by Todd Shryock
“Persist,” I said, not really believing it either. “What other choice do we have? Lie down and die?”
Niklas looked at the ground longingly. “Perhaps a better option,” he mused. “The ground does not look so bad here.” He forced a weak smile, but it was unconvincing.
“If you lie down for too long here, a peasant will run you over with his cart to get at your boots,” I said, trying to cheer him up with some humor.
He looked at his boots, which were starting to come apart at the seams. “It seems that maybe I should be the one stealing from the peasant.” His gaze drifted to some far-off place, and I shifted my focus to watching the orange flames dance along the wood of the fire. When I looked back, he was asleep.
I soon joined him, where my slumber was met with joy by headless ghosts and murdered children who chased me about the ether, happy to keep any true rest from finding my mind.
***
We were up and moving early the next day, the sky a swirl of blues and purples as we trudged out of camp at the head of a fifty-man foraging party, a lieutenant assigned from headquarters at our head.
“Who is that?” I asked Niklas, since he seemed to know everyone.
He looked up toward the lieutenant then made a sour look. “A son of privilege,” he spat. “A headquarters baby. They’ll let him lead a foraging party so he can write to his beautiful girlfriend at home what an astute commander of men he is, risking life and limb for king and country.”
I looked at the lieutenant’s back as he marched beside the men in the front. He didn’t really look all that special, and if he were truly wealthy, he would be a captain and be riding instead of walking.
“Lieutenant,” I called out playfully, catching the man’s attention. “Where are we off to today?”
“Mind your place and keep silent, corporal, or I shall put you on report,” he snapped, turning away when he was sure I wasn’t going to say anymore.
“I don’t think I’ve been in anyone’s report, good or bad,” I said to Niklas who was trying to suppress a smirk. “Maybe I should try it.”
“Nah,” he said. “You wouldn’t like it.”
I imagined officers festooned with epaulettes and feathered bicornes shouting at me like a child. “Yeah, probably right.”
We continued our march well out into the countryside and much further than anyone other than the lieutenant deemed safe. Our pickets were long behind us, and we ranged so far out that I was doubting even our cavalry came this far. While there wasn’t an Austrian army that we knew of nearby, the enemy still had men in this area, and the peasants were known to lay an ambush when they had the numbers in their favor.
“Is he marching us to Vienna?” Niklas asked.
Both of us had perked up recently, our gazes moving back and forth across the open countryside, looking for any signs of trouble, since the lieutenant obviously wasn’t expecting anything.
Finally, he called a halt near the shade of several large trees in the corner of a fallow field, motioning for Niklas and the other sergeant, a man named Kuhlston, to approach. “Each of you take ten men and move off toward the farmhouses there,” he point off to his right at a small stone farmhouse in the distance, “and there,” pointing to a similar house even further to the left. “I shall hold the reserve here.”
Before either man could object to the idiocy of dividing up the small force and sending pieces of it off in random directions, he was ordering the remaining thirty men to form a double line across the road in the late morning sun while he moved to the shade of the tree and sat down.
Niklas and Kuhlston shared a worried look, but knew it would do little good to argue with the fool. Instead, they wished each other luck and waved their small companies forward.
“You know if there are any whitecoats around, we’ll all be in a prison camp by tomorrow,” I said.
Niklas shrugged. “Nothing to be done about it. The privileged son ordered us forward, so forward we go for the glory of our king.” He looked over his shoulder at the men trailing behind us. “Skirmish line, wide, stay alert for trouble coming out of those trees over there,” he ordered, pointing to a thick wood along a distant field edge. “Just because you can’t see the enemy does not mean he isn’t there.”
Most of the men with us were new recruits who had nothing but our training ground repetition to guide them. They fanned out in widely spaced intervals as we crossed the low fields toward the stone house in the distance.
The ground was soft and covered in a dense grass that swished as we walked. The more prudent thing to do would have been to take the entire party down the road between the houses and then divide where the road split, leaving the reserve equally spaced between both. But prudence wasn’t exactly the best trait of our officer corps, so we crossed the open ground, alone, putting more distance between our reserve and our sister party, which veered off in the other direction, with every step.
We got to within a hundred yards of the house and Niklas motioned for everyone to stop. I crouched but had to motion to several of the new men to follow my lead. I moved up to him as he studied the house.
“What do you think?” he asked.
I looked at the house, if you could call it that. It was little more than four walls of stone piled high, each of which looked like it was racing its brothers to see who could be the first to fall. The roof was badly maintained thatch with several holes in it.
“I don’t see any animals, and no smoke is coming from the roof. Based on the condition of the fields, it might be abandoned.”
Niklas grunted but said nothing. He stood and motioned us forward, this time at a slower walk, our muskets loaded and held at the ready.
We closed on the house in a semicircle, waiting for the enemy to open fire from the shadows or from behind the low stone wall behind it. When we were within twenty yards, Niklas motioned for me to take a closer look.
“You, with me,” I said to the nearest man, sprinting off to one side to flank the house, the man close behind.
