"Oh." Jean-Baptiste winced. "Yes. As I recall, the phrase the esteemed duke of Angouleme used last week was 'a mere militia.' They don't look like it, though, do they? What news from Feuquieres?"
"He says he'll have the infantry units in place shortly."
Guebriant savored the term. It left a very acrid taste. " 'Shortly.' How marvelously imprecise."
His lieutenant shrugged. "He is trying to move them along, Comte. The problem isn't so much the marquis as, well…"
"He surrounded himself with a gaggle of adjutants, not one of whom could find his ass in broad daylight, on a battlefield. Yes, I know." Guebriant was scowling fiercely. "Fine fellows in a salon in Paris, though, I have no doubt."
But there was no time for that, either. Jean-Baptiste pointed at the enemy's flying artillery units. They had fallen slightly behind the first line of cavalry, instead of moving to the front as they should have been. That was the only sign he'd seen yet of the insufficient experience of the enemy army. It was always hard to get light artillery to develop the iron nerve it took to set up at the very fore of a battle line. No point in having them anywhere else, though, since they could hardly fire through their own ranks.
By now, several of Guebriant's lieutenants had gathered around. "Pull together as many of our cavalry units as you can. We'll charge at once, while the enemy's artillery is still out of position."
"They've got somebody competent in charge over there," commented Torstensson. He lowered his eyeglass. "So now we'll find out just how good those volley gunners are. Have the buglers give the order."
Eric Krenz's face had been pale already, as he sat on the lead horse of the battery wagon. Now, hearing the command for volley guns, forward, it got paler still. Thorsten Engler almost managed a laugh. Not quite-since he might very well be dead in a few minutes.
"I told you," he hissed at Krenz as he swept by him. "Flying artillery."
He took up his position at the head of the batteries along with Lieutenant Reschly. The young officer from the Moselle already had his saber in hand and wasn't waving it so much as he was flourishing the weapon. It was all very dramatic.
Further down the line, Thorsten caught a glimpse of Colonel Straley doing the same thing.
Thorsten drew his own saber, feeling both awkward and foolish. It wasn't the sword that bothered him-it was just another tool, that's all, for a different purpose-but the need to pose histrionically with the damn thing. He was a farmer, for the love of God!
Just before the bugles blew again, though, he steadied his nerves. He even laughed. Caroline had described to him, in one of her letters, the manner in which Princess Kristina had finagled their way onto the army base.
Volley guns, charge!
So what a farmer might have found difficult, the count of Narnia managed quite easily. He flourished his own saber as splendidly as anyone could ask for and shouted "Forward, fellows!" loudly enough to be easily heard by all the gun crews in the company, and several of the ones in the companies on either side. Best of all, although he hadn't noticed himself, that sudden and impromptu laugh had been almost as loud. Steadied the men very nicely, it did.
"Forward, I say!"
Chapter 57
The count of Guebriant was astonished when he saw the enemy's cavalry peeling aside to let their flying artillery come forward. The maneuver itself was a standard one, of course, and they carried it out quite nicely. But they had to be insane to do it at this late stage. Jean-Baptiste's cavalry was already within a few hundred yards of their enemy. The USE artillery would be able to fire at most one volley before they'd be overwhelmed.
True, they'd be firing canister, and the French cavalry would suffer losses from that one volley. But there wouldn't even be that many casualties. As quickly as the enemy artillery was moving-they'd already almost gotten into position, he saw-those couldn't be anything more powerful than four-pounders.
Those thoughts came to him in chaotic fragments, though, and he didn't have time to consider the problem except on the half-instinctual basis of an experienced combat officer. Leading a cavalry charge was just about as insalubrious an activity as could be imagined, from the standpoint of careful and deliberate cogitation.
"En avant!" His own sword-flourishing was splendid, as you'd expect, and by now came to him as easily as breathing.
"Steady, fellows, steady!" Thorsten shouted, as he trotted down the line. "Don't pay any attention to them! Just do your job! You know how to do it!"
Thankfully, he didn't see any reason to maintain the silly sword-waving business, since he was now a few feet behind the volley gun crews. He did use the sword once, though, to point at a jittery-looking crewman who was glancing back and forth between the advancing enemy and the rear. The sword-thrusting gesture was a combination of an admonishment and a veiled threat.
"Stop worrying about them, Metzger! Pay attention to your job!"
Easy enough to say, of course. Thorsten had to struggle a bit himself not to just gape at the oncoming French. He was discovering-they all were-that what they'd been told in training was quite true. Cavalry charges are absolutely terrifying, if you let yourself dwell on them instead of concentrating on what you're planning to do to the enemy. Even at a few hundred yards distance, those armored men on horseback looked twice the size they actually were. As soon as they began to gallop, which they would very soon, they'd look larger still.
And there were thousands of them coming. Only a few thousand, true-Reschly's estimate had been no more than four thousand, and probably closer to three-but even three thousand horses make an incredible drumming din. They were still cantering, too, since the enemy commander was smart enough or experienced enough not to take the risk of winding the mounts. Once they started the gallop of the final charge-
Three hundred yards. Close enough. "Charge!" shouted Guebriant. A few paces behind him, the trumpeters sounded the command.
– they'd make the very earth seem to shake.
Which it did.
"Steady, fellows, steady!"
He saw that all the gun crews in his half of the battery were ready. Glancing over, he saw the same was true of Reschly's half. The lieutenant was already lowering his sword, having used it to give the colonel a signal. Straley had wanted the first magazines fired in a coordinated volley, although thereafter the gun crews would fire as ready. With the slightly duck-foot design of the volley guns, the rounds became too dispersed beyond two hundred and fifty yards, and the colonel didn't want nervous gun crews wasting that important first volley.
In the distance, Engler could see Straley's mouth open, shouting something. He couldn't hear a word of it, though, over the thunder of the horses' hooves.
That's why they used bugles, of course. The sharp sound of the instruments pierced through the noise quite easily.
Fire!
One of the cavalrymen right next to Jean-Baptiste was slammed back in the saddle, his helmet sailing off. The man stared blank-eyed at the sky for a moment, blood pouring down the back of his skull, before he slumped off onto the ground.
He was already dead, thankfully. Being in the front ranks of a massed charge like this, a minor wound was as surely fatal as anything, if a man fell off his mount. The horses coming behind would trample his body into a barely recognizable mass of pulp. They were galloping fairly slowly, with the weight of their armored riders-not more than fifteen or sixteen miles an hour-but that was more than fast enough for a big horse to be unable to avoid a man lying on the ground.
That was just a passing thought for Guebriant, however. The count was squinting, trying to see ahead through the huge cloud of gunsmoke that had now obscured the USE forces.