by A L Berridge
‘The baggage train!’ someone shouted. ‘My God, the baggage train!’
The cry spread through our lines. The baggage lines are safety, the one bit of home you’ve got on campaign, our troops had got wives there, children, they were yelling in panic and trying to turn back. Puységur was shouting ‘The Aubéry’s there, we’ll hold them,’ but men in red coats were staggering out of the forest, confused and leaderless, and even Crespin was saying ‘The Aubéry’s gone, the Aubéry’s broken,’ his lips as pale as his face.
We’d have broken ourselves then, but Praslin was leading the Roquelaure for their own charge and our officers urged us in with them. I didn’t need the order, I was dashing to get alongside and be with the man who’d led us at the bridge. But this was heavy cavalry we were driving into now, armoured gendarmes who weren’t running from anyone, I was seeing nothing but steel helmets with closed visors, I was fighting nothing human, my sword bounced off plate and a great blade screeched across my own cuirass before Charlot fought to my side to beat the men back.
Praslin was through ahead of us, sword waving high above the carnage, but a cry went up as his blade flailed in the air then vanished as he toppled to the ground unhorsed. I dug in my knees to force Guinevere through the fray, but there were enemy all round and Charlot hauled me back. I heard a man yelling ‘Surrender, you fool, cry quarter!’ and Praslin’s voice saying ‘Never, Beauregard, not to Monsieur le Comte.’
I wish that was all I remembered, but the screen of men shifted in front of me, I saw Praslin on the ground and the Sedanaise slashing at him, hacking down long after he was dead. I saw François trying to fight his way through to his brother, but prayed he wouldn’t make it, prayed he wouldn’t see it or hear the awful baying of men who were suddenly animals. That’s what hell sounds like, I’m sure of it. Sometimes I hear it in my dreams.
Other voices were mixing in with it too, rough with desperation. Roquelaure was trying to rally his cavalry, but then he was down and surrounded by the enemy. Fabert’s country voice was yelling his men to hold, Sourdis was screaming at our retreating cavalry, de Bauffremont was shouting ‘Stand, Piémont, stand!’ Uxelles, Andelot, Roussillon, all of them crying the same thing ‘Hold the line there, hold them, hold them, hold …’
I was dancing Guinevere back and whirling round with the sword, man down and on to the next, the next, always the next, and still the voices crying ever more urgently ‘Hold them, hold them,’ till there wasn’t even a ‘them’ any more, the world was shrinking to nothing but that single word, ranks of men breaking and running and nothing in my ears but that endless hopeless cry to ‘Hold!’
Sixteen
Stefan Ravel
There was never any hope. We hadn’t enough pike, and all the countermarching in the world wasn’t going to turn our two ranks of muskets into the five needed to hold that gap. Valéry’s voice was hoarse from yelling, the men loading and firing faster than I’d ever seen it done, but we simply weren’t enough.
We held the first charge, the bastards weren’t expecting resistance and retreated long enough for us to achieve a full reload, but the second was fiercer and we couldn’t maintain the fire. A phalanx of cavalry drove right through one end of our line, scattering and trampling musketeers in their path. I saw Charpentier whirl backwards from a sabre slash, arm across a face suddenly as red as his coat.
I yelled for my first squad to fire. They were ex-soldiers, the best of the civilians, they hit all but one, and I had the last with my pistol. More gunfire at the gap, and Valéry’s shouted order as our men retreated a rank on the countermarch. André was turning to yell at me, something about evacuation. ‘Make a gap!’ he yelled, miming with his hands. ‘Pull out wagons, make a gap, get the women out.’
He was right, Abbé, it was their only chance. I said ‘We’ll take the war chest.’
‘No, as far away from it as you can. They’ll head for the money, it’ll buy us time.’ He grinned at me again, eyes bright in the smoke-blackened face, said ‘Well, move it, Ravel!’ then turned back to the line.