I got to the wall, saw there was no one there and quickly swung my legs over, creeping around to the front of the house, where I saw there was no door, an inky blackness beckoning me in. Pressing my back to the wall, I risked a quick glance in and yanked my head back, then relaxed when I realized that my split-second glance had revealed just a dusty floor with some debris in the corner.
“It’s empty,” I said to my comrade, who relayed the message to the others, who quickly crossed the wall and joined us in the front.
“Someone’s coming,” one of the men said, pointing to the rising dust down the road to our left.
Niklas didn’t hesitate. “Henri with me, the rest of you back over the wall and stay down. Don’t move or make any noise unless I tell you to.”
The men moved off to take their hiding spots while Niklas and I sheltered at the corner of the house, peering down the road trying to ascertain who was approaching.
“Can’t be more than maybe a cavalry squadron,” I said. “Not enough dust for much else.”
As we waited, I made out what looked like two horses moving side-by-side, then two men slightly behind them.
“A wagon,” Niklas said. “I don’t see anyone else with it.”
I squinted to try to get a better look. “The men are wearing uniforms of some sort, but definitely not ours or French.”
“If it’s a supply wagon, it might be our lucky day,” Niklas said. “When the wagon gets close, step out into the road and stop them. I’ll move the men out behind them.”
“What if they don’t stop?”
Niklas shrugged. “Shoot one of the horses.”
I maintained my position at the corner of the small stone house, stepping back out of sight when the wagon got close. I listened to the steady pounding of the hooves on the dusty road, the jingling of the tack and the steady squeak of the wagon’s wheels. As I was about to step out, I heard the driver yelling at the horses to halt.
When the nois
e stopped, I stepped out, musket pointed at the driver.
He stared at me, dumbfounded, nudging his partner to get his attention. Both men looked behind me, wondering if I was alone. Niklas and the other men fanned out behind the wagon.
“Down,” I ordered.
The men held up their hands and dutifully got off the wagon, surprised to find more of us behind them.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
The driver, a pudgy man with a dirty uniform and a stubbly face, answered in accented German. “We got separated from our supply train after our axle broke. They left us behind to fix it, but we are not sure where they went.”
I looked at Niklas, who was peering over the side of the wagon.
“What’s in there?” I asked the driver.
“Uniforms,” he said.
I frowned. I was hoping for wine, brandy or beer, and barring that, at least a ham or something good to eat. “Nothing else?”
The man appeared disappointed. Perhaps he thought I would shoot him. “Just uniforms.”
Using the end of my musket, I motioned for them to take a seat along the wall, which they were more than happy to comply with.
“Sergeant, look,” one of the men said, pointing down the road where the wagon had come from.
In the distance, beyond the trees, dust was rising into the air.
“Time to leave,” Niklas said, swinging up onto the driver’s seat.
“Everyone on the wagon!” I yelled as I swung up beside him.
Niklas snapped the reins to get the horses moving, knocking one of the men over on top of the crates.
“What about us?” the driver asked me as we pulled away.
“Consider yourselves paroled,” I yelled over my shoulder.
We moved down the road at a good clip, the two draft horses snorting and snapping their heads about in protest of the weight added to their load. As we approached the intersection, I stood in the seat, waving toward the other house where the rest of our men had gone off to. Motioning back toward the tree where the lieutenant was waiting, I could only hope they realized it was us and understood the precarious nature of their position. If that was enemy cavalry coming down the road, they would quickly be scooped up or cut down unless they got moving back across that open field immediately.
Niklas turned the wagon and I sat down, watching the house for signs of movement. After a few moments, I saw several figures in dark uniforms trotting away from the house. “I think they saw me,” I said, triumphantly.
“Good,” Niklas said, glancing nervously toward the distant dust cloud.
He pulled the wagon to a stop near the tree, the lieutenant moving out to meet us.
“What’s this?” he asked, perplexed by the appearance of a wagon.
“Captured an enemy wagon, sir,” Niklas responded.
The lieutenant looked at the wagon as if he had never seen such a contraption. “What will we do with it?”
“Take it back to camp, sir.”
The lieutenant continued to stare, as if the proposition of returning with the wagon wasn’t within the realm of the possible.
“We need to get moving, because I think there is some enemy cavalry coming down the road,” Niklas added.
The mention of the enemy snapped the lieutenant from his fascination with the wagon, his face suddenly very worried. “Yes, we must move out immediately!”
“Sir, some of the men aren’t back yet,” Niklas reminded him.
The man looked toward the farmhouse and the distant figures, having completely forgotten about his other detachment. His eyes glanced toward the dust cloud, then back to Niklas. “They’ll have to catch up.” He started to order the rest of the men to form a march column when Niklas interrupted.
“Sir, we can’t leave the men, they’ll be helpless without us if that is the enemy moving down the road.”
“I know my business, sergeant, and in war, sometimes sacrifices have to be made.” He paused, glancing nervously at the cloud once more, then said, “It can’t be helped.”
