by A L Berridge
Jacques de Roland
We clawed our way up to the plateau between Chaumont and Noyers and there they were on the higher ground with the forest at their back. There was no surprise, no ambush, just us scurrying into position at one end of the plain and them lined up at the other actually waiting.
I concentrated on taking my place in the cavalry right wing. I was a bit flustered, actually, I couldn’t think what I was doing. My cuirass was digging in under my armpits, I’d never worn one before and wished I wasn’t now, hardly anyone else in the light cavalry had bothered. I got my hand to my sword, but Charlot gave a tiny shake of the head because of course it was pistol first. I went for the right holster, then remembered it was better to start with the left, because the right’s easier to grab in the chaos of battle. I took out the gun and looked at it blankly.
‘It’s loaded, M’sieur,’ said Philibert helpfully, leaning forward from behind. ‘I did them both this morning.’
I pulled back the dog into the firing position, looked up to see if anyone was doing the same, then froze as I got my first proper view of the enemy. They were actually about the same number as us, but somehow looked a lot more. The ranks of pike looked like forests by themselves, with little white flashes where the sun caught the blades. There were musketeers each side of them, sleeves of shot, and I’d never seen so many guns at once, all on rests and levelled at us. In the middle were cannon.
There must have been cavalry on the wing opposite, but the ground dipped in front of us, and I couldn’t see. There were certainly cavalry over the far side like an image in a mirror of ourselves. They even looked like us, they were French or Sedanaise not Imperial troops, and there was something familiar about them I couldn’t explain.
‘The white sashes,’ said Crespin from my other side. ‘That’s really wrong, Jacquot, they’re trying to pretend they’re in the service of the King. How can our chaps fight them when they’re dressed like that?’
I was beginning to feel we couldn’t fight them at all. There were banners flying above some of the ranks and I recognized most of them: Soissons, Bouillon, Guise, names of some of the greatest princes in France. We’d got nothing like that to offer, only the poor old Duc de Châtillon who no one rated much anyway. Even having André would have helped, he was someone the men had heard of and cared about. Then I remembered it was these bastards who’d killed him, and gripped my pistol so hard it hurt.
The ground vibrated as cannon fired from our centre. I’d heard them before, we’d used them on the forts, but that was against walls, this was against men. I even looked where the balls went like I expected to see clouds of dusty powder and chips of stone, but there were people, actual people flying out of the yellow smoke like they’d been thrown, and a fine red mist colouring the air with blood.
‘Christ,’ said Raoul’s voice behind me. ‘Oh, Jacquot. Oh, Christ.’
Orange balls flared in front of us like giant muskets, a great boom, then off to the left of us screams and yells as the enemy’s cannon hit.
‘This is not civilized,’ said Gaspard thoughtfully.
My hand jerked on Guinevere’s bridle but drums were starting next to us, beating the advance. We were going in.
The poor enfants perdus of infantry went in front to take the shot and save the lives of those of us who rode behind. It was mainly the Piémont, those grand black-and-white colours waving bravely against the greyness of the sky, but we’d got another regiment even closer, their dark green flag diagonally crossed like a Spaniard’s, and an extraordinary noise coming from their ranks like pipes being strangled. They were foreign, of course, people called them the Douglas, but they marched sort of gruffly and gave me a solid feeling I really needed.
The horses in front were moving, and we were off. We went slowly at first, no more than trotting as we got clear of the lines, on to the plain and down into the dip. Charlot said ‘Remember, Monsieur, when they fire you must make your horse rear,’ and I nodded but didn’t think I could really do it, not use Guinevere to take a ball meant for me.
We were outpacing the drummer boys, the beat was behind us, but still the enemy didn’t fire. I looked at the backs of the men bobbing up and down in front of me, Gaspard’s stupid cape and Raoul’s beautiful grey doublet, then between them glimpses of the enemy muskets getting closer and closer. I wanted to gallop, it must be time, maybe if we galloped they’d never fire at all, and then the muskets were flaming orange stars, the crash of gunfire throbbing in my ears, then another as our own musketeers fired back. Our front rank was stumbling, Raoul struggling to control his mount, and I knew ahead of him men were down. Horses neighed in terror and smoke drifted towards us across the plain, floating away to reveal piles of bodies, easily a hundred of our men sprawling in front of us, but the others keeping going, those Scotsmen marching doggedly on.
