And between the deafening explosions of the powder casks, Jack could hear cheers, howling, curses from around the harbor as the pirate community celebrated this act of defiance, this spitting in the face of the man who had vowed to rout them out.
Jack threw his head back and howled as well, howled, shouted, let all the pent up fear and anxiety out with each wild animal cry. He screamed in triumph, in exhilaration. He was alive and he screamed in pure, sweet relief.
CHAPTER FOUR
MARY SPURRED her horse forward, forcing it to approach Frederick’s wild mount. She tossed her sword aside, reached out, grabbed Frederick by the collar.
The artillery was relentless, the murderous grape tearing through the ranks, stabs of muzzle flash from the trees and now from the stone house as well. They were in a crossfire and they were being killed like deer driven into a pen.
“Get off your horses! Get off your damned horses!” Mary shouted, again and again. She dragged Frederick from his frantic mount, pulled him over to her, and then her horse was shot out from under her, its neck and chest torn apart by grape. The animal collapsed with never a sound, like it had never been alive, and together Mary and Frederick fell with it, tumbling in a heap to the plowed earth.
“Son of a bitch!” Mary shouted as she pulled her leg from under the dead animal. “Frederick, are you hurt?”
“No, no. A little cut, it is nothing. You?”
“No.” She pulled her carbine from her saddle and then looked up, quick, her head just over the top of the wheat. All around her were terrified horses, charging in every direction and dying in the hail of grape coming from the trees and the stone farm house.
But they were riderless. The troopers must have heeded her words, or figured for themselves the folly of remaining on their tall horses where they were perfect targets for the men laying the guns.
So now they were dismounted, hidden in the waist-high wheat, and it was only a matter of time before the infantry sortied out again, in force, and killed them all.
Damn it! They had ridden right into it, like bloody fools. And now there was no one left alive to give orders.
Well, Mary thought, someone has to, or we’ll all die right here, so it might as well be me.
“Walpole’s regiment! To me! To me!” she shouted from her kneeling position. She found her sword and snatched it up, leapt to her feet. The tree line and the farm house were blanketed with smoke and the guns continued to add volumes more to the roiling cloud. Blasts of grapeshot whistled past and the air was filled with the cries of men and the ghastly shrieks of dying horses.
“Walpole’s regiment! To me!” Mary shouted, waved her sword, and from the wheat men stood, raced toward her, bent almost double, and dropped to the ground around her.
Another burst of artillery and a horse just ten feet away took the full blast of grape and was blown from its feet by the impact. Time to get down. Mary threw herself to the ground. The grape screamed overhead.
From her crouched position she looked around. There were two dozen men hunkered down in the wheat field around her, bright scarlet coats against the green plants. No officers that she could see. And she, a corporal, realized she might well be the ranking trooper there.
“Listen up, all of you!” she said, loud, and all eyes turned toward her. “They’ll bloody murder us if we try to get back the way we came, and they’ll murder us if we stay here, but I reckon we can roll up the flank of that artillery in the tree line. You men follow me. Hands and knees. They see us coming, we’re dead.”
Mary turned and on hands and knees she crawled away, pushing the wheat down in front of her, making for the right side of the tree line. And behind her the others followed. Mary knew that they were grateful to have someone giving orders, someone in charge. If they did not have something to do, some active part in their own salvation, then they would go mad with fear.
She crawled on, fifty yards, one hundred yards, her knees aching, her hands brown with the rich soil and cut with a dozen tiny lacerations from the stiff wheat stalks, as was her face, but she did not even think about that. Her whole mind was on the tree line, getting to the tree line.
She was breathing hard. It seemed as if they would never reach it. Was she leading them in a circle? She could see nothing beyond the wheat. The sun was too low and too indistinct to be of any help in navigating.
And then they were there. The wheat ended and there was twenty feet of cleared land and then the trees. The artillery was still firing, a near continuous barrage, and she wondered who they were firing at, what part of the Light Horse was foolish enough to still be standing up under that murderous hail.
That was not her concern.
Mary peered out from the cover of the tall crop, looked right and left. She could see no French troops and she hoped that meant that no French troops could see her. She retreated a few feet back into the field, turned to Frederick and the others behind her. “I’ll go. If I don’t draw fire, then follow me, two at a time.”
Heads nodded and Mary turned and crawled back to the edge of the wheat. She pulled herself into a crouch, drew a deep breath, and then launched herself into the open field, in full view of anyone who might be looking in that direction.
She ran as fast as she could, her thigh boots flapping, the tails of her regimental coat slapping her legs. It seemed an impossible distance to the shelter of the woods.
And suddenly she was aware of someone running beside her. She looked over. Frederick was there, running all out at her side.
You idiot, you damned idiot! she thought, but then they were at the edge of the woods. They plunged through the bracken, into the shade of the big oaks, collapsed to the ground, gasping for breath. Mary looked up, glaring at Frederick.
“You . . .” Frederick gasped, “. . . don’t get all the glory . . .”
