To make matters better for the defenders and worse for the barbarians, the 1st Royal Dragoons rode out from their station, sabres at the ready and pistols firing into the rear of their attackers. The blades were employed against the thighs, knees, and ankles of their prodigious opponents, reckoned by Darren to be one of the primary weak points of such a large structure, much the same way that a hunter at home might hamstring a boar to prevent it fleeing. Said tactic required the cavalry to ride in well inside the reach of the Mountain Lords. The results, sadly, were as inevitable as they were unfortunate.
Almost always, the first of the dragoons to attempt such a close attack would be batted out of the saddle by their colossal opponents, either torn apart by the use of both hands, crushed by the use of one, or tossed away like an unwanted toy. The second and third had more luck, able to slice their weapons into the limbs of their foe, but such sabres managed little in the way of damage, either through poor aim, movement of the target, or simply the thick skin that covered the Mountain Lords and doubled in almost all senses as a form of leather armour.
The greatest benefit was that it spun the Mountain Lords away from the Lifeguards and towards the more proximate and immediately frustrating problem of the Dragoons, who, being mounted on horses, were better able to avoid the clutches of their antagonists.
Satisfied that there was little he could do in that situation, and that he had lost any reserve he might have had, Jacob turned his sight back towards the formalities occurring at the front of the operation, where, by now, the Mountain Lords were atop the trenches, and attempting to evict the Umkhovu from their burrows. It was, in some ways, a comical sight, these gargantuan creatures getting on hands and knees in order to reach into the trenches and claw out little Umkhovu, who skittered up and down the earthworks, firing and reloading when they could, but mostly focused on avoiding the grasping hands that would render their lives extinct.
One particular occasion that almost had Jacob break out in laughter despite the absurdity of it occurred below him at that moment. A Mountain Lord, having managed to trap a member of the Uhlobo clan by the simple expedient of lying down and using both hands, brought them together to close the ambush upon the poor unfortunate caught inside, when said creature poked the Mountain Lord in the palm with his bayonet. The sudden pain caused the larger individual to withdraw his hand and stare at in shock, which allowed the Umkhovu a moment to streak free.
Such freedom was short lived. The soldier ran out of the clutches of one hill-sized foe and into that of another, and was within moments a smear of pulp. Still, there were signs of progress across the battle, as here and there Mountain Lords stumbled backwards, faces and throats streaming red fluid from the impact of musket shot after musket shot. Given the disparity of size between the opponents and his soldiers, it was impossible for Jacob to see how many casualties his forces had taken, but the only number that he could think of was “high”.
A number that was only going to get higher, for another wave of artillery fire went home, piling shots through two standing Mountain Lords, only to discover that they were illusions, unharmed by the shells. More to the point, it was becoming exceedingly difficult for the cannon to fire at all, as the melee range engagement of the Mountain Lords with the Royal Army meant that even the slightest deviation from a perfect shot would result in friendly fire, and a cannonball could clear his trenchworks far faster than ever the opponents and their trees could.
What had once been a one-sided match, with his cannon punching holes through opponents unable to respond, had been reduced to a simple matter of attrition, his forces numerically superior, but dying at a much more advanced rate. Lamentably, he could estimate the likely final outcome, given that he had just seen another two Umkhovu caught and shredded, this time by nothing at all.
He pointed out the corpses hanging in the air to the battery commander, and the Mountain Lord that had so recently been celebrating its triumph with a mid-conflict snack found that it had nothing left to celebrate with, as shells tore apart limbs and shattered legs, caving in the creature and sending it tumbling to the ground.
Little moments like that might eventually turn the balance of the fighting in the favour of the human forces and their allies, but it was doing so at a rate that would ensure a Pyrrhic victory at the very best. Also, where had Darren gotten to? He was supposed to have led his forces in an attack against the Forgotten Folk some time ago, although given the way in which time passed during battles, Jacob was unsure if some time ago meant a few minutes, or an hour or more.
And there he was, at last riding out from behind the far mound. As the rest of the company streamed out behind Darren, it became clear that those forces had suffered a dreadful ravaging. A quick estimate based upon the numbers normally present in a third of the 1st Royal Dragoons suggested they had suffered anywhere between a quarter and a half in casualties. It would make the attack upon the Forgotten Folk much less effective. Or would have, had the Forgotten Folk carried any arms or possessed any defences whatsoever.
The charge that carried Darren across the field of battle and into the long grasses looked like little more than a disorganized canter, men rushing hither and yon and occasionally firing pistols at targets only they could see. But as a military operation, it was a resounding success, for as the cavalry charged across the field, the Forgotten Folk broke and ran, letting their illusions fail.
What resulted was a slaughter of small and unarmed creatures, ground under the hooves of the charging dragoons. Unpleasant, especially in the light of their evident cowardice and lack of desire to be anywhere near a field of battle, but a necessary evil taken during the course of enemy action. The effect it had on the combat effectiveness of the Umkhovu was profound, for where once they had been forced to guess at the location of many of their opponents, now each and every one was readily apparent.
Without the illusions in place to cloak them, the Mountain Lords suddenly found themselves being struck in the face, throat, and groin not only by the standard fire of the muskets, but by the much heavier shot of the volleyguns and blunderbusses, saved until they could be sure of striking their foes. At the close range that these weapons were employed at, they left wounds that reminded one more of the slashes of an angry predator rather than the cleaner impact of a ball. And those slashes bled copiously, fouling the vision and breathing of the foes.
It also provoked those colossal enemies into a rage that would have done the Nightwatch Fusiliers proud, a combination of frustration, anger, and pain that drove them to lash out at any and all targets within their grasp. Some even took to grasping Umkhovu and throwing them along the trenches, bowling over and crushing any unfortunates caught in the way.
There was nothing for it but to use every tool at his disposal.
“Maximum rapidity, targeting by gun crews.”
“Sir, we'll kill our own men.”
“Not as fast as the Mountain Lords are. Now fire, before we lose the battle and the war.”
Obedient as ever, the gunners opened up, while the loaders rushed back and forth from the ammo carts, the rate of fire fast enough they were effectively charging the cannon via the supplies, with no temporary stockpile in between.
The impact of those spheres of iron on the battle below was immediate, with Mountain Lords tumbling and crashing as they were struck. But just as the artillery captain had predicted, some of the balls went astray. One landed in a trench at just the wrong angle, and swept it clean of a platoon of Umkhovu, all of them batted aside into strange contortions that lacked any semblance of life.
Those orders all he could do for the attack on the breastworks, Jacob turned his attention to the assault on the rear of the camp, where the 1st Royal Dragoons were attempting to provide cover for the Queen's Lifeguards. In the minutes that Jacob had looked away, they had managed to do so, but at a cost to themselves that was unbearable over the course of the engagement.
Horses and soldiers lay scattered about, so much chaff af
ter the harvest. It almost was a harvest, with the barbarians swinging their clubs back and forth, sweeping through the cavalry like they were stalks of wheat to be scythed. Already, half of the entire 1st Royal Dragoons were casualties, perhaps more, for counting the bodies that moaned and writhed on the ground was impossible, and there were just as many that did not move at all.
They had, in return, taken their toll, for the Mountain Lords often crawled on one leg, the other useless after tendons had been severed. Or perhaps they clutched at faces that no longer could see, eyes torn out by sabre and bullet. It was the kind of close-in slaughter that would have made Jacob's distant ancestors create epics poems and tapestries, commemorating the nobility of the soldiers that day.
Amazingly, the only unit that stood almost untouched to this moment was the Lifeguards, for after the first spate of casualties caused by the surprise attack, the Mountain Lords had been turned and harassed by the Dragoons to the point that they had all but ignored the more distant muskets, allowing all four companies of the Lifeguards to pour fire into their foes. They had achieved a rhythm with the Dragoons, for whole platoons were discharging on signals from their cavalry compatriots, timing their shots so that they struck a Mountain Lord moments before the mounted troops came into range of the creature's weapons. Thus distracted, it was possible for the heavy sabres to do their grisly work of maiming and dismemberment.
And sometimes those musketballs did damage that was more than merely incidental. One soldier, lucky or skilled, punched his musketball into the hollow at the base of the throat, skipping it upwards off the bone there. The Mountain Lord died coughing as its own blood drowned it, unable to clear his torn throat. Other shots were similarly forceful, including one particularly vengeful sergeant who was having his men target the genitalia of the primitives. Entirely unsporting and inappropriate, which was why it had been taught only as a finishing cut in all the fencing schools that Jacob had ever attended. And one of the first thrusts during the bayonet routines.
There was little Jacob could do to help the forces being savaged by the Mountain Lords that they were not doing for themselves, and given the Lifeguards and the Dragoons had between them almost the strength of two regiments, while the Umkhovu were but one, he felt it was better to keep the artillery pointed to their support. Thankfully, the captain in charge of the other battery had taken his lead to resume firing from this one, and was shelling away at a pace that put to shame what they had achieved at the Royal Games. It was, quite possibly, the fastest any unit had ever managed to maintain continuous fire.
“Fredricks, do come here.”
“Yes sir?”
“If you would be so kind as to time the rate of shot on the cannons on the hill opposite? There should be a precision hourglass here somewhere, as they use them to time the flight of the shot. Once you have approximately five minutes of data, note it down somewhere safe, or remember it for after the battle.”
The soldier looked more than a little bemused at the request, coming as it did while the conflict was entirely in doubt, but did as he was told, leaving Jacob free to turn his attention back towards other matters.
Those other matters included the combat at the front of the encampment, where Darren's depleted third of the 1st Royal Dragoons, having seen off and slaughtered the Forgotten Folk, were now turning their attention to the Mountain Lords. Given that the creatures had their backs to the cavalry, the first charge would almost certainly be carried home, but it left Jacob with a great deal of apprehension, for they were charging into the teeth of not only Umkhovu musketry, but also the battery fire from the artillery stationed on both rises. Neither would be aimed at dragoons, but that would hardly prevent a stray shot from causing casualties, and in battle, stray shots did not come by the ones and twos, but by the tens and the hundreds.
“Is there a way that we can signal Darren's unit of dragoons without ordering the rest of his regiment?”
“There is, with the flags, but he would have to be watching to understand all of it.”
“A pity. As simple as can be, then. '1st Company, Dragoons, Break Off'. That's three flags, I presume?”
“Yes sir.”
“Run them up, then, and start waving.”
The flags had only just risen when the cavalry charge began, and so the signaller waved frantically, a sadly futile attempt to attract attention from a unit whose minds and eyes were entirely engaged in other pursuits. As the dragoons rode in on their targets, first one, then another, fell out of the saddle, stripped away by errant rounds. The third was the worst of all, for it struck a horse, and the animal fell screaming, a sharp note of terror and pain that cut across the tumult so volubly that Jacob could hear it clearly. Such a noise was even more pressing at a closer separation, and more than one of the Mountain Lords, despite their attackers, spun about to see what caused it.
One of them, still possessed of the tree trunk they used as weapons, tossed the weapon end over end, tumbling through the air like a shot pigeon. And like a game bird, it came to roost with an unpleasant thump, crashing into the first wave of the dragoons and bouncing again to spin into another clump, leaving both sets tumbled about like discarded dolls. That single strike had taken much of the fury from the charge, leaving an already wounded unit almost entirely impotent. But still the dragoons came on, and in their anger and sorrow they became an arrow pointed entirely at the creature that had slain so many of their companions.
First they opened up with their pistols, the heavy design that fired cartridges taken from shotguns. Those impacted across the face and neck of their target, blinding it, and causing copious bleeding to spill forth. Now unable to see to defend itself properly, the charge continued with sabres, cutting into the creature's legs, forcing it to first one knee then both, as tendons snapped under the strikes from the dragoons. Then the last of them, indistinct from the distance at which Jacob was watching, rode full tilt at the crippled native, standing in his stirrups for more force, and slashed through the throat entire, a priest slaying a sacrificial animal. The mortally wounded Mountain Lord fell, rolling to one side as it did, a creature entirely bereft of merit and of life.
Having expended much of their loaded ammunition on the first target available, the cavalry broke off, reloading as they did, and then circled back, prepared for the next strike home. The Umkhovu, adopting tactics from the Queen's Lifeguards either consciously or unconsciously, focused much of their fire on those two Mountain Lords on the extreme edge of the trenchworks, keeping them fully occupied until such time as the sabres could continue their gruesome work.
For every moment bought this way, another Umkhovu died, slain by the creatures they battled against, but those brief moments in which the enemy had to stand still to kill and maim left them open for retribution, for any target of the size of a Mountain Lord that was stationary was all but impossible to miss, and miss the Umkhovu did not.
One, taking bravery to extremes, charged out of the trenches with bayonet at the ready. Ducking under a swipe from its enemy, the Uhlobo clansman rolled between the taller creature's legs and thrust upwards with the bayonet, aimed in a perfect strike at the juncture of leg and groin. There was resistance, as the thick skin of the Mountain Lord refused to part for so paltry a thing as a bayonet, but at last the excellent steel did as it had been designed, and the thrust went home.
The look on the face of the Mountain Lord was painful surprise, lasting but a moment, for the creature was struck by a cannonball, breaking teeth, jaw, and all the rest of the cranium as it passed on through. The shot had stolen some of the glory of the bayonet strike, but had probably saved the Umkhovu's life, a fact that would surely not be mentioned whenever the soldier groused that he had had his single-handed kill of a Mountain Lord stolen from him.
“Sir, I have the number you requested.”
Jacob turned to find Fredericks behind him, holding an hourglass at the ready.
“Very well.”
“Four and a quarter per minu
te, although I believe one gun crew is managing almost five. Certainly, they are out of tempo with the others.”
“Thank you, Fredericks, I shall remember that.”
The soldier saluted, and then tucked himself up against the parapet, once more resuming his duties of scanning for assaulting soldiers.
Five a minute, a rate unheard of in the manual, or even in the wildest dreams of most artillery officers. The only way they could be achieving such a rate was to not swab the bore after every shot, and instead hot loading powder, wad, and shot all at once. Indeed, they were probably using only one wad to keep the ball from rolling free, firing at the downward angle that they were. After a while of being used in such a fashion, the breech of the cannon would begin to deform. That was if the heat and leftover ashes from previous firings did not ignite the powder while it was being loaded, possibly bursting the gun and killing much of the crew. There was also no time for aiming, which meant that at least some of those shots were being wasted. An impressive performance, but more foolhardy than brave. However, given the gun crew was placing themselves in extremis to support their fellow soldiers, he would ensure they received a commendation for their action. A judicious telling of the facts would provide an uplifting tale that was sure to improve morale.
About him, the gun crews began to sag, limbs collapsing under their own weight as first one then another fired a last shot, then sank to the ground, puppets with their strings released. It was a strange sight, and one that puzzled Jacob. Why were they relieving themselves of duty when there was still a battle to be won?
He turned his eyes downwards, away from the cannons mounted opposite, and let them roam across the field of battle, strewn as they were with casualties and corpses, hunks of rotting flesh where there had once been vibrant spirits and honour. Those fields were silent, full of nothing but the whispers of the wind and the howls of the dying. The Mountain Lords had been defeated, for as the last of them struggled to rise from its knees, a dragoon calmly walked up and slit its throat, much as a butcher would do to a calf when making veal.
Our Land (Queen's Own Book 1) Page 21
