The Last Legionnaire

by Paul Fraser Collard

  Jack turned to jab a finger against Billy’s chest. ‘Repeat your orders?’

  ‘Stay here.’ The boy bit his lip. It was no small thing to be left alone on a battlefield. ‘Until you come back.’

  ‘Good lad.’ He bent down to retrieve his discarded clothing, then shoved it into the hemp sack. He paused as he picked up his revolver. He was tempted to buckle the weapon around his waist. He hefted it in one hand, then looked at Billy.

  ‘Here.’ He held the revolver by the barrel and offered it to the boy. ‘Take it.’

  Billy took the gun and looked at it with wide eyes.

  ‘You know how to use it.’ Jack was watching him carefully as he handed over the revolver’s cartridge pouch. ‘You remember everything I taught you?’

  ‘Course.’

  ‘Only use it if you have to. If you do something bottle-head stupid with it, I will give you a hiding the likes of which you have never seen. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, Jack.’ Billy was busy stuffing the pouch into his pockets.

  ‘You hear me?’ Jack injected more force into his voice.

  Billy slid the revolver into the waistband of his trousers, then looked at him with solemn eyes. ‘Yes, Jack.’

  ‘Good.’ Jack jabbed the lad with his finger. ‘And don’t let anyone take the bloody horses.’

  ‘I won’t.’ The boy’s chin lifted in defiance.

  ‘Good lad.’ Palmer reached across to ruffle Billy’s hair before turning back to make sure that all three horses were safely tethered to a couple of sturdy trees. Satisfied, he unbuckled a pair of Minié rifles that he had tied to his saddle, handing one to Jack. ‘You know how to use a bundook?’

  Jack took the rifle with a tight-lipped smile. He had left his sabre in its scabbard tied to the saddle of his horse, and now Billy had his revolver. But he would not go on to the field of battle unarmed.

  The rifle’s weight was both reassuring and familiar. It had been many years since he had carried a long arm into battle, but he knew that the drills he would need to use it were buried deep inside him.

  Palmer handed over a black leather belly pouch full of cartridges, followed by a cap box that Jack could wear around his waist. Jack took his time with the new equipment, making sure that both items sat snugly against his body. Only when he was happy did he reach over to take the final item that Palmer had brought for them both.

  The bayonet was heavy. Jack held the weight for a moment, his fingers lingering on the steel blade, the metal cool to his touch. He could feel the sheen of oil under his fingertips, its stink just as he remembered.

  With a purposeful action he slotted the bayonet into the end of the rifle’s barrel before giving it a firm twist to lock it in place.

  Palmer nodded in approval. He offered a half-smile. ‘Shall we go?’

  Jack nodded. It was time to find Fleming.

  It felt odd being on his feet after riding all morning. The heat was getting oppressive, and Jack was sweating freely. They were walking fast, closing the distance between them and the column of legionnaires, which was already a fair way ahead.

  Neither of them had said a word since they had left Billy and the horses. Jack needed his breath for marching, the steep slope already pulling at his calf muscles. But he still had enough strength to turn as they pressed on, the rising ground presenting him with a good view over the ground to the south and east.

  It was easy enough to spot the place where the Austrian columns had been turned. The ground was churned up and scarred. Hundreds of bodies lay where they had fallen, and he was glad to be far enough away to be spared the details. Further to the south, he could just about make out a number of other French troops holding their ground. From their numbers, he supposed he was looking at the best part of a whole corps. A wide band of cavalry protected the joint between the men attacking the ridge and those still on the plain. The horsemen would cover both divisions’ flanks, their presence enough to prevent any Austrian attack from severing the link between them.

  The pace of the French drums increased. The Legion was moving briskly, its commanders eager to see it close on the Austrians holding the slopes around San Cassiano. No one turned to shout at the pair of straggling legionnaires running after the column.

  Jack’s breath was rasping in his throat by the time they reached the Legion’s rearmost company. He felt as if his face was on fire. His palms were slick, and when he lifted one from his rifle, he saw the sweaty imprint left behind.

