“Not like any soldiers I’ve seen,” Lt. Strickland agreed.
“Baboons!” Lewrie exclaimed. “They’re baboons, a whole troop of ’em! Ugly red-arsed beasts. They wouldn’t be there if the Dutch had men near them. The last Dutch unit on their left would be over … there,” Lewrie guessed, pointing to a spot closer to the centre of the crest. “So, what happens now? Will you charge ’em?”
“Not very likely!” Captain Veasey said with a barking laugh. “Not into the teeth of an entrenched foe, with no clue as to what’s on the back slope, waitin’ for us. No, the artillery may have first go, before the infantry is ordered forward.”
“Guns’d be wasted,” Lewrie told him. “Firin’ uphill at a thin target is useless. The shot’d strike short, clip the crest, and ricochet off, or sail right over and land half a mile beyond. It’d be like shootin’ at a ribbon. Howitzers at high angle might do some good, but mortars would be best. Might you happen t’know if the Army brought any along, Captain Veasey? Perhaps some of the infantry regiments still have some old Coehorn mortars.” They both looked puzzled; evidently, cavalry didn’t bother with such in-elegant things. “Coehorn mortars are light, short, and fat, fixed to wood blocks and man-carried instead of carriage-mounted,” he had to explain, “like a prouviette that tests the strength of gunpowder?” He was still speaking Greek to them.
“I s’pose that you, sir, bein’ in the Navy and all, must know miles more about artillery and such,” Veasey said with a guffaw as he shook his head. “Cavalry has no need of howitzers or mortars, or any knowledge of ’em. We stick to our last, hey?”
“Perhaps if our gunners have Colonel Shrapnel’s bursting shot, they could work good practice on the Dutch, sir,” Lt. Strickland said to Veasey, though looking at Lewrie and winking. “They are fused, and explode in the air right over enemy formations, flinging chunks of the roundshot in all directions.”
“Now, that I’d like t’see!” Veasey enthused, oblivious.
“Might General Baird be delaying his assault because he has no idea what’s on the back side of the crest, sir?” Strickland continued. “Perhaps a reconnoitre from that knob which Captain Lewrie pointed out might be in order. It appears high enough to offer a good view right down the entire length of the Dutch positions, and what lies on the reverse slope, as well. A small party could make it up there with ease,” Strickland suggested, pointing to indícate a path. “From where the sailors are, there’s a saddle that runs to the base of the knob. A small party could go a bit below the crest of the saddle, out of sight, hopefully, and get about halfway round the knob, where the way up does not look all that bad a climb, sir. Once there, a runner could return with a report.”
“There’s only baboons up there, now,” Lewrie stuck in. “Else, the Dutch would’ve run ’em off. Small party, my eye, sirs! One could put a whole dis-mounted troop up yonder, along with my sailors and my Marines, and threaten the Dutch left flank!”
“Yes, what say you to that, sir?” Strickland eagerly asked.
“Our Colonel’d never allow it,” Veasey countered, shaking his head again. “He’d wish t’keep the regiment intact, ready to exploit any breakthrough by the infantry … t’harass and ride down the Dutch when they flee. No, no, we’ll let the Heavy Brigade go in.”
“Half a troop, sir,” Strickland pressed. “Fourty men.”
“Along with mine,” Lewrie insisted.
“And how far off might the closest Dutch soldiers be, once ye get up there, Strickland?” Veasey snapped. “An hundred yards or more? Our short-barrelled Paget carbines couldn’t hit the side of a palace at that range, much less a man-sized target! I pressed the Colonel for the Elliot-pattern carbines, you will recall, but no!”
“The Dutch don’t know you have Paget carbines, sir,” Lewrie said quickly. “If we do open upon them, all they’ll hear is lots of gunfire, see a lot of powder smoke, and have shot throwin’ up dirt round their feet … and all my men have Tower muskets. Good ‘Brown Bess’! Along with one Pennsylvania, rifle, a fusil musket, and this rifled Ferguson of mine.”
“Half a troop, sir, and I will bear all the responsibility for it!” Strickland swore.
“And, do remember two old military adages, Captain Veasey,” Lewrie said with a quick laugh. “One, it’s easier t’beg forgiveness than ask permission, and Two, success will always trump anything else!”
“Colonel Laird won’t miss half a troop, sir,” Strickland added. “Even if the regiment’s loosed to hack through the whole Dutch Army! Let me go!”
Veasey’s reddish-complexioned face looked even ruddier, and he twisted his features and groaned as if in great physical pain to make such a rash decision.
“Oh, very well, Strickland,” he gruffed a long moment later, “but on your head be it, hear me?”
“Thank you, sir!” Strickland cried, wheeling his mount about to trot back down the line of their troop. “The two right files … prepare to dis-mount! Dis-mount! Horse holders, Sarn’t Strode! Bring sabres and carbines, and follow me!”
“Up, Mister Westcott! Up, Mister Simcock!” Lewrie was yelling to his men at the same time as he sprinted back to them. “We’ve work t’do, up yonder on that knob t’the right.”
“We’re to get into a fight, sir?” Lt. Westcott asked, springing up from lolling on the grass.
“We are. The Dragoons’re sendin’ fourty men up to see what’s waitin’ for the infantry, and we’re t’back ’em up,” Lewrie cheerfully told him, as eager as a teen-ager at the prospect of action. “Choose two relatively sober hands … along with Pettus and Yeovill, to stay with the waggon and keep the cavalry troopers out of our goods whilst we’re gone. Drop bed-rolls and packs in the waggon, bring nothing but water, weapons, and ammunition!”
Lt. Strickland and his fourty troopers were already moving past Lewrie’s party before Lt. Simcock got his Marines sorted out into two files, and Lt. Westcott got the sailors into a somewhat organised herd. Strickland and his troopers looked oddly comical afoot, with sabres in one hand and their carbines in the other, and their tall knee-boots looked wholly un-suitable for dis-mounted work, especially so as they moved at the trot, half bent over as if that might hide them from the Dutch above.
“Double time,” Lt. Simcock ordered, “and hang the step! Sling your muskets to keep your hands free.”
Strickland led at the head of their re-enforced column, down below the crest of the saddle which lay between the first knob and the one at the end of the ridge. Lewrie looked up at their objective as he trotted along. The baboons had grazed their way a bit down the slope above them, still peacefully rooting for grubs, insects, and succulents. One or two of them took notice of their approach and stood on all four feet, heads swaying to right and left, and baring their long teeth in warning as they made tentative chuffing barks to alert the rest.
Hope that ain’t an omen! Lewrie told himself; Hope they don’t alert the Dutch. Lousy, flea-ridden bastards!
The first of Strickland’s cavalrymen reached the base of the rise, halfway round from the line of the Blaauwberg’s crest, and out of sight of any Dutch sentries at long last, and began to ascend, going much slower. Some had to drop halfway to their knees to use their hands to make the climb.
More baboons were barking warnings, the big males dashing a few feet forward, then back, as if they would fight for their hill.
BOOM! BOO-BOO-BOOM!
The British artillery had at last opened fire, and the roars from their muzzles were echoed seconds later by lesser but sharper cracks from air-bursting shrapnel shells above the Dutch positions.
“Come on, lads! No need for stealth, now! Go, go, go!” Lieutenant Strickland was shouting, echoed by Simcock to urge his Marines up and along behind the cavalrymen.
Now, all the baboons were barking and hooting shrill yells.
They ain’t cheerin’ us, that’s for sure, Lewrie thought.