Before Mary could respond, a pair of troopers crashed through the undergrowth, and a second later another pair, as two at a time they crossed the open ground and found shelter in the trees, the same trees from which the French artillery was firing, quite ignorant of their presence.
Five minutes of that and all the men who had followed Mary were drawn up into the woods. In that time the artillery had fallen silent, an odd sensation to ears that had become accustomed to the continuous roar of the guns.
“I think they’ve sent the infantry out again,” Mary said in a loud whisper. “We’ll roll right up their flank and turn their artillery on them. Come along.”
She turned and headed through the woods, stumbling through the undergrowth, and then from the jumble of trees and brush a trail emerged, making its twisted way through the tree line. Mary stepped onto it cautiously, unslung her carbine and fixed the bayonet onto the socket at the end of the barrel. Behind her the men followed. More than half of them had also thought to snatch their carbines from their saddles, and they fixed bayonets as well.
She picked up her pace. The artillery had to be arrayed along that path.
Up the trail they moved, through variegated patches of dull sunlight and shadow, their footfalls silent on the soft earth. Around a twist in the path and there was a French infantryman, a picket, protecting the approach to the artillery park.
A picket, but not looking down the trail. Rather, he was looking out over the field at where his comrades were spreading out, searching for the English cavalrymen hiding in the wheat. Hoping to see some fun, no doubt.
Mary leveled her bayonet and charged and the soldier caught the movement out of the corner of his eye. He wheeled around, his musket came up, his mouth open, and a shout of surprise formed in his throat and then Mary drove her bayonet through his chest and he fell choking in his own blood.
The first time Mary had killed, close up, she had stood over the man, watched him die, then vomited, over and over. She cried all night, silently, in the dark, unseen. It was not an unusual reaction. She had since seen plenty of men do the same after their first blood.
But that was a long time ago. S
he felt nothing as she jerked the bayonet free of the picket’s body. Her pace did not slacken. She raced up the trail and she could hear the heavy footfalls of her fellows behind her. She slung her carbine back over her shoulder, pulled her pistols from her belt. Her hands were too small to cock the pistols with her thumbs, the way the men did, so she cocked the locks of each with the palm of the opposite hand.
Around a twist in the path and right in front of her, not ten feet away, was the first of the field cannon. The artillery crew were lounging around their charge, leaning on rammers or with their backs against the tall wheels of the gun carriage or sitting on the trails. Their work was done, or so they thought.
An officer straightened, shouted “Qu’est-ce que c’est?” His hand went for his sword and Mary Read shot him in the chest.
She threw the pistol aside and with the one in her left hand shot a quick-thinking gunner who was swinging his rammer in a great arc at her head. The man was knocked back against the gun, slumped to the ground, and then the rest of the dismounted cavalry surged over the gun and crew, shooting them down, striking them down with carbines and cold steel.
In fifteen seconds it was over, but now the crews of the other guns up the trail were alerted and would not be so easily taken by surprise. Mary scanned the distant wheat field. She could see the blue backs of French infantry, moving cautiously over the ground, like pheasant hunters trying to flush out the hidden English troops.
“Three of you, stay with this gun. Start firing on those bastards out there!” She pointed over the barrel of the big gun, toward the field. “The rest of you, reload and follow me! Take their firelocks,” she indicated the clutch of dead and wounded Frenchmen at their feet, “if you’ve none of your own.”
She unslung her carbine, held it in both hands as she charged up the trail again. The next gun was no more then forty yards away, though they could not see it through the thick wood until they were almost on top of it. The crew there was not milling around as the first had been; they were alert, small arms ready, unsure of the source of the gunfire down the trail.
But they were only nine men, and ready as they were they were not prepared for the surge of running, screaming, crazed troopers that suddenly burst from the wood and rolled right over them. Mary saw one of her men fall, shot in the gut, and she dropped the shooter with her carbine.
She whirled around, found herself staring into the short barrel of a pistol in the hand of a French artillery lieutenant. She twisted sideways, whipped the butt of the carbine around, connected with the pistol just as the weapon went off. She felt the bullet pluck at her regimental coat and she twisted back, lunging with the bayonet.
But the officer was quick and he leapt back from the slashing blade and drew his sword. They faced one another, eyes locked, and for that instant each was the most important person in the other’s world.
Damn . . . The bayonet at the end of a musket was a good weapon, but not against the speed and agility of a sword. The Frenchman took a step forward, the point of his blade swaying like a cobra. Then he lunged, but Mary sensed the feint and knocked the blade away with the butt of her gun but did not counterattack.
The Frenchman lunged again, and again, probing for an opening, and again and again Mary knocked the blade aside but would not be fooled into committing herself to a rash attack. She could see the frustration on the Frenchman’s face, could hear the fighting behind her as her own men overwhelmed the artillery crew.
He does not have much time, Mary thought. The Frenchman had to kill her quickly or turn and run.
He attacked again, a slashing assault, and Mary stepped back, parried the blow, and stabbed at him with her bayonet. She saw the look of triumph on the Frenchman’s face as she opened herself up, saw him lunge, saw the triumph turn to surprise as she dodged the blade, twisting out of the way, and slammed the butt of the gun into the side of the man’s head.