  The drummers picked up the pace yet again. Now they sounded the pas de charge, the rhythm that had propelled the French army into the attack since the days of the first Napoleon. The legionnaires greeted the change in tempo with a great roar. It was a feral sound, a snarl of anger and fear released. The column surged forward, the beat propelling them on. Jack and Palmer went with it, their legs pumping hard as the slope steepened beneath their boots.

  Jack could no longer see the enemy line that waited ahead. But he could imagine it. The Austrian infantry would be standing in a line three men deep, the front two ranks ready to fire, the third ready to step forward to take the place of any that fell. Their skirmishers would be running forward, whilst the officers and sergeants stationed on the flanks and behind the line would be shouting themselves hoarse as they readied their men to fire their first volley.

  He flinched as a battery of enemy artillery opened fire. The roar of their volley echoed over the heads of the Legion in the moments before the first roundshot ploughed into their ranks. The Austrian cannon might be old-fashioned, but the solid iron shot still cut a swathe of death through the neatly ordered ranks.

  The Legion pressed on, the damaged ranks closing up, the sergeants in charge of the broken files shouting at their charges to keep going. Another volley of roundshot smashed into the column with appalling force. Men were punched to the ground, their bodies shattered. Their mates could do nothing but march on, the dead and dying ignored.

  Jack stepped around the first body he saw. A young legionnaire lay face up, his sightless, staring eyes betraying the shock and surprise of being hit, his left arm, shoulder and much of his side ripped away by a fast-moving roundshot.

  The bitter taste of fear was on Jack’s tongue. He had stood and watched as the Austrian columns were gutted by artillery fire. Now the Legion faced the same fate, and he was no longer a dispassionate observer. This time he marched in the ranks being targeted by the enemy’s guns. This time it could be his body left broken and torn for others to trip over. This time he could die.

  Something roared past overhead. Another similar object followed almost instantly, followed by yet another. Each cut through the air with a strange fizzing sound, a long trail of smoke surging out behind.

  ‘Rockets!’ Palmer had to bellow to be heard.

  ‘Shit!’ Jack could not help ducking as one of the devilish missiles seared by just above his head. It ploughed into the company ahead, exploding on impact, cutting two men in half and showering the rest with red-hot shards of steel. Six men fell as the shrapnel tore into them, a great hole blown in the files.

  ‘Fucking hell.’ Jack lowered his head. He did not look at the ruined flesh that passed by his boots, the remains of the men hit by the rocket now scattered wantonly across the blackened grass.

  The sound of muskets firing came in between each volley of artillery. He knew that the skirmishers from both sides would be in the fight now, the light troops picking at one another to keep their opposite numbers at bay. It was a bitter fight fought in the dead ground in front of the Austrian line. It would not decide who won, but men still died lest the other side find an advantage.

  He sucked down another lungful of scorching air. The legionnaires advanced steadily, ignoring the gaps blown in their ranks. Officers shouted encouragement, whilst sergeants screamed threats. The beat of the drums was unfaltering and constant, the pas de charge goading the ranks into the attack no matter how many of the young drummer boys were slain.

  They were close
to the Austrian line now. The air was full of the dreadful cacophony of battle: explosions and screams, the roar of cannon and the crackle of musketry. They marched as if into a storm, hunched and bowed. Jack went with them, his senses battered by the tempest.

  The main Austrian line fired their opening volley. The air was filled with a dreadful storm of musket balls that cut into the leading ranks of the column, scything men down by the dozen. For a moment the Legion shuddered as it absorbed the dreadful punishment. Then it lurched back into motion, the damage it had taken shrugged off as if it meant nothing.

  The officers still led the way, swords waving as they exhorted their men to follow. Jack could only marvel at their bravery. Many died, their bright epaulettes and golden buttons marking them out as targets for the enemy infantry, but enough stayed standing, and they ran at the Austrian line, setting the example the battered ranks needed

  With a great roar, the Legion stormed forward, following their officers as they charged at the enemy. Jack went with them, forcing his way deep into the ranks, his eyes scanning the faces around him for the man he sought. He could see nothing of the other battalions in the attack, his world reduced to little more than the men around him.