Little cracks of sound ahead of me, our first rank discharging their pistols. We were spreading out, I’d got a clear view ahead and my brain was clearing too, the gunfire had blown out all the muddle. I raised the pistol, remembered to turn it sideways so the powder fell right against the vent, saw an enemy musketeer levelling at me, fired and dropped him. Someone shouted, swords rasped out of scabbards all round, I dropped the pistol in its holster, clutched the mane, and drew my own.
Guinevere leapt forward, we were galloping, galloping, that same wonderful thunder of hooves across grass, but there was no shouting, none of the exhilaration I remembered by the river, and a ginger-haired man ahead of me was muttering ‘My God, my God’ till it became all like one word, ‘MyGodmyGodmyGod.’ Another blast of gunfire swept across our ranks, Gaspard swerved violently and Raoul’s back jerked and spat out red, a bright splash against the grey. He flopped and fell, Raoul was down, and I was still galloping forward, leaping over his body and charging on, Raoul de Verville, dead at twenty-two.
They fired again, I felt something whizz past my face, put my head down and galloped on. Pike were coming up to our right, I heard the order then the great thud as they slammed their butts into the ground, thrusting the pike forward at an angle, horse-breast high and the full strength of the earth to take the impact. I thought ‘Sod that, I’m not charging that,’ and kept right on at the musketeers. They were countermarching, another volley already, but we were up to them, they were breaking in panic, and I smashed down my sword across the neck of the first I could reach.
Then we were crashing through them, all of us, Charlot’s great form stooping in his saddle as he slashed at the men on the ground. Pike thrust at us from the side, stabbing at the flanks and breasts of the horses, I swerved a panicking Guinevere back and sideways, but Crespin’s horse was screaming, his back was weak and he couldn’t hold on, he slid down over her neck, hat off, blond curls spilling over his face. He rolled clear as the horse fell, but he was on the ground with a dozen pike round him, face blank in terror. I thrust Guinevere sideways against the pike, getting closer, close where the blades can’t reach, slash down with the sword, hack down at the faces, but a pike stabs in from further away, then a sharp bang and it falls away backwards and disappears. Gaspard lowers his pistol, and I see Charlot hauling Crespin up on to the back of a riderless horse.
Others are driving on behind us and now we’re swept along with them, infantry scattering before us, their lines broken in disorder. We’re through, we’ve done the hard bit, we’re behind the cannon, we must be, we’re ready to turn and take them from the rear. I wrench at the reins to bring the mare round, then stop as I see what’s behind.
Our second line aren’t following. I’m looking back at a mass of Imperial infantry but beyond them our own men are under attack from a great wing of cavalry, they can’t fight through to support us and are falling back into the Piémont. Shots off to our right, bullets whining among us, they’ve got musketeers in the forest as well. We can’t stay here, we can’t go back, our only hope is to charge forward.
But the other cavalry aren’t coming. Our squad’s all there, so’s
the Queen’s, but the rest are breaking up and turning to get the hell out. The officers are screaming at them, I hear Puységur’s own voice yelling, but the men shout back ‘To hell with this,’ and one dragoon rises in the stirrups, yells ‘That’s what you get for your fifty écus!’ and wheels away.
The stupidity of it was blinding. We’d been up against fellow Frenchmen and hadn’t bothered to look after our own, we’d done nothing to win their morale or loyalty and the dragoon was right, this is what you get for it, bloody this. But it was too late now, too late for anything, we were stuck in the middle of a raging battle and we were on our own.
Stefan Ravel
We heard gunfire echoing through the hills. At the next crash André swerved in the middle of his pacing, went to the front of the wagon and jumped straight down. I followed him.
The driver didn’t turn. He was chewing a piece of grass and staring nervously towards the open side of our enclosure, and when we looked round we saw why. The guards were leaving us. It wasn’t desertion, it was orders, Aubéry was there himself directing his capitaines as they pulled the men off guard duty and led them away.
