Pistoleer: Slavers

by Smith, Skye

  "And if the English are not polite enough to follow your plan, what then? Their cavalry will capture some of your cherished field guns,” Daniel warned. "That would be a disaster."

  "Don't you see, Danny? That is exactly what will bring the cavalry out from behind those ramparts. They will use your fleeing squad as a blind, but they won't be interested in catching you so much as capturing some of our field guns."

  "So let me get this straight. I fake a charge, retreat, and then get the hell out of the way of your cannons. You do the rest?"

  "Exactly."

  It took a busy half hour to organize the flying squad from those men huddled close by who carried pistols. Meanwhile, enough horses for them were being brought forward, as well as some six-pounders to be hidden behind the walls of the wreckage of the town. There were a lot of crumbling walls in Newbourne, but not just from today's cannon balls. Most were the remains from a time when this was the main town on the River Tyne, instead of Newcastle. Only a tenth of the old foundations still had houses on them, and most of the houses that still stood had been in poor repair even before today's cannon balls.

  Once Alex's precious Swedish four-pounders were openly placed in a position to fire along the bridge, Daniel and his twenty volunteers cantered across. They did not bide their time, nor undertake any special preparations. The longer they stood waiting to charge, the more likely it was that they would lose their nerve.

  To the English commanders on the south side of the Tyne, it must have seemed like the Scots had taken leave of their senses. Twenty mounted and lightly armoured men were making a foray across the bridge, and their only cover were two very small cannons, and even those could not give covering fire without hitting their own men. Not only that, but there was a lull in the Scottish cannonade, the first lull in hours, and that meant that English musketeers and cavalrymen could all pop their heads up and take a look over the earthen ramparts they had been hiding behind.

  "Ach, the fools,” Alex Leslie moaned as he watched from his blind, which was within hailing distance of Ham up on the church tower. "Why, oh why, didn't they accept my terms? This will not be war, this will be murder. Their leaders are fools, and too proud by half. Those bloody ignorant, inbred English lords are playing at war. They are not fit enough as leaders to organize the storming of a whorehouse." He didn't want to watch his plan be put into action, but as the general he must. That was his job, nay, his duty.

  Daniel and his flying squad had increased their pace as they crossed the bridge and now they were at a full gallop towards the culverin closest to the bridge, to where its muzzle poked out from a purposefully built breech in the ramparts. That breech was now quickly filling with English musketeers.

  The moment the English began leveling their muskets, was the same moment that Daniel decided they were close enough. He pulled his mare hard up and then turned her back towards the bridge, and the riders behind him did likewise so that twenty horses' asses were in a wide line facing the breech. Then as one, the pistoleers turned in their saddles to face the breech and fired their pistols at the musketeers.

  This hopeless waste of pistol balls would have caused the musketeers to laugh at them because they were well out of pistol range. This was more true than they knew, for the Scottish pistols were loaded for belching smoke rather than launching balls; the twenty-one gun belches obscured the entire breech in a filthy grey-brown smoke, causing the two sides to lose sight of each other.

  As Alex watched, scarcely breathing, the flying squad raced out of the cloud of brown smoke and hurtled back towards the bridge. "Run Danny, you beauty,” he whispered hoarsely, "run for your life." As soon as the flying squad was far enough away from the breech to be out of the line of fire, Alex gave the order to fire at the culverin and the musketeers defending it.

  Four of his six-pounders belched death towards the musketeers and the grapeshot whistled and punched holes through the brown smoke that still masked the breech. Other of his cannons strafed the ramparts on either side of the smoke cloud with grapeshot. Not that they would have hit anyone, for as soon as the musketeers had seen the smoke from Scottish cannons, they would have ducked down. It was enough that the lines of musketeers were too busy ducking to take aim at the flying squad.

  "Come on, you evil inbred sons of lords,” Alex cursed under his breath. "Where is your bloody cavalry? They can't all be off boozing and wenching." He shouted up to the tower, which was still standing despite being hit a half dozen times by cannon balls. "Ham, can you see over the ramparts? Can you see any English cavalry?" He looked towards the bridge again. The flying squad was almost to it. There, there they were. The English cavalry were careening down the earthwork ramparts trying to outrun and cut off Daniel's squad.

  Of course the cavalry would have waited. They wanted to use Daniel as a blind against the four-pounders covering the bridge. They had waited until the flying squad was blocking their own cover fire. He watched Daniel and his men. They were looking around, searching for any sign of a chase, and had slowed their mounts to tease the cavalry out of cover. With the cavalry now in pursuit, the flying squad kicked their horses to a run.

  There were too many English cavalry in hot pursuit to all use the bridge, so over half of them veered left or right and leaped into the fords on each side of the bridge. They were all so sure of themselves. Sure that they were safely shielded from cannon grape by their closeness to the Scottish flying squad, and sure in their knowledge that the pistoleers had already spent their pistols. Such assuredness, such lack of caution, was a disaster in the making.

  The first loads of grape from the six-pounders hidden closest to the fords now strafed the English cavalry who were splashing across both fords. Any of them with any sense gave up the chase immediately and tried to make it back to the south bank. The horses of those without such common sense went down, and went down hard, taking their riders with them into the relative safety of the water.