  The Austrian line fired a second volley. Dozens of legionnaires were cut down, but the men were past caring and they swept past the broken bodies without pause.

  Jack shouted as he went with them. He felt nothing as his boots slipped on a man’s spilt guts, his only thought not to lose his footing. To his front an officer died, his face smothered in blood. He fell away, a legionnaire shoving his body to one side without mercy.

  The Legion had taken its casualties. It had advanced no matter how many of its men had fallen. Now they charged, bayonets at the ready. It was time to exact a bloody revenge.

  Jack bellowed his war cry as the Legion charged. Around him, the ordered ranks were breaking up. These were the hard yards, the bloody yards, when there was nothing to be done save to keep going forward, no matter what horror was inflicted upon those around him. Time was slowing, each moment taking an age. The ground passed under his boots with stubborn slowness, every step an effort of will.

  He glimpsed the Austrian line. He was close enough to see the look of horror on the faces of the young conscripts ordered to face the charging legionnaires. As he watched, he saw them lift their muskets to their shoulders. He could not hold back another cry as a tongue of fire leaped from every muzzle. The air around him snapped and crackled, musket balls zipping past close enough for him to feel the air shake. The cry turned into a cheer as he realised he was still whole.

  The legionnaires ignored their casualties and surged forward. They were close enough to know that the Austrians had no time to reload. Time accelerated to pass at breakneck speed, the last yards flying by in a blur.

  Jack spotted a blond-haired legionnaire to his left. He angled his run, sliding past another soldier then following the man he had sought even as he charged at the Austrian line.

  The legionnaires hit the enemy at full tilt. They had taken heavy casualties, but these were men who had been hardened on the battlefields of the Crimea and North Africa. They tore into the Austrians like a whirlwind.

  Their sergeants led the way. With so many officers gone, it was down to the non-commissioned officers to show their men what was expected. Now the most experienced soldiers fought their way into the enemy line, their bayonets thrusting at the men standing against them. The legionnaires followed, keening for blood.

  The Austrians held their ground. They might not be veteran soldiers, but they understood pride. Their own bayonets rammed forward. Many legionnaires died at the point of the charge. The Austrian conscripts had been well drilled, and they fought with the relentless purpose of automatons. Time and time again their bayonets found their way into a legionnaire’s flesh, the advantage of the higher ground making their grim task all the easier.

  Yet the French soldiers would not quit, the despairing cries of the fallen goading their comrades on. All along the line they gouged gaps in the Austrian formation. Wherever a white-coated defender fell, two or more legionnaires threw themselves into the breach. The line was slowly ripped apart, the French bayonets exacting a dreadful toll on the enemy ranks.

  Jack saw Fleming enter the fray. To his front the enemy line was still whole, and three legionnaires died almost at the same instant as Austrian bayonets cut them down. Fleming threw himself into the gap. Jack saw him batter aside a bayonet aimed at his stomach then thrust his own weapon forward, an animal snarl of anger exploding from his lips.

  Jack pounded up the slope, forcing his way through the men in front of him. The pain in his lungs and in his legs disappeared as he followed Fleming into the Austrian line.

  An Austrian conscript screamed as he lunged with his bayonet. Jack spotted the blow coming. He battered it to one side with the barrel of his rifle. He saw his foe’s eyes widen in sudden fear before he slammed the rifle’s butt into the man’s face.

  ‘Come on!’ He bellowed his challenge as he stepped forward, keeping close to Fleming. He had lost sight of Palmer, but there was no time to wonder if his comrade had survived the bloody advance.

  More legionnaires pressed around him. They went forward in a wedge, each man trying to protect the others. Fleming led the way. He fought hard at the point of the wedge, leading his comrades deeper into the enemy formation, his bayonet already bloodied to the hilt.