‘I knew it,’ said André in an anguish of frustration. ‘We should be there, they’re calling for reserves.’
‘Are they fuck,’ I said. Desmoulins was personally ordering the men by the war chest, and Sury directing others away as if he knew exactly what he was meant to do. ‘They’re leaving the whole baggage train to the enemy.’
Albert Grimauld
An army never leaves its baggage unattended, this was poxy traitorism going on right in front of us. I notice something else too, that it’s all the Aubéry capitaines taking their men like lambs, the Uxelles ain’t having it. Aubéry’s yelling the order’s from the Maréchal himself, but the capitaine by the bread train stands arguing the toss right back, and the one by Châtillon’s wagons says outright he won’t leave the war chest.
Then above it all comes another voice, a young man shouting loud and strong ‘Hold fast, all of you. Your officers are working for the enemy, you must stand your ground.’
André a-course, standing in the open with his hands chained together but authority like a ruddy general. The men hear it all right, hardly a one but stops and looks, but they don’t see nothing but a tattered prisoner in chains, they go right on hurrying out the enclosure after Aubéry. Our own company know who he is, they’re stopping in confusion, but they ain’t sure nor nothing like it.
But Fauvel sees it, and there’s maybe a lot of things suddenly making sense to him now. He drags himself to the side of our wagon and yells hoarsely ‘No, men, he’s right, it’s treachery. Stand to your posts!’
Our company stop. The Uxelles waver too, they see something’s up, but the other Aubéry have got their own capitaines telling them it’s all right, they ain’t taking notice of Fauvel, no, nor André neither, and him all but screaming at them ‘For God’s sake, listen!’
I’m flop down off the wagon and running at them, yelling ‘That’s the Chevalier de Roland, boys, now do what he fucking says.’ Ravel’s at it too, bellowing alongside in that big fuck-off sergeant’s voice of his. That’s four of us, now, four and the name of ‘de Roland’, the Uxelles make up their minds and stop where they are. Most of the Aubéry are already gone, but there’s even a few of them ignoring their officers and marching back to their posts.
The rage on Desmoulins’ face shows the man he really is. He swings round on the Uxelles, brandishing his pistol and screaming it’s mutiny, they’re disobeying an order in the face of the enemy. André sees the danger, he’s running towards them, but something bangs behind me, and Desmoulins jerks back like someone’s punched him, spins on his toes like a dancer, and thuds down flat on the ground. Back on the sick wagon I see Fauvel lowering his musket, and think ‘Fuck me to Frankfurt, the man’s shot his own cousin.’
Stefan Ravel
There’s nothing like shooting your officer to get people’s attention. The yelling and arguments stopped with the shock, and the silence was more eloquent than any of it. Fauvel had just proved our desperation, and when I looked at the miserable number of soldiers left I thought he had a point. We had little more than a hundred men to guard a baggage train packed with women and children, and the enemy were obviously on their way.
Someone moved near the crafts’ wagons, heads turned all over the enclosure, and there was our friendly blacksmith walking purposefully towards us with his hammer. ‘Better get those manacles off, Chevalier,’ he said. ‘Looks like we’ll be needing you.’
He was no one, Abbé, but his words seemed to snap the lot of us out of a trance. The men went back to their posts, their officers headed towards us with determined faces, and followers everywhere climbed out of their wagons.
Only André didn’t move. He told the smith to see to me first, then gazed round the whole baggage train with an air of uncertainty I didn’t like at all. He looked at a cook’s boy perhaps eleven years old, at a clerk with a wooden leg, a bunch of women sitting round a sutler’s wagon, another standing with a baby in her arms, and all watching him with the same trusting expectancy. For a second he closed his eyes.
I smacked my wrists down on the wagon step for the smith’s hammer. ‘What’s the matter, little general, forgotten how to fight a battle?’
He muttered ‘Fuck off, Stefan,’ and shoved past me to meet the officers. There were only three of them, the capitaines of the Uxelles, and poor little Michaud of our own company, looking as if what he really wanted was his mother.