Bernadette Fournier
There was much shouting and jolting as our driver manoeuvred our wagon into position. Grimauld stood below us, bare-chested but for his bandages, waving his arms and bellowing instructions until we lurched to a stop. We now faced into the enclosure, and a second wagon was directed opposite, leaving a clear passage between. Two other wagons were in identical position behind us, so the passage became a tunnel to safety through the gap made in the line.
M. Ravel shouted ‘Third squad in these wagons, cover that tunnel while we get the people out.’ That was our own squad, Monsieur, and the wagon rocked as other armed women climbed up in frantic haste to line the sides beside M. Fauvel. Below us Grimauld was already urging the unarmed civilians through the passage to flee over the fields. We had above three thousand people to bring out of the enclosure, and our infantry could not hold off the enemy much longer.
‘Here,’ said M. Ravel, thrusting me up a fistful of slow-matches, ‘they’re lit, just blow. Good luck, fifille.’ He turned to run back to his second squad, who lined the wagons further up the enclosure. They were mainly craftsmen and servants, Monsieur, men who could fire a musket but had never been soldiers. One was Colonel Aubéry’s own bootboy, and the musket in his hands was taller than his own small body.
I handed round the blackened matches, and watched as the women puffed them into glowing orange life. Mme Bonnier seemed awkward with hers, but would not take my wheel-lock when I offered it, saying ‘Bless you, my dear, the matchlock and I are old friends.’ She should have fled with the others, Monsieur, for she had still not recovered her health, but it was important to her to fight for her husband, and many of our women felt the same. Even that fat Mme Becquet was with us, who always said her husband was a useless thing she would be happier without.
Grimauld was now almost pushing people through the tunnel, saying ‘Move it, move it, there’s others beside you.’ There were indeed, clustering in front of our wagons in panic, women sobbing and a baby crying. When I looked ahead to our distant line of musketeers I saw how thin it had become, and how many more cavalry broke through with each assault. None had yet reached us, for M. Ravel’s first squads were firing at any that got past, yet each time the horsemen came further in before someone shot them down.
Our people knew it, and many dared not wait. A group of prostitutes were clambering over the bread charrettes to safety, and others crawling under the double line of wagons, wriggling between the wheels to reach the fields on the other side. A woman too pregnant to crawl hunkered down and begged a man who was slithering under to take her baby, but he only kicked out with his heels and continued to propel himself through.
But not all would be saved, not all would even try. Francine yelled at the women who still made no move, but they shrank back into the shelter of their carts, afraid to face the open ground. Some on the outside line manoeuvred their vehicles to drive them away, and that was the worst folly of all, for while our running civilians were not worth chasing, the carts might be valuable and were at once pursued and taken. One viviandiére paid with more than her goods, or so we judged from her screaming, which went on a long time.
In truth it was nothing but screaming and gunfire until I wondered if I should live to hear silence again. The shouts intensified as a horseman rode clear through the fire of both squads and charged for our tunnel with upraised sword. I took him myself, or think I did, for both Mme Bonnier and I fired at the same time. We smiled at each other as he fell, and turned at once to the business of reloading.
The gunfire down the far end ceased, and M. Fauvel’s voice said ‘The enemy are regrouping, we are falling back.’ I heard running feet, and M. Ravel yelling ‘Hold your places, civilians. Fire on the order.’ I had to look up.
Our troops were pelting towards the tunnel. I thought they must reach us in time to regroup, but cavalry appeared again in the opening, saw it was no longer held against them,
and charged straight in, the hooves of their huge horses gobbling up the hard-won yards like inches, gaining on our soldiers with every stride. M. Ravel called to his first squad, and the horses screamed and stumbled in the fire that blasted them from both sides, but it could not stop them all, Monsieur, and the second squad had to fire too.
A bang and shriek from behind made me jump in fear, and something hot bumped against my legs as a musket slid across the wagon floor. There was Mme Bonnier with her poor hand, oh, half off, and at least two fingers gone, she was screaming in pain and shock. It is a hard, hard thing to load a matchlock, for you must keep the match smouldering in one hand while you load with the other, and it takes but a little spark to do what was done now.
