one side and thrust his bayonet into his throat.

  He felt nothing as he killed. It was too easy, the boy no match for the brutal skills he had honed on the battlefield. The Hungarian fell, hands clasped to the ruin of his throat, the blood already gushing from his mouth. Jack ignored him and drove forward, ramming his bloodied bayonet at a man in the second rank. Kearney fought at his side, the legionnaire sergeant killing with ruthless efficiency.

  Jack’s next blow was parried, his bayonet pushed wide. The second man he fought roared in triumph as he deflected the seventeen-inch blade. The roar was shut off as Jack slammed his rifle butt forward, using his momentum to deliver the blow with enough force to smash his target to the ground.

  ‘Come on!’ Jack screamed his wild challenge. He pulled his rifle back then thrust it forward, driving his bayonet into a man’s stomach. Then he turned to batter his elbow into a Hungarian’s throat, following the blow with the end of his rifle’s butt, which he drove into the man’s face.

  The fight was descending into chaos. Jack grunted as someone hammered his shoulder with a musket barrel. He turned, flailing his rifle around only to find the man who had struck him already dying with Kearney’s bayonet in his heart.

  A Hungarian thrust his bayonet at Jack’s side. The blade slipped past his hip, the steel barely an inch from his flesh. He counter-attacked, roaring in triumph as he punched his own blade through the man’s open mouth. The Hungarian dropped his musket, his hands clasping to the dreadful wound. Jack cut him down without mercy, driving his bayonet into his chest then kicking the body away to free the blade.

  He was given no time to aim another blow. A Hungarian came at him from the left, bayonet thrust at his chest. He twisted away, letting the bayonet slide past, only to nearly impale himself on another that came at him from the other side. The melee was swirling all around him now. The outnumbered legionnaires were fighting hard, but they were being cut down in droves. Jack could only defend, parrying blade after blade. Kearney fought at his side, the two men fighting to stay alive.

  The Legion sergeant staggered as a rifle butt caught him on the thigh. He blundered into Jack, pushing him forward. A bayonet came for him. It sliced through his upper arm, the sharp steel cutting through his uniform jacket with ease. He jerked away, ducking under a swinging musket but losing his balance in the process.

  He fell, landing awkwardly on his right side, his rifle trapped beneath his body. A wild-eyed Hungarian punched his bayonet down, seeking to kill him as he scrabbled on the ground. Before the blow could land, Jack kicked out and caught the man’s knee. It was a cruel blow, and the man shrieked as his limb buckled. He tumbled forward and Jack reached up, grabbing him by the throat, pulling him downwards.

  The Hungarian sprawled on top of him. Jack kept his fingers locked around the man’s throat, even as his cheek pressed against his foe’s face, desperate gasps for breath filling his mouth. He rolled his enemy over, fingers still digging into the soft flesh under the man’s chin. As soon as his weight was on top, he lifted the Hungarian towards him then smashed him violently back into the ground, all the while throttling him with every ounce of strength he possessed. The Hungarian died quickly, his eyes staring up in accusation even as his last breath left his body.

  Another rifle slammed into Jack’s back, throwing him forward over his victim’s body. As he rolled on to his side, there was time to see the man who had struck him preparing to lunge down, to see the bloodied bayonet that was about to kill him.

  The blow never came. The tip of another bayonet erupted from the man’s neck, the enemy soldier killed before he could plunge his own blade into Jack’s gut.

  ‘Get up, you fool!’ Kearney bellowed.

  Jack did not need to be told twice. He grabbed his fallen rifle and lumbered to his feet. The moment he found his balance, he killed a Hungarian soldier, striking him down just before the man thrust at Kearney from behind.

  He looked for other legionnaires. The fighting blocked much of his view, but he could see their ranks were dreadfully depleted. Even as he tallied their numbers, the first broke and ran. It was the final confirmation he needed.

  ‘Run!’ he bellowed into Kearney’s ear. He did not wait to see if the command was heard. Instead he grabbed the legionnaire sergeant’s arm and pulled him backwards.

  A Hungarian howled in frustration as Jack hauled Kearney out of reach. The howl turned into a shriek of horror as Jack drove his bayonet into the man’s groin.

  ‘Go! Go!’ Jack ripped his blade out of his victim’s flesh and smashed the rifle’s butt into another Hungarian’s bayonet, knocking it to one side. Then he was running, legs pounding into the ground, heart hammering in his chest.

  Kearney came with him. The two men ran hard. Other legionnaires followed, the remnants of the Legion finally giving way to the enemy’s superior numbers. They fled the melee, many dying as the frustrated Hungarians cut them down the moment they turned their backs.

  Jack tried to look around him as he ran, searching the chaos for a sight of either Palmer of Fleming. He saw neither.

  The other French battalions were retreating, mostly in good order, their ranks still formed. The Hungarians who had beaten the Legion did not give chase. The fight had been short and sharp, and those who had survived had no appetite to run after the broken French regiment. Jack saw the enemy soldiers checking the bodies on the ground. Any wounded legionnaire they discovered was greeted with a cheer before a bayonet was rammed down, the Frenchmen dispatched without a qualm.

  Jack stumbled, his tired legs weak.

  ‘Run.’ Kearney grabb
ed his shoulder, pulling him on. The instruction came in between gasps for breath.

  Jack did not look back again. ‘Where the hell are they?’ He found the breath to shout the question at Kearney even as they ran.

  He was roundly ignored. Kearney was pulling away. Jack was struggling. The humid air rasped in his throat. His chest felt as if an iron band had been pulled tight across his ribcage. It took all his willpower to stay on his feet.

  To his relief, Kearney slowed. As he eased up, his legs almost gave way.

  ‘Crap.’ The sergeant twisted as he spat out the single world. He grabbed at Jack, taking tight hold of his shoulder.

  Jack’s relief at the slower pace did not last. His breath echoed in his ears, and his heart thumped as if it was about to burst, but still he heard the ominous drumming on the ground that he recognised in an instant.

  ‘Fuck.’ He turned and looked over his shoulder. The Austrian cavalry were thundering past their Hungarian allies. Hundreds of riders had been unleashed to the slaughter, the broken ranks of the Legion the kind of target every cavalryman dreamt of. In open ground, the legionnaires would not stand a chance.

  ‘This way!’ Kearney pulled at him. ‘Come on!’

  Jack needed no urging. The pair ran, changing direction. He trusted Kearney, sensing that the sergeant had spotted something that might offer them a chance of survival. He hoped he was right. He had not seen any cover of any sort. On the plain, the scattered infantry would be easy pickings for the rampaging Austrian cavalry.

  Around them the legionnaires fled in every direction, each man making his own bid for survival. He saw some banding together, a rough-and-ready square drawing in some of the survivors. But it was too far away for him to consider running to join it. He tried and failed to see if Palmer or Fleming had made it to the group’s relative safety. All he saw was the Austrian cavalry increasing their speed, the riders gouging back their spurs as they urged their horses into the charge. It was time to forget any notion of looking for the two men. They would have to fend for themselves.