  An Austrian officer came at Fleming from the side, his curved sword slashing at the legionnaire’s face. Jack saw the danger so raised his rifle, knocking the sword away. The Austrian snarled and turned on Jack, lunging again, his sword cutting a thick splinter from the barrel of Jack’s rifle. Another attack followed, then another, the officer shouting incoherently with every blow.

  Jack saw the man’s lips pull back into a grimace as he came at him again. The Austrian was young, but he was quick and used his sword well. Jack staggered as he only just blocked a thrust aimed at his groin. The man recovered fast, leaving him no time to counter, and lifted his sword before darting forward in a swipe at Jack’s throat.

  Jack lowered his rifle and swayed back. The blade rasped by, close enough for him to feel the wind of its passing. It went wide and he roared as he lunged his bayonet into the soft flesh beneath the Austrian’s chin.

  The officer tried to scream, but Jack twisted the bayonet, tearing the gristle of the man’s throat wide open so that blood gushed from the horrible wound, smothering the cry before it could be formed. He pushed hard, forcing the body backwards and off his bayonet. He felt nothing as the Austrian officer fell away, his sabre dropping from his grasp.

  Jack looked around. The Austrian line had stood firm, the conscripts in its ranks fighting long after other, more experienced men would have run. But against the veteran legionnaires they could not hold for ever, and now they broke.

  Jack sucked in huge draughts of air. Each breath scorched his lungs, the air heated as if from an oven, but he pulled it down nonetheless until he could breathe almost normally. The legionnaires around him were doing the same. Each face mirrored the same expression of relief and exhaustion.

  He looked back the way the column had come. The ground was littered with bodies. Some lay in groups, half a dozen bundled together, twisted into a single grotesque shape. Others were alone, serene and peaceful as they stared at the sky through sightless eyes. Everywhere the ground was torn and blackened, the pits and rents from exploding shells scarring the landscape.

  He saw artillery advancing up the slope, the French commanders seeking to consolidate the position the legionnaires had paid for with their blood. The slope was too steep for the gunners’ horse trains, and so it was down to the strength of the men in the regiments held in reserve to drag the guns into position. Whilst lines of men hauled the cannons up, others stood in long chain gangs, passing up ammunition from the caissons left at the foot of the slope.

  With his body recovering, Jack picked up his rifle and wa
lked towards the man he had come so far to find. Fleming was squatting next to a legionnaire stretched out on the ground. His eyes lifted as he saw Jack approach. For a moment there was the flash of recognition, then he turned his attention back to his fallen comrade, his lips moving as he offered comfort to the dying man.

  ‘Do nothing foolish.’

  Jack turned at the sudden command. Kearney had come up behind him. The legionnaire sergeant looked like he had just returned from a day working in the slaughterhouse. His blue uniform was covered with dark stains, his sleeves bloodied to the elbow. Drops of blood speckled his face like engorged freckles, and five streaks of red lined one cheek from where an enemy soldier must have clawed at his face. His bayonet was dripping blood, and it was pointed at Jack’s heart.

  ‘Leave him be.’ Another voice made itself known.

  Jack saw Palmer coming towards him. His uniform was just as grim, and a great tear had been ripped down one side. It was a relief to see the large man still standing, especially as he now approached Kearney with his rifle held ready to strike.

  Kearney glanced over his shoulder at Palmer. If he felt any emotion at the threat, he did not show it. He looked at Jack. ‘I saw you fight.’

  Jack kept his eyes on the bayonet aimed at his heart. The blood was already blackening and congealing. It would not stop the blade if Kearney chose to drive it forward.

  ‘You’re good.’ The sergeant gave the praise with a trace of a smile. ‘You’ve done this before.’

  ‘Once or twice.’

  Eyes still on Jack, Kearney lowered his rifle. ‘You cannot take him away. Not yet. I still need him.’ He turned to glance at Palmer. ‘Drop your weapon, my friend. There will be enough killing today without you adding to it here.’