‘Face front,’ said M. Fauvel, as harshly as if I had been a soldier under his command. ‘Face front, woman, they’re coming.’
The cavalry still came on, our soldiers fleeing before them with the last civilians. The blacksmith was there, Francine’s sons leading horses, M. Ravel’s first and second squads, all running towards our corner which offered now the only hope of escape. Capitaine Valéry turned our infantry for one last volley at the pursuit, but when the smoke cleared there was M. Valéry face down in the dirt, his men scattering, and the horsemen coming on.
‘Third squad!’ came M. Ravel’s voice from the tumult. ‘Third squad, fire!’
I brought my piece to the rim and fired. The world was all smoke and noise, the blackness before my eyes lit only by the ghost of the musket flash still dancing before them. I wished to throw down the gun and curl into a ball and cry, but somewhere in the darkness I heard André’s voice crying ‘Well done, the women! See that, boys? We’re outclassed!’
The shadows were clearing in front of me with the smoke, I saw my own hands reaching out for powder and another ball, then I sat myself straight and began to reload.
Stefan Ravel
Oh yes, the women downed a good twenty, but there were still maybe eight hundred of the buggers, and if they’d kept charging they could have cut us all to pieces.
Greed, Abbé, that’s what saved us. They went for the war chest instead, surrounding it in seconds and working at the padlocks to get inside. Other men had their own targets, officers’ wagons full of valuables, food, carts of wine barrels, oh trust me, no one was going after a bunch of ragged camp followers when there were money and goods to be had instead. I’m afraid there were women too. Some stupid bints had hidden in their own wagons, and soldiers were dragging them out with yells of triumph. They weren’t saving them for later either, some had three on them at once with a queue forming behind.
It wasn’t pretty, but it bought us time. Our exit hole was in a corner, so we tipped over wagons to make a barricade with a path in between, then lined it with what was left of our soldiers. There weren’t enough for countermarching now, so I just counted them off as they took position, one, two, three, and told them to fire by numbers. It wasn’t much, maybe a twelve-shot volley, but André directed one of the giant fodder carts right across our middle to force anyone coming at us to divide in two. He joined the men pushing it himself, eyes screwed shut as if it would stop him hearing the screaming on the other side.
We were driving off the horses when three riders trotted round, saw us waiting with levelled muskets, and turned back out at the double. We didn’t shoot, Abbé, I half hoped they’d leave us alone if they saw we weren’t bothering them, but less than a minute later we heard someone shouting orders behind the fodder cart. I suppose they’d seen our defences and guessed we’d got something valuable hidden behind.
I yelled down to Grimauld ‘How long?’
His voice came back muffled through the crowds. ‘Five minutes?’
We’d be lucky to give him two. The cavalry were already streaming round both sides of the fodder cart and I had to shout ‘One!’ A dozen shots, maybe ten men to fire at, but muskets misfire, Abbé, not to mention the little snag of people sometimes picking the same target. Twelve shots, five men still up, and more coming round the cart to join them. I yelled ‘Two!’ before the echo had even died away.
I was late even then, two horsemen were already past and charging down the gap in our barricade. I heard the crack of single shots and hoped it was my civilians, but women were screaming down there all the same. No time to look, there were more of the buggers coming already, I hefted my own piece into position, yelled ‘Three!’ and fired.
It discouraged them. Two more got past, but the stream round the fodder cart stopped, and I guessed the officer was having himself a little think. Behind us came more screaming and the sound of gunfire.
André straightened, and I didn’t like the look on his face.
I said ‘I’ve armed civilians all round that tunnel, they can’t get more than one or two before they’re downed.’
‘Too many,’ said André. He pressed his hands on to the upturned side of our wagon, and began to hoist himself up.
I said ‘You’ll make a nice little target up there.’
‘I won’t,’ he said, crouching on the wagon side. ‘I won’t stand till the last minute.’
I didn’t answer. More hooves, they were coming back, you don’t waste time talking when you’re trying to reload.