‘Orders, Chevalier?’ said the first capitaine. That was Valéry, a fine soldier who’d fought beside us at Arras.
André grasped the man’s arm in his manacled hands. ‘God bless you, M’sieur. The enemy must come through that gap in the enclosure, can you hold it?’
‘We can do anything,’ said Valéry proudly, ‘but it’s a big line for forty men.’
‘Too big,’ said André, and turned to Michaud. ‘Enseign, get the company to pull more wagons to narrow that gap, then place them under this officer’s orders, can you do that?’
Michaud straightened and the fear evaporated from his face. He said ‘Of course, Chevalier,’ and ran back to the men, calling out orders as he went.
The second capitaine said doubtfully ‘If we all man the line there’s no one to guard the war chest. I’ve taken an oath to protect it.’
I’d have given him an oath or two of my own, but André only nodded. ‘All right, but you’ve a much better chance if we stop the enemy getting in at all. Hold the line, and we’ll use another force to stop them breaking in anywhere else.’
The man looked at him blankly. ‘What force?’
‘This one,’ said André. He cupped his hands to his mouth and yelled ‘Drivers! Craftsmen, sutlers, everyone! I need men who can fire a musket.’
‘Only men, Chevalier?’ called Francine. She was sat at her wagon, a pipe in her mouth and an arquebus in her lap. ‘You don’t want women?’
André looked sternly at her. ‘Madame, such a question.’
Francine grinned, took the pipe from her mouth, and clambered down.
She wasn’t alone. They were coming from all over: drivers, armourers, smiths, farriers, bakers, cooks, valets, wives, even a prostitute or two, there’s a lot of followers in an army who can load and fire a musket. The second capitaine watched them filing to the munitions wagons, said ‘All right, better than nothing,’ then forced a grin and loped off after Valéry.
The smith got my second pin flattened, yanked it out the cuplock and sprung the cuff open. You won’t believe the relief, Abbé, unless you know what it’s like to have two pounds of iron clamped like a pig’s jaws round your wrist. I yelled at André to take my place.
He was whispering to Grimauld, but turned and joined us in a second. ‘I’ll need a sword, Stefan, will anyone here have –?’
‘Here, Chevalier,’ said a girl’s voice, and there was his pretty Bernadette, offering him a sword like a squire.
‘It’s M. Fauvel’s, he wants you to have it.’
André looked longingly at the blade, but couldn’t get a hand to it. The smith was still working on his first rivet, hammering more and more frantically, but I was hearing something else between the blows, a distant roar from the battlefield, then something getting closer and louder, the rumble of galloping hooves.
I said ‘André.’
He was whispering to the smith and didn’t hear.
‘Chevalier!’ called Bonnier, panting towards us with my sword. ‘Chevalier, there’s …’
Cavalry. I could see the shapes pounding through the trees. Christ knows how many, the whole forest was moving. Our men had reduced the gap by four wagons’ length, but there was no time for more, they abandoned the next two where they were and spread themselves out to hold the line. A hundred men, and what looked like a thousand charging right at them.
André wrenched his hand out of the first cuff. The smith reached for the second, but André said ‘No time, just do what we’ve talked about,’ snatched the sword from Bernadette, and started to run for the gap, the loose manacle swinging heavily from the chain on his left wrist.
I took my own blade from Bonnier and went after him, but he turned, still running, and said ‘Lead the civilians, Stefan, show them what to do.’
I said savagely ‘What do we fucking do?’
‘Kill anything that gets through.’ He gave what was almost a grin, then turned and ran to the line.
Jacques de Roland
They were Sedanaise cavalry, the Duc de Bouillon’s own, they must have ridden right round under cover of the forest and burst out in a mass at some sort of signal. We were still smashing our way blindly across the lines when we saw them hurtle out of the woods ahead of us, crashing into our left flank, jubilant and fresh and cutting them to pieces. Men and horses were screaming, our ranks breaking and scattering as the cavalry drove through them in an unstoppable wedge, slicing through and out the other side.