  The cavalry who followed the flying squad across the bridge were not so lucky. The flying squad had too good of a lead to become targets for lances or sabres and was off the north end of the bridge and around the gun crews of the two four-pounders before any of the chasing cavalry reached the north end. And then the obvious happened. The four-pounders simultaneously erupted a great gust of grape shot.

  The first ten horses on the bridge ate all the grape and went down as one. The second ten riders were unharmed and bravely decided to continue the charge and capture the two light guns. They must have totally forgotten about the thousand Scottish musketeers that were hiding behind the village buildings. A hundred men on the bridge and in the fords were hit by musket fire, and had no choice but to try to retreat to the safety of the English earthen works.

  With the English cavalry now out of position or in full retreat, and the English musketeers still nowhere to be seen along the ramparts, and the English cannons still not able to target the bridge, the Scottish musketeers were ordered to charge across the river and capture the ramparts and the English culverins.

  Daniel and his squad had stopped their retreat close behind the four-pounders in order to reload their pistols so they could defend the guns from capture. That just put them in front and in the way of a massive rally of Scottish infantry. They were being pushed along in front of the wave of men running for the bridge, and all they could do to get out of the way was to tack through the mob down the bank and into the ford.

  The ford was running red with the blood of the injured, dying and dead cavalry horses. It had become a treacherous crossing because of the injured and panicked horses, as well as the walking wounded of the failed cavalry charge. When they finally reached the other bank, Daniel and his flying squad could not charge into the gun emplacement breeches because those ways were blocked by hoards of Scottish infantrymen. Instead they rode up the ramparts until they had just enough height to see over them. There seemed to be no musketeers waiting to fire at them, so they continued to the top.

  Sure enough,
over the last half hour the English musketeers had learned much about the destructive force of cannons shooting grape. The ramparts would have given them a fine view of their brothers-in-arms being torn to shreds in the breeches. Now the English infantry were limping, walking, and running away from their posts all along the ramparts. Their officers were yelling at them to rally them, but it was too late. The English infantry was leaving the field. The cannon battle that had raged along the Tyne had been more than enough to make the infantry lose heart.

  The English officers were well armed and had been ordering their infantry to hold the ground and shoot the Scots, but more and more they were finding themselves yelling at the backs of their men. As Daniel watched, an officer in a wide-brimmed navy blue cavalier hat, complete with white plume, pushed back his matching blue cloak, raised his pistol and shot at one of the retreating backs. The lad, for he was only a lad, went down in a howl of pain.

  The officers around the bastard stared at the lad and now disobeyed the very orders they had been yelling to 'hold the ground and shoot the Scots'. Instead of shooting the Scots, they began shooting at the fleeing backs of their own command. Three or four more of the retreating infantry were shot in the back before Daniel and his flying squad were amongst the officers and aiming their dragons at their faces.

  There was little risk, for the bastard officers had already emptied their guns into the backs of their own men. Daniel stared down at Fancy-hat and pointed his dragon at the man's face. Both barrels were empty, but this man wasn't to know that. His pistoleers rounded the other officers up and pushed them all towards Fancy-hat. None of the officers put up a fight, which was a good thing since it was likely that the flying squad did not have two loaded pistols between the them.

  The Scottish infantry was now coming towards this position in the form of some wild-looking Highlanders who were armed with long-handled battleaxes and shields, as if from some vision of a battle from before the time of gunpowder. The last of the loyal English infantry, on seeing the Highlanders and on seeing their officers so meekly surrendering, now knew that this battle was lost. They stood and ran to follow the rest of their company into the corn fields beyond the ramparts, and must have been praying that the Highlanders did not chase them into the long stalks.

  With the Scottish infantry now surrounding the English officers, Daniel and his pistoleers could now take the time to regroup, reload, and take a good look about to see if their help was needed anywhere else. Daniel mouthed some clucking sounds and used his knees to calm his panting mare. She was unnerved and skittish from the smell of blood and powder and the anguished screams of wounded animals and men. Slowly she was coaxed back up to the top of the rampart so that he could signal to Alex and Ham that it was safe for the rest of the army across the river.

  While he was waving he heard an unusual sound or rather, an absence of sound. There was no longer any cannon thunder. For hours it had been constant, and now there was none. From his height, mounted on a horse on top of the ramparts, he could look along them in both directions. Not a single English cannon had a crew nearby to load it, and of course, no Scottish cannon dare fire lest they injure their own men who were now capturing the English positions.

  Now came the hard part. Somehow, he, an Englishman, and possibly the only Scottish officer on this side of the river, must convince the Scottish mob NOT to chase the retreating English army. The goal of this attack had been to overrun the English cannon, and then to secure the ramparts from any counter attack. The last thing he or Alex Leslie wanted was a horrific slaughter.

  Now that the cannon were secure, it was vital that the Scots march along the south bank of the river towards Newcastle and prevent the English from crossing the river to the safety of Newcastle's fortress. To do this the Scots needed to control the river and every boat and ferry on it. He called his flying squad to him and quickly told them what was needed, and then sent them off to spread the word to any group that was chasing the retreating army.