Niklas was about to object, but I held a hand up to stop him, offering my own solution. “Lieutenant, what if you went ahead with the men to make sure the road is clear while we wait with our detachment for the others to catch up. Once we are together, we’ll start off after you.” It wasn’t an ideal solution, because we would all be safer as one big unit, not two small ones, but I saw the lieutenant’s desire for self-preservation was trumping everything else.
The man looked at me and nodded, not wanting to take the time to argue. “Very well, catch up as you can.”
With that, he started off down the road at a brisk pace, the bulk of our foraging party hastening off after him.
“Nice work,” Niklas said, scanning the fields behind us. Our men were moving at a trot, but whatever was coming down the road was gaining quickly and would soon crest a small rise near our previous position. “Do you have a plan beyond getting rid of the lieutenant?”
I slowly exhaled. “Well, I figure we keep the men moving beside the wagon so we don’t overtax the horses, but if it’s cavalry, we load them up and turn our wagon into a mobile fort.”
If Niklas didn’t like the plan, he didn’t indicate it. At this point, there weren’t a lot of options.
I stood on the wagon seat to get a better view. Our men were almost to us, and I saw the bobbing heads of mounted men appearing in the distance.”
Definitely cavalry,” I said. “Maybe dragoons, hard to say.” Dragoons were multipurpose medium cavalry that would be more than a match for our small group -- assuming they had the numbers.
“Move to the far side of the wagon,” I yelled to the men as they approached. “Keep the wagon between you and the cavalry.”
The men looked worriedly over their shoulders toward the horsemen, who had slowed as they approached the farmhouse where we left the prisoners -- who were bound to tell them what happened.
Niklas snapped the reins to get the horses moving at a pace that the men could keep up with.
“If the enemy come, everyone will pile into the wagon and we’ll fire as we go,” I said. “Understood?”
The young soldiers nodded. Sergeant Kuhlston wiped the sweat from his brow as he trotted along. “How come the corporal rides while this sergeant walks?” he said with a laugh.
“You’re serving as an example to your men,” I said.
“Where is our trusted lieutenant?” he asked.
“Well down the road,” I said. “If you squint, you might be able to see him. He’ll be the one far out in front of the others, running as fast as his rich little legs will carry him.”
Kuhlston smiled but said nothing, preferring to save his breath.
The dragoons’ horses were leaping the short wall behind the house to take a more direct route to us.
“Is everyone loaded and ready?” I asked Kuhlston.
He nodded, glancing back at the cavalry. To a man on foot, a wall of horses with riders swinging sabers was a terrifying sight, and unless everyone worked together, it meant a quick end.
“I think they want their uniforms back,” Niklas said flatly.
The dragoons reformed on the far side of the wall, forming a line about twenty across. From what I could see, there were at least double that number, with some milling about the house and road behind the main group. With the line formed, they came forward, first at a trot, then increasing to a canter as they crossed into the open field, a bugle call echoing in the distance.
The look on some of the young faces turned to fear, something Kuhlston also picked up on. “Do as you are told and don’t panic,” he snapped at no one in particular. “Panic leads to death, and being sliced open by a saber is not a good way to die.” He trotted several more steps, then looked up at me. “I’m thinking we should stop and fire a half volley when they are close, reload and then get on the wagon.”
I nodded. A few shots might make them think twice about getting closer, and they may not even be awa
re there were men on the other side of the wagon. The sudden appearance of infantry might make them think there are more nearby. “Just say when.”
Kuhlston kept a close eye on the horsemen as they rapidly closed the distance. His timing needed to be perfect to allow for the men to reload before climbing on the wagon. “Now!” he said, causing Niklas to pull the horses to a hard stop. The sergeant and his men fanned out behind the wagon.
Several dragoons slowed at the surprise appearance of infantry, unforming their line. I saw an officer riding across the front of the line, shouting for the men to get back in formation.
“Aim at the chest of the horses,” Kuhlston said, waiting a couple of seconds for the order to sink in. “Fire.”
A half-dozen muskets belched fire and plumes of white smoke that hung in the air as if nailed there. “Quickly, reload,” he barked. “The rest of you, into the wagon.”
The smoke slowly dissipated in the warm air, making it hard to see what effect, if any, the small volley obtained. Men scrambled over the sides of the wagon, pulling each other up.
“Quickly,” Niklas said, laying his musket across his lap.
Kuhlston pushed the last man into the wagon and jumped up, extending a hand for his men to pull him the rest of the way in, shouting “Go! Go! Go!” as soon as his feet were off the ground.
Niklas snapped the reins, yelling at the horses to get moving. Hooves dug into the road as they struggled to get the heavy wagon rolling.
I checked my musket and assessed our situation.
At least one horse lacked a rider and several men had dismounted to help someone lying on the ground. The line was in disarray, a group of a dozen riding out ahead, but pausing and turning first one way and then the other, unsure what to do; the rest of the riders were either helping the wounded man or trying to reform the line near him.
Finally, a man in the group of a dozen drew his saber, the metal glinting in the sun, and pointed it right at us, spurring his horse forward. The rest of his small group drew their sabers and followed.
“They’ll go for the horses,” Niklas yelled over the din of the rattling wagon. “Keep them away from the front of the horses.”