This time they meant it. They weren’t stopping for anything and were firing right at our musketeers. I yelled ‘One!’ but had to call ‘Two!’ seconds later just to hold them, and still two horsemen made it past for the gap. Our threes weren’t loaded, we hadn’t a shot left to stop them, but André’s legs straightened in front of me as he sprang up level with the first horseman. I heard the clash of blades, then the wet punch of a sword sliding home, and the horseman slid to the ground in front of our wagon.
I finished loading while he dealt with the second. It was madness, of course, he’d never keep it up, but I supposed it didn’t matter. Even if we got all the civilians out, there was no one to cover our own retreat. I reached for the ramrod and saw Bonnier sprawled on his back beside me, fine ash from the discharge settling on his staring eyes. That didn’t matter much either. In another minute we’d all be joining him.
Jacques de Roland
Fabert went on trying. He led us in a charge against the cavalry that downed Praslin, I saw him personally cut down a huge armoured officer on a white horse. People cheered, some even said it was Soissons himself and that we’d turned defeat into victory, but it wasn’t and we hadn’t, it was just some Sedanaise officer and we were just a knot of cavalry hemmed in on all sides with the enemy moving in for the kill.
It wasn’t about fighting a battle after that, just getting out alive. Even Fabert was urging Châtillon and Sourdis off the field, and that was it, it was over, there was nothing but a dull sickness in my belly and a taste like black smoke in my mouth. I said ‘We’re beaten, aren’t we? This is defeat.’
‘Defeat?’ said Charlot gently. ‘Monsieur, this is a rout.’
I learned what that meant as we cut our way through to the woods. I saw it in Crespin’s bewildered face, tears running down his cheeks as he slashed out at the enemy like a furious child. It was there in the sight of the great black flag of the Piémont with its single brave white cross flying above the crowd, but tied to a Spanish pike and surrounded by men laughing. I saw it under Guinevere’s own hooves, the corpse of a young boy beside a broken drum, its skin gaping like a jagged mouth. Something was rising in my throat in dry little gasps, I remember panicking because I couldn’t see Charlot, then hearing his voice saying ‘I’m here, Monsieur,’ and turning to see we were off the field, the shade of trees closing round us, and for the moment we were safe.
There were only about ten of us together, we’d long got separated from the rest, but my friends were still there, all but Raoul who never would be again. I wanted someone to make a joke, laugh, make things right again, I even said to Philibert ‘There’s loads of helmets, don’t you want one?’ but he just said ‘No, Monsieur,’ and looked down at his bloodied sword with something like sha
me.
We rode on through the forest in the hope of meeting up with our army, but the sound of sporadic gunfire suggested there wasn’t one, just fleeing men being picked off by leisurely musketeers. Sunlight and green flickered ahead and we emerged from the woods on to rough grass, the ground trampled to form a track leading down to fields that looked suddenly familiar. We’d circled the plateau and come out above our own baggage train.
That’s where the firing was coming from. The wagons were lined up like a square with Sedanaise cavalry swarming inside, whooping and charging, leaping on to carts and chucking stuff out, galloping horsemen chasing after half-naked women. Bangs and little puffs of smoke came from a tangle of wagons across the far corner, and behind it I saw a stream of people pouring through an opening into the fields, heading for the other side of the forest like a trail of ants. Someone was putting up a defence and getting the people out.
We went faster down the track, seeing more detail as we got closer. The wagons formed a barricade with men firing behind it, I saw little flashes of flame. One galloped past the musket fire, but a man sprang up on top of a wagon and forced him to fight blade to blade. There was something in the man’s other hand, a thing on a chain like an old-fashioned mace, I saw him bash out with it and the rider reel back. The man finished him with the sword, wiped his arm across his face, and lifted his head.
Gaspard said levelly ‘Who in the name of God …?’
I wasn’t even surprised at first. It felt too familiar, André fighting, André in danger, I was already drawing my sword before it hit me that he was meant to be dead and shouldn’t be there at all. Then my heels kicked into Guinevere’s flanks, my head was down, the ground blurring green in front of me, I was galloping, galloping, because the boy was alive, and maybe, just maybe, I’d got a chance to save him after all.