The lieutenant staggered, his tall hat tilted at an odd angle, and Mary drove her bayonet between his ribs. He went down with a choking scream, but Mary had no more time for him. She jerked the bayonet free, turned back to the artillery piece. The gun crew lay dead, strewn around the field piece they served.
“Come on,” she ordered and the light cavalry charged on up the trail.
There were eight guns that had been dragged into the cover of the woods, arrayed along the trail, and Mary Read led her troops right up that line, killing the gun crews or sending them running into the wheat field.
The end of the trail, and Mary stopped, breathing hard, and looked out over the wheat field. The French infantry were moving cautiously, prepared for a surprise from in front, when the first of the guns manned by Mary’s men went off, gray smoke spurting out across the field, the wicked grape blasting into the French skirmishers.
Mary saw two men drop, but the soldiers were spread out across the field, not an ideal target for grapeshot, not like an unbroken line of cavalry. Still, the effect of the blast far exceeded the casualties the gun doled out. Mary saw men wheel in surprise, back away from the tree line, then wheel again, at the possible threat from the English troops hidden in the wheat.
Then the next gun spoke, another blast of grape, and the Frenchmen in the field did not know which way to run, did not know where their lines were, where the enemy was hiding. Mary knew very well how exposed they would feel, there on that open ground, the guns in the trees hurling their deadly loads.
Another gun fired, another blast of grape added to the confusion and mounting panic, and the French infantry knew at last, knew for certain, that the guns were not in the hands of their fellow soldiers. They broke and ran, making for the stone house and another gun blasted into their flank, firing with great effect, blue-coated bodies hurled in the air, scarlet bursts of blood over the green crops.
Those men who had come with Mary the full length of the trail wheeled their captured cannon around, and pointed the muzzle at a place in front of the running French.
Frederick stood at the muzzle, ramming the grapeshot home. He was grinning like a little boy. He pulled the rammer free, and another of the troopers stepped up to the touch hole and applied the match and the cannon roared out, a deafening, earth-shaking noise. It leapt clean off the ground, rolled back ten feet, and Mary and her men were engulfed in gray, choking smoke.
“How much goddamned powder did you put in there?” Mary shouted, barely able to hear herself through dull, ringing ears. The ad hoc gun crew grinned and slapped one another on the back.
Bloody stupid men! Mary thought. They must have put more than twice the proper load in there, just to see what would happen. God, but they are nothing but a goddamned bunch of little boys!
When the smoke was finally carried away she could see that the last of the French infantry had reached the protection of the stone house. Time to go.
“You boys, load this gun again,” Mary ordered. “Round shot this time, and no more than two ladles of powder! Frederick!”
Frederick looked up at her. “Yes, Corporal?”
“Two ladles of powder.”
“Two ladles, yes, Corporal,” he said, but the grin on his face suggested he was not listening.
She turned, headed down the trail. If those lunatics wanted to make the gun blow up in their faces at least she would not be in the way of the shrapnel.
Each of the eight former French guns blasted its round shot into the stone house, and then the Englishmen abandoned the pieces and assembled on the trail, just beyond the first gun they had captured.
Mary looked over the men. Nearly all of those who had come with her through the wheat field were still there, and she was happy for that. But more important, more important even than her own life, Frederick was there as well and unhurt.
She led them down the trail, past the place where they had entered the woods. Behind them, the guns from the stone house opened up, the men there having finally dragged their guns around to fire on their own gun emplacements. Round after round tore into the t
rees, firing at the abandoned guns, but the only men they could hit there were French, and they were dead already.
They came at last to the far end of the tree line. Mary led them around the hill over which they had charged, and then they were hidden from the stone house and the wheat field, and the sound of the French guns was muted and distant.
They tramped wearily across the open fields and found the road down which they had ridden to the attack that morning. It seemed impossible to Mary that it had only been that morning. It seemed they had been a week at least in that wheat field, that tree line.
A mile down the road, trudging back toward their camp, and they met up with another regiment of English cavalry. These fresh troops had been dispatched to help with the disaster, word of which had reached headquarters by way of a few lucky troopers who had escaped the slaughter.
Corporal Read stood at parade rest and reported to the colonel in terse words what had happened that morning, how she happened to be there at the head of two dozen tired and defeated troops.
The colonel listened, nodded. “Well done, Corporal, good show,” he said at last. He looked up toward the low hill, behind which the light horse had been cut down. “Bloody shame,” he said. “Bloody waste.”
“Yes, sir,” said Corporal Read and she said nothing more. The colonel, she thought, had said everything there was to say concerning the affair.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE SURVIVORS of that morning’s raid were mounted up behind the fresh troops and the regiment returned to camp. The colonel deemed further action against the French inadvisable.
They made camp just before nightfall, exhausted, wounded, defeated. They had no horses to attend to, few weapons left to clean, and those that they did have went ignored. They wanted nothing but rest, to lie down on their blankets, to close their eyes, to let sleep wash over them, to let that day pass from painful reality into unpleasant memory.
Only Life That Mattered Page 6