  While his pistoleers careened down the rampart, Daniel took some deep breaths and calmed himself. From this height he had a good view of what was happening with both armies and what he saw was that he couldn't call either side 'armies', not in the Dutch sense of the word. Most of the companies on either side were just armed rabbles. Undisciplined, untrained mobs without squad leaders experienced enough to give logical orders according to the immediate situation.

  He scanned the battlefield for the English cavalry. He found them. Charlie's inbred mounted twits were racing towards the village of Ryton, or rather to a small rise of land behind that village. Meanwhile Charlie's infantry were walking south, and probably wouldn't stop until they reached their homes. The ones making the best time, the smart ones, were trotting along an ancient lane towards the village of Stella.

  The English infantry were still carrying their weapons, which they would consider theirs just for showing up at this battle. Woe be to any farmer who refused to feed them. Woe be to any officer who threatened them about their cowardice under fire.

  He knew of the village of Stella, for that is where Leslie had met with Conway on the day before the battle. Was that only yesterday? Alex had come away from the village feeling frustrated. Conway and his officers had refused to listen to the harsh truth that the Scottish army was larger and better armed. A lot of men were now dead or crippled because Lord Stafford had ordered Conway to hold this ford.

  Daniel's mare was now at the end of this section of the ramparts, and below her was one of the culverin slots. It was the very breech that she had earlier charged towards. There were hoards of Scots pouring through it. Daniel yelled some orders at them, but he was ignored, so he raised the only gun he had yet to fire, his carbine, and he fired it into the air to get their attention. Now some men looked up at him, so he repeated his orders but this time he imitated Alex Leslie's own thick brogue accent in order to sound like a Scottish officer, rather than like an Englishman.

  Perhaps it was because of the faux accent, or perhaps it was because a half a dozen of his flying squad had come to join him, but at last the men below had stopped to listen and were paying attention. An order that is logical does not need to be given by a general, and what Daniel was calling to them was only logical. Protect the English cannons. Keep the English away from the river and its boats. Luckily, one of Leslie's junior officers was amongst the mob and he took up the cry.

  With the orders given, Daniel could now take the time to focus his looker on what he was seeing down below where the Scots were marching through and around the English gun emplacement. He should have known better than to focus. It was better not to look closely at the ground after a battle. It made him want to puke. There were bloody bits of men scattered everywhere as if some god had sewn bits of bone and flesh into the soil to see if a crop of people would grow.

  Yes, there was the occasional whole dead body, but those were rare. The wounded had already limped away or had been dragged away by friends or cousins. All around him were fleshy remnants of what an hour ago had been men. He looked away, for he didn't want to lose his stomach in front of the other pistoleers. Instead he concentrated on reloading his weapons, as were the other pistoleers. Nobody spoke. To speak you needed to breathe, and to breathe meant smelling the odor of death and blood and battle and flash-roasted flesh.

  While he was reloading he noticed that the kilted Highlanders seemed to be robbing the English officers that the flying squad had captured. The ones who had been shooting their own men in the back. They were now being beaten, or at least those struggling to get away from the Highlanders were being beaten. He finished his reloading and then urged his mare down the slope towards them.

  The sight of the abuse of these men, these defeated men, these finished men, enraged him more and more as he rode down towards the Highlanders. One group had Fancy-hat pinned to the ground. One of the Highlanders was giving him the boot, while others were stealing his boots. As Daniel rode closer, one of the Highlanders pulled his di
rk and moved it towards the man's face.

  "Put the dirk away, lad, he is a captive." Daniel called out in a loud voice so that not only the Highlanders, but the half-dozen flying squad behind him would hear. Again he imitated the general's brogue. The Highlanders stared at him and yelled back in broken English that they did not speak English. Whether true or not was debatable, although most country Scots had no need of English.

  One of his flying squad did the interpretation to Scottish. "Tell him also that to hurt a man who has surrendered to you, is to spit in the face of the fates, for one day they too may be a captive,” Daniel told the man who was translating. The translator began discussing something heatedly with the Highlanders so Daniel slid from his saddle, cocked his dragon, and walked towards the group surrounding the downed officer.

  "They say that they weren't going to kill him, just scalp him and leave him here," the translator said. "That way he would die only if none of his own men would help him. It's Highland justice. When a man does deadly evil to someone else, his fate is given to the one he's abused. I suppose since this officer shot some of his own men in the back, they expect that his own men will let him bleed to death."

  The officer had been stripped of his fine cloak and cavalier hat and anything else of value, including his weapons. A Highlander lad reached forward and grabbed the officer's hair and yanked on it hard to lift the scalp away from the skull so he could saw the scalp away with his dagger. Daniel growled at him and leveled his dragon at him. The standoff that followed was tense. The only man speaking was the officer, who was pleading with Daniel to save him from the heathens. As Daniel was not a Christian, this struck him as funny, and he laughed aloud. The very act of laughing seemed to calm everything down.

  With the help of the translator he explained to the Highlanders that the officer had surrendered and therefore no one in the Scottish army could harm him unless he tried to escape or fight them. The Highland lad sheathed his dirk and let go of the officer's hair.