“Front rank, ready!” Lewrie shouted, dropping his Ferguson and pacing over to stand by the front rank of sailors. “Everyone, fix bayonets and remember t’stab the horses if they get close!”
Lewrie drew the first of his double-barrelled Manton pistols and cocked the right-hand lock, then drew his hanger to prepare for the onslaught.
“Hold fire ’til I order!” Westcott sternly cautioned. “Hold fire ’til we can see their teeth, then skin the bastards!”
“A pity, arrah, sor,” Patrick Furfy said with a shake of his head, “I’ve always liked horses.”
“You’re worth more t’me and your shipmates than ten blooded hunters, Furfy!” Lewrie cried, laughing. “So be sure you kill them, no matter! That goes for all you lads! We’ll show these Dutch sons of bitches they’ve messed with the wrong crew!”
A bugle was blown, and the Dutch horsemen launched into their charge, right off, with no trotting first to approach nearer. Their surviving officers must have wagered that they would suffer less if they closed quickly, with no messing about. Sabres were levelled with the points down and the cutting edges up, stiff-armed. Spurs were cruelly thrust upon their mounts to goad them into a full gallop, and harsh, howling cries came from the enemy troopers’ throats.
“Steady … steady!” Westcott shouted.
The first rank was eight abreast, a wall of flesh and thundering hooves! Closer … closer … within fifty yards …
“First rank … fire!” Lewrie cried, thinking that he might have left it too late, and that dead horses might stumble onto his front-rank men, crushing them and opening everyone to being hacked to pieces.
No! Those first eight horses were down, kicking their legs in the air, flailing in their death throes and screaming! Half their riders were down, as well, shot and flung off, pinned under their dying horses’ great weight with shattered legs or hips, or left helpless if they had managed to leap free of their saddles. The nearest dead horse was only six yards off, but that pile of downed horses made a sudden barrier to the next rank of eight. Their horses tripped over the ones which had preceded them, making an even bigger pile-up! The charge came to a sudden halt, with Dutch troopers savagely sawing their reins to keep from tumbling into the mess!
Gunfire from Simcock’s