The Cerberus Rebellion (A Griffins & Gunpowder Novel)

by Joshua Johnson

  Hadrian, at the center of his column, saw the edge of the enemy line ahead of him and saw that they had not wheeled to protect their flank. As he rode past the last of the enemy companies, he raised his pistol and turned back toward the enemy. The troops to his right wheeled with him; those to his left turned to face the ragged end of the loyalist line.

  Hadrian raised his pistol to find a new target, but as he pulled back the revolver’s hammer, a bullet crashed through his horse’s neck, sending the beast tumbling and throwing him from his saddle. He landed hard and blinding pain raced through his shoulder and upper arm. Riders charged past, slashing at the infantry with sabres. Hadrian tried to pull his own sword loose of its scabbard, but the pain in his arm assaulted his brain with every movement.

  A loyalist soldier charged toward him, a bayonet fixed on his musket. Hadrian drew the pistol from his right hip with his left hand, pulled back the hammer, aimed, and squeezed the trigger. He was not as proficient with his left hand, but he had practiced shooting with both hands for long enough that he could get the job done. Especially at this absurdly short range. The man fell forward, motionless, but the shot had attracted the attention of others. Four more times Hadrian pulled the hammer back on his pistol and unleashed a solid lead shot into an Ansgari soldier.

  Huddling behind his horse’s corpse as best he could, he held the pistol in his lap. The sounds of battle surrounded him: shouted commands from officers, the thunder of hooves, and the crackle of gunfire.

  Hadrian flipped open the chamber door at the back of his revolver. An empty brass cartridge fell to the ground; he replaced it. An empty chamber was next, followed by four more bullets. He brought the hammer down on the empty chamber and turned to look over his steed’s lifeless body. Pain arced through his shoulder as he leaned on his right side and he gasped in pain as he tried to push off of the ground.

  The loyalists were standing their ground, but they were paying for it dearly. Their organization had been shattered and Hadrian’s riders were moving freely between platoons and companies, bringing their sabres down in vicious arcs that left men with gashes from shoulder to hip. But Hadrian’s troops were falling too. Their carbines and revolvers empty, the riders had only their swords. The loyalists were pouring fire into his troops as quickly as they could reload.

  Hadrian brought his revolver up with his left hand and took aim at a nearby loyalist.

  The loyalist stood less than forty feet away, frantically reloading his rifle while the riders wheeled away from him to form up and charge again. The man pulled back the hammer to full and brought the weapon to his shoulder.

  Hadrian’s bullet slammed through the side of his head before he could squeeze the trigger.

  Hadrian soon found himself in a cluster of western soldiers. Some had been thrown from dying horses, others had been dragged from their mounts by loyalist soldiers. Many were unharmed, but a few had blood stained jackets or trousers and had twisted bandages around their appendages.

  They formed a small circle on the battlefield, protecting the wounded and moving slowly to absorb more stragglers. The crackle of carbine fire was constant and Hadrian’s head was starting to hurt.

  “Milord!” a voice shouted from behind. Hadrian turned to see one of his captains pulling a horse toward him.

  “Thank you,” Hadrian said. He holstered his revolver, grabbed the saddle’s pommel with his left hand and pulled himself up. A company of riders swarmed past the cluster of dismounted troops and took up the battle for them. “See that these men are taken care of.”

  “Yes, milord!” the captain said with a crisp salute.

  Hadrian’s forces had ridden down two companies of loyalist forces before the enemy line began to turn to counter their flanking attack. Three companies of reserves were rushing forward to form a wall against the charge. They were well-armed and moved as a well-trained, cohesive unit. The element of surprise was gone; Hadrian needed to reorganize before another attack.

  “Sound recall,” Hadrian told the man next to him.

  The soldier pulled the bugle over his shoulder, pressed it to his lips and sounded recall. The melody was echoed by others and the charging westerners reined up their horses and turned back over the ground they had just ridden. They followed Hadrian and his entourage of banner-men and officers to a safe distance; he gathered his troops on the far side of a small hill.

  “Tell your men to reload and gather ammunition as needed,” Hadrian said to his remaining officers.

  He rode to the top of the small hill and brought his looking glass to his eye. Raedan’s flag was perched atop one of the hills that had been occupied by loyalist artillery. His troops had dismounted and were turning the field guns on the back side of the loyalist forces. Tristan’s forces had scattered. Some were riding back to camp, others were riding to join Hadrian, and the few that remained were riding to join the main Western infantry battle.

  “Signal man!” Hadrian yelled. A man rode to his side, two red flags and two white flags strapped to his saddle. “Request a rider from Raedan’s force. I want to know his disposition.”

  “Yes, milord,” the corporal said and pulled his flags from their strap.

  “How many have we lost?” Hadrian asked when he had rejoined his officers.

  “Six thousand riders,” Lord Alvin Mandrake reported. He wore White Ridge’s blue with white stripes. “Either dead or wounded.”

  “And our ammunition situation?”

  “Still good, my lord,” Lord Thomas Regent announced. He was one of Raedan’s lesser lords, raised up from a landed knight to take the place of a lord that had sided with the Frantans when Hadrian and Raedan had claimed Broken Plains. “Most riders have sixty or seventy bullets left.”

  “Good,” Hadrian said with a nod. “It appears that not all of the enemy commanders are incompetent. Those three companies that rushed from their reserve to block our charge looked as if they were well-trained. It appears that my brother has secured an artillery battery but I’m certain that the enemy will make it a point to retake that as soon as possible.”

  “Having field artillery on their back is probably not a comfortable feeling,” Lord Regent said with a rare smile.

  “I would imagine not,” Hadrian agreed. “We have a choice: we can ride to join Raedan and secure the artillery, and perhaps try to take another battery; or we can mount an attack on the new loyalist flank.”

  “Moving to join your brother’s force would open up our infantry’s flank,” Alvin pointed out.

  “Why can’t we do both?” Thomas asked. “Send half of our force to reinforce Raedan’s position and leave the other half here to make sure the loyalists don’t try to sweep our flank.”

  “We’re down to half of our original strength,” Hadrian noted. “Splitting our force has the potential to do each job half as well, and that might not be enough.”

  “We don’t know how many men your brother lost in his attack,” Thomas said. “And we have counted at least five hundred riders that have joined us from Tristan’s detachment.”

  “I requested a rider from my brother, so we will know soon how his attack on the battery fared. If he didn’t lose too many men, splitting our force may work. As for Tristan, his force is shattered; we can’t trust him or his troops to hold their ground at this point.”

  “Has anyone seen Lord Burkes?” Alvin asked.

  “No, none of the riders that have joined us were near His Lordship when the battle was joined,” Thomas announced.

  “He’s on his own for now,” Hadrian said firmly. “Lord Regent, prepare your troops to dismount and establish a defensive position focused on this ridge. And have a rider prepare to take our disposition back to Duke Arndell. Lord Mandrake, if we join my brother, you and I will be taking your contingent. If we remain here, they will be the mounted aspect of our defense.”

  “Yes, my lord,” the two lesser lords answered in unison.

  Hadrian returned to the small rise and looked out over the battle
field. Below, both in front of and behind Hadrian’s troops, the dead and dying were scattered across the battlefield. A few prisoners had been taken unharmed, but most of the loyalist troops had been cut down by carbine or pistol. The three companies of reserves that had stopped his advance were still in position, their long lines perfectly straight and ready for an attack.

  The main loyalist line, as much of it Hadrian could see through the impossibly thick cloud of gray powder smoke, was ragged but intact. The western lines had stopped several hundred yards in front of the loyalists, taking refuge behind low hills and in a small grove of trees. Bodies covered the field between the main force of Western troops and their reserves, and medical companies were working to remove those who could possibly be saved.

  The artillery on both sides continued to throw cannonballs at their enemies but most of the infantry had adjusted to the cannons and were safely out of range of enemy fire or hidden by hills. The battery that Raedan had taken had finally started firing, but only four of the six cannons seemed to be in working order. Raedan was targeting the center of the enemy line and every cannonball was finding its mark.

  Duke Croutcher’s left reserve looked like it had sent at least two of its four brigades forward to fill holes in the front lines. The right reserve looked unmoved. The enemy lines, while still intact, were ragged and thin in many places. Their reserves were exhausted and their makeshift camp billowed smoke from a dozen fires.

  A private galloped up the small hill from the north. He carried a messenger’s satchel and the sigil of the Broken Plains on his chest. His horse slid to a halt as the rider reined up and saluted.

  “Milord, messages from Lord Clyve,” the messenger announced. He pulled a folded letter out of his satchel and handed it to Hadrian.

  “Thank you. Go and find some water for your horse. I may have dispatches for you to return to my brother,” Hadrian said as he opened the message.

  Lost five hundred in taking the hill, the message read. Two cannons spiked, four still functional. Enemy medical and supply companies are retreating to the river. Unable to pursue and hold the hill. Enemy reserves are depleted, I have fired several incendiary shells into the enemy camp and it is burning. Advise bring up as many troops as possible to cut off retreat.

  Hadrian closed the message, tucked it into his pocket and trotted down the hill.

  “Get me a quill and paper!” he shouted to a messenger.

  Enemy is routed, medical and supply wagons retreating to the river. Five thousand troops hold enemy battery, moving another three thousand to support and harass enemy retreat. Suggest move infantry to cut off enemy retreat. Hadrian Clyve.

  He folded the letter, dabbed wax on the edge, and pressed his seal.

  “Take this to Duke Arndell’s command post immediately,” he told the messenger. The man saluted and galloped back toward camp. “We’re splitting our force and moving to support Raedan.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Lord Regent nodded and turned to inform his commanders.

  “My men are ready,” Lord Mandrake announced.

  “Good,” Hadrian said. “Sound formation.”

  The nearest bugler blew a series of loud, crisp notes and the three thousand men under Mandrake’s command formed into tight columns.

  Hadrian rode to the front of the assembly with Lord Mandrake on his heels and started the gallop toward Raedan’s position.

  Chapter 15 - Raedan

  Raedan slammed the ramrod down the barrel of the rifled musket, twisted, and withdrew it. It scraped along the tube as he returned the ramrod to its place. He hefted the rifle to his shoulder, pulled the hammer to half-cock and placed a percussion over the nipple. The crackle of musket fire and bark of carbine fire filled the air, punctuated by the thunder of cannon.

  Captains walked up and down the line, directing fire and shouting encouragement to their companies. Sergeants shouted gruff commands and goaded their men to move faster.

  Raedan had captured the hill rather easily: his advance had been shielded by a low gully. They had ridden up the low slope behind the artillery battery and overwhelmed the understrength company assigned to defend the cannons.

  Taking the position, it seemed, had been the easy part. Where the hills dropped in steep slopes toward the battle, the side towards the loyalist camps were more easily approached. After the initial shock of losing the hill had worn off, the loyalist reserves had mounted attack after attack on Raedan's position.

  A handful of his men had taken up the rifled muskets collected from dead soldiers or left behind by fleeing loyalists, but the majority of his command were still using their revolving carbines. The rapid-fire of the carbines was heavily balanced by their significantly shorter range.

  The charging loyalists had learned their lesson after two pushes and had taken up position at the bottom of the low slope. His troops had taken shelter behind artillery limbers and caissons where possible, but most of them had been forced to brave the enemy fire or take shelter on the western side of the hill where the horses were being held.

  The cannons that he had captured, four of the six that had been assigned to the battery, had finally been turned and were spewing fire and smoke. He had ordered two of them to fire on the enemy encampment, throwing ten-pound incendiary shells into the tightly packed tent city. Another of the guns was turned on the nearest loyalist battery, explosive rounds falling among the ammunition caissons and gun crews. The last of the cannons was firing down the hill, loaded with canister shot to dissuade the loyalists from continuing their press.

  Raedan had hoped to take the battery entirely intact, but even with the element of surprise on his side he had been unable to prevent the spiking of two of the ten-pound cannons. He had, himself, prevented the spiking of a third gun by riding down the man that was about to drive the nail into the primer hole.

  “Sir!” One of Raedan's captains rushed over the crown of the hill and took shelter behind the limber that Raedan was using for cover.

  Raedan ignored the man as he sought a target downhill. A lieutenant stood bravely, but stupidly, urging his men forward with a revolver in one hand and a sword in the other. Raedan, a trained marksman from the youngest possible age, had no trouble burying his round in the man's chest. The officer fell and others around him cowered behind any cover that they could find.

  “Sir! Your brother rides this way,” the captain said as Raedan began reloading the musket. “It appears to be two full regiments.”

  “Very well,” Raedan said. He bit down on the cartridge tab and ripped the paper sleeve open. The powder and round were poured into the barrel and he drew the ramrod again. “Pass the order to Major Maloy to mount his men and prepare to charge the enemy.”

  “Yes, sir!” The captain saluted, glanced down the hill to judge the level of danger and then dashed back toward the cannons and the majority of the officers.

  His subordinates had urged him to remain at the crown of the hill, safely away from the thickest fighting and in proper position to observe the battle. Once the guns had been ordered, however, there would be little that he would be needed for, so he had joined the common soldiers. He was, after all, likely the best marksman in the whole brigade.

  Thick clouds of gray smoke obscured the battlefield by the time that Hadrian rode up the slope to join his brother. The loyalists were, for the time being, content to hide in the trenches that surrounded their camp, preventing Raedan's troops from rampaging through the tents and harassing the fleeing caravans of medical and supply wagons.

  Raedan met his brother behind the cannons as the guns continued to rain shot and shell down on the loyalists below. The lesser lords Alvin Mandrake and Thomas Regent rode with Hadrian and the commanders of Raedan's regiments joined them.

  “Well done, Raedan,” Hadrian said as he swung down from his saddle. “What is the situation?”

  “A regiment of infantry has taken up in the trenches at the bottom of the hill. Without rifles to drive them out, we've been throwing canis
ter shot to try to dislodge them.” Raedan took off his slouch hat and dragged a cotton sleeve across his brow. “The medical and supply trains are fleeing along the road toward Fort Hart. They seem to be lightly protected.”

  “I've brought three thousand riders with me,” Hadrian said. “Who commands your regiments?”

  “Majors Maloy and Dallinger. Maloy's regiment took the fewest casualties. I've ordered him to mount up.”

  “Very good. Major Dallinger will remain here to hold the hill and the guns; you will join me in rushing the enemy lines and pursuing the enemy supply trains.”

  Victor Dallinger bowed. “As you command.”

  “Bring the gun that has been firing on the enemy infantry to bear on the nearest battery. Keep them occupied so they don't try to rake us with canister when we charge,” Raedan ordered.

  He waved to a steward and the boy brought his horse. The massive black beast was calm, despite the thundering of artillery. He passed the rifled musket, haversack and pouch of percussion caps to the steward and climbed into the saddle. Raedan checked his revolvers and carbine to ensure that they were loaded and that he had plenty of rounds to continue.

  The Fourth Northern Cavalry Regiment trotted over the peak of the hill and Hadrian nodded in satisfaction.

  “Trumpter, sound the charge!” Hadrian called, and the boy pressed the brass instrument to his lips.

  The nearly six thousand riders galloped past the thin line of pickets near the top of the hill and into the open space between the lines. The thunder of their hooves and the sharp blast of trumpets caught the attention of the loyalists. A few of the men in the trenches took aim and fired on the charging cavalry; Raedan heard the distinctive whine of a bullet zip past his head.