The sound of the Austrian horses was getting louder. Jack heard the first screams as the slowest legionnaires on the far left flank of the attack were cut down without mercy.
Kearney had kept hold of his arm. They ran together, both blowing hard. The screams got closer. Legionnaires who had run at their side were being slain, their wrong choice of direction costing them their lives.
Jack searched the ground ahead, trying to spot something that would give them shelter. He saw nothing but open ground, a great field of trampled rye stretching away in every direction.
Cheers came from behind them. Austrian voices bellowed as they killed. The cheers turned to hoots of glee as some spotted the pair of blue-coated legionnaires still trying to escape.
‘Where the hell are we going?’ Jack choked on the words. He clasped at the arm that was grasping his own. He felt Kearney falter, his strength fading.
Hooves drummed on the ground. He could not look back to see who would be the one to kill him. The noise was relentless, the drumming coming at pace. It was all he could hear, his ears filled with the sound of oncoming death.
‘There!’ Kearney gasped out the single word. His gait had become uneven, and Jack had to pull hard to keep him moving.
Again he searched the ground ahead. Finally he spotted what Kearney had found. A drainage ditch had been dug along one edge of the field. It was not deep, perhaps just three or four feet, but it was all they had.
‘Come on then!’ He hauled on Kearney’s arm. The man was heavy and was slowing fast. Together they stumbled on, neither able to look back at the Austrian cavalrymen spurring after them.
‘Get down!’ Jack roared the order, then dived forward.
They fell together, hitting the ground hard. Momentum tumbled them into the ditch, their bodies tangled together. Jack felt the air rush from his straining lungs, then Kearney’s elbow caught him just above the ear, knocking him half senseless.
The fall saved them. He had pulled them down moments before the Austrian cavalrymen would have reached them. Instead of cutting at the two fugitives, the pair of riders had to force their horses to jump the ditch. Even as Jack and Kearney were still rolling to its bottom, the horses’ hooves were passing by just a matter of feet above their heads.
Palmer punched his bayonet into a white-coated soldier’s chest, twisting the steel hard lest it be trapped in his victim’s flesh. Another man, an officer, came at him almost instantly, sword lunging towards his head. He parried the blow, ignoring the splinter of wood cut from the rifle’s barrel that drew blood as it seared across his cheek. The Austrian officer died a moment later with Palmer’s bayonet in his heart, his shriek of horror lost in the bellows and grunts of men fighting for their lives.
Fleming still fought at his side. He had lost his kepi, and his face was streaked with blood from where a bayonet had cut through the soft flesh of his cheek. Palmer did all he could to protect the younger man, but in the swirling hand-to-hand combat he could only do so much, and Fleming was fighting hard just to stay alive.
Palmer parried another attack, then another. He wanted to spit, the stench of blood and shit sticking in his throat. All he could do was batter away the bayonets that came at them, the enemy swarming around the handful of legionnaires that still stood.
The first men began to run. He saw them go, the remains of the line breaking up fast. He turned, swatting aside another steel blade aimed at his guts, and looked for his comrades.
He saw Jack almost immediately. His fellow impostor was fighting hard, but the Hungarians were pressing all around him. Even as he watched, Jack went down, his body swallowed up by the sea of white uniforms.
Palmer had seen enough. He turned his attention back to the melee, snarling with anger as a bayonet reached for his throat. He ducked, letting the weapon come past, before stamping forward and driving his own blade into his attacker’s heart.
Another Hungarian came at him, his bayonet held low. Palmer gave him no time to use it. He sidestepped the inevitable thrust, smashing the man to the ground with his rifle’s butt. The man fell, yet dozens more immediately pressed forward, the tide of white-coated soldiers relentless and seemingly without end. He thrust his bayonet forward repeatedly, keeping the enemy at bay a moment longer. The Hungarians nearest to him backed away, giving him time to turn once more.
‘Come on, old son.’ Palmer had fought in enough battles to know when one was lost. He reached forward to grab Fleming by the collar, hauling him away.
Fleming needed little urging. He was facing two Hungarian bayonets, both already bloodied to the hilt. They came for him as Palmer pulled him backwards, thwarted as their target was dragged away.
The two men turned and ran. They paid no attention to the howls of frustration as they escaped. Instead they put their heads down and pumped their arms, finding the strength to sprint away. They ran with a few dozen other legionnaires, survivors of the bitter fight clinging together. Together they pounded back over the ground they had advanced across, their path taking them past the bodies of the men struck down by the enemy cannon fire.
‘Horses!’ Fleming heard the Austrian cavalry first and shouted the warning.
Palmer glanced over his shoulder. He saw the threat as the Austrian cavalry came cantering around the side of the Hungarian line and slowed his pace, head twisting from side to side as he assessed their options. He saw no place to hide.
‘On me!’ He bellowed the order, not knowing if anyone would understand, let alone obey. He grabbed at Fleming, forcing the younger man to his side. ‘Tell them!’
For a moment, Fleming stared at him. Then he started shouting in loud, rapid French, summoning the running legionnaires to join them.
The retreating French soldiers understood. These were no raw recruits. Most had fought before, and they knew there was only one way to survive against marauding enemy cavalry. Dozens of battered legionnaires formed around Palmer. This was no organised square, just a huddle of tired, bloodied men who did not know when they had lost.
‘Ici!’ Fleming bellowed the order, summoning more men from the rout. Some heeded him, changing course to join the group who stood in a rough circle, bayonets held outwards. Others simply ran on, unwilling to stay on the field of battle a moment longer.
Palmer concentrated on loading his rifle. Others followed his lead, the men skinning their knuckles on their bloodied bayonets. He lifted the weapon the moment it was loaded. The Austrian cavalry were close now. Their swords rose and fell, the slowest legionnaires cut down as they tried to evade the men on horseback.
‘Here they come!’ he sang out in warning. Men still halfway through reloading stopped and presented their bayonets, holding them out to force the enemy riders away.
Just over fifty men stood with Fleming and Palmer. Their square bore little comparison to the well-formed ones that had defeated the French cavalry. But it would have to do.
Palmer squinted down his barrel, aiming at one of the leading Austrian cavalrymen. He held himself still, then pulled the trigger. His target’s head snapped backwards, the rifle bullet finding its mark in the centre of his face.
‘Got the bugger,’ Palmer hissed as he saw the horseman fall. There was no time for him to say anything else.
The first Austrians pressed close. A handful of other legionnaires fired, emptying some of the saddles nearest to the square. It was enough to remind the Austrians that not every man was an easy target. Many of the cavalrymen swerved away, their horses shying as the ragged square opened fire. But not all.
One officer rode close before hauling hard on the reins to bring his mount to a halt. His arm straightened as he aimed a revolver at the men huddled behind the wall of bayonets. He roared once in anger, then began to fire.
At such close range, the revolver was an effective weapon. The first bullet hit a legionnaire just to Palmer’s left in the very centre of his chest. The Frenchman crumpled, his cry of anguish lost in the noise of the fight. The second and third bullets bot
h hit the man standing next to the one already shot. He fell backwards, his arms windmilling in the air as the heavy bullets cut him down. Two men had been killed. A gap had been opened in the front of the square.
The Austrian officer saw the opening his revolver had created. He spurred his horse hard, throwing the animal at the gap. His shout of victory was loud enough to be heard by every man in the ragged formation, the cry summoning more cavalrymen to the fight.
Palmer saw the danger. He knew what would happen if the Austrian cavalry broke in. He stepped into the gap, hefting his rifle as he placed himself directly in the Austrian cavalry officer’s path.
‘Fuck off!’ He bellowed the curse as he swung his rifle. He made no attempt to hit the rider. Instead he smashed the rifle’s butt into the horse’s mouth. The contact was brutal. The horse reared, its mouth gushing with blood, its terrified scream horribly loud. As its front legs lifted from the ground, a legionnaire rammed his bayonet into the animal’s chest, driving the steel deep. The officer was thrown, his body hitting the ground an instant before the wounded beast turned and galloped away.
Palmer gave the Austrian no time to stand. He stepped forward and drove his bayonet into the man’s heart, ramming it down hard before tearing the steel away.
The legionnaires cheered then. They roared their defiance, daring the Austrians to come against them. A few more had loaded their rifles. Now they fired, knocking men from their saddles or killing the horses that came close. The fire was ragged, but it was effective, and the Austrians nearest the square pulled away, looking for easier targets .
‘Where’s Jack?’ Fleming had to press his lips to Palmer’s ear to make himself heard. ‘We need to find him.’
‘No.’ Palmer was having none it.
‘We can’t just leave him.’
‘Yes we fucking can,’ Palmer shouted back. ‘I saw him go down. He’s dead or dying. Either way he’s no use to us now.’
Fleming shook his head. ‘I’m not leaving him.’
‘Yes you fucking are.’ Palmer growled the words then slammed his rifle butt into the side of Fleming’s head. He had held back some of his strength, but the blow was still powerful enough to knock the young man from his feet. He fell to the ground with all the grace of a sack of horseshit.
Palmer turned on his heel, holding out his bayonet, wary of any legionnaire who wanted to intervene. A few looked at him, but none stepped forward to come to Fleming’s aid. Many had been present to hear Kearney make his promise that Fleming could leave once the battle was done. None would deny him that reward now.
Seeing that no one would stop him, Palmer left Fleming on the ground. An Austrian cavalryman’s horse was nearby, standing loyally by its master’s corpse. Palmer walked towards it slowly, cooing at the animal, the soft sounds soothing and calm. He stepped past the body, barely glancing at the ruined face that had taken a Minié bullet right through its centre.
The horse’s ears twitched and it shied away. But it was well trained, and it stayed in place, waiting dutifully for its next command. Palmer took its reins easily enough, then led it back to where the square was slowly breaking up, the exhausted legionnaires slumping to the ground, too tired to even start picking through the bodies of the enemy for their valuables. It took little time to haul Fleming’s unconscious body across the saddle.
Finally Palmer had his man.
Jack scrabbled in the thin trickle of water that lay in the bottom of the ditch. Everything hurt, but he knew he could not give in. He found his footing, then pushed himself up, his muddied rifle in his hand.
‘Get up!’ he shouted at Kearney. The legionnaire sergeant was on all fours, gasping for breath. ‘Get up, for God’s sake.’
There was no time to see if he would obey. The two Austrian cavalrymen were now hauling hard on their reins. In seconds they would be spurring back towards the ditch. Jack braced his legs. He had no idea how to fight two men on horseback whilst standing ankle deep in mud. He and Kearney would die like rats trapped in a bucket.
He kept his eyes on the enemy horsemen even as he sensed the sergeant struggling to his feet. He could taste fear. It lingered on his tongue, bitter and acrid.
Kearney staggered upright, then pushed one leg forward so he could brace it on the front bank of the ditch. He raised his rifle, the butt pulled snugly into his shoulder.
‘You loaded?’ He spoke out of the side of his mouth as he squinted down the barrel.
‘No.’ Jack spat out the word.
‘Then you really are a useless damn lobster.’ Kearney’s lip curled into a sneer, then stilled as he held his breath.
The sharp retort of the rifle firing echoed around them.
The Austrian cavalrymen were no more than twenty yards away. Kearney’s bullet hit the leading man in the face. Jack saw the spurt of blood erupt from the back of his head as it smashed through his skull. The Austrian’s horse was at full speed when he was hit. It tripped, the sudden change of weight on its back throwing it out of stride, and hit the ground hard. The bones of both rider and horse snapped like twigs, the animal’s sudden scream of terror cut off as the confused jumble of man and beast came to a shuddering halt ten yards from the ditch.
The second rider spurred hard, his pace unaltered by the death of his comrade. His sword lowered, the blade held steady even as his horse thundered towards the two stubborn legionnaires.
‘Come on!’ Jack screamed his futile challenge. He would not go down without a fight. The Austrian cavalryman was charging towards him at full speed. The desire to run was overpowering. Fear surged through him, every fibre of his being trembling. But he planted his feet, bracing his rifle with the bayonet held out. He would not run.
The distance closed with terrifying speed. There was no time to think. Jack sensed Kearney at his side, the American presenting his own bayonet-tipped rifle outwards. They stood shoulder to shoulder, teeth bared in defiance, neither flinching from the inevitable collision.
Then the Austrian swerved.
It was well done. One moment the rider was thundering towards them, the next he kicked hard and twisted his mount to one side. He flashed past them, the horse stretching its legs as it leaped the ditch for a second time.
‘Shit.’ Jack turned on the spot, his eyes fixed on the enemy cavalryman. ‘Come on, you bastard,’ he hissed as he rammed his boot hard into the opposite side of the ditch, preparing to stand against the next charge. ‘For fuck’s sake turn around, you dolt.’ He snapped the order at Kearney, who was still facing the other way.
The American did not move.
‘Kearney!’ Jack shouted angrily. He could not hope to stand alone. He tore his eyes away from the Austrian rider for long enough to berate the American for being so slow. ‘For God’s sake . . .’ The words died on his lips.
Kearney dropped his rifle, then fell to his knees, his hands clasped to his neck, fingers scrabbling over the huge gash that had been ripped in its side. The Austrian’s sword had cut him without mercy, the blow coming in the span of a single heartbeat as the rider galloped past.
For one dreadful second Kearney looked back at Jack, his eyes wide. Then he fell forward, turning so that he landed on his back. He lay in the dust, his body convulsing, hands clawing at the dreadful wound.
Jack’s soul froze, every emotion scoured from his being.
Then he ran.
His boots slipped as he scrambled free of the ditch, then he was up and running.
Ahead of him, the Austrian cavalryman was still turning his mount around. The beast was tiring, and its rider had to work it hard to get it facing towards the lone soldier he had left in the ditch.
Jack felt nothing as he ran. There was no fear. No rage or anger. He felt numb, empty, his soul barren.
The Austrian saw him coming. He kicked his horse hard, forcing it back into motion. It lurched forward, its great muscles straining as it tried to increase speed.
Jack just ran, legs pumping hard, mouth open in a silent war cry.
He did not hesitate. He picked his spot even as he ran at full speed. When the horse came at him, he was ready. He dodged to one side, then rammed his bayonet forward with every last ounce of strength he possessed. It was a cruel blow, driven by grief, and it pierced the horse in the neck, the steel driven deep. Jack pushed his weight behind it, not caring that the bayonet would be stuck fast.
The horse screamed. It was a dreadful, feral sound, the stricken beast driven mad by the sudden agony. It staggered on, its momentum driving it forward before it fell, blood pumping from the horrific gouge in its flesh. Its rider was thrown forward, all balance lost.
Jack let his rifle go and threw himself at the Austrian. His hands clawed at the man’s leg, blackened fingernails tearing at his breeches. The rider stood no chance. Jack tumbled him from the saddle and threw himself on top of him. He used his weight to pin him in place, hands locking tight around the Austrian’s throat. He kept them there even as the man jackknifed underneath him, his body convulsing as he strained to get free.
Jack leaned forward, fingers digging deep into the soft flesh of the man’s throat. Still the Austrian struggled, even as Jack throttled the life out of him, his fists battering at Jack’s head, every blow weaker than the one before.
It took him a long time to die.
‘Kearney?’ Jack asked the question gently, as if waking the American from sleep. He squatted down, then reached forward, the touch of his bloodstained finger as gentle as he could make it. Kearney’s eyes popped open.
‘Take it easy.’ Jack breathed the words. He took hold of Kearney’s hands, which were locked tight around his neck. ‘Let me see.’
Slowly and carefully he eased the sergeant’s hands to one side. The wound was oozing blood. Thick strands of gristle were clearly visible amidst the gore. The Austrian’s sword had cut deep.
The Last Legionnaire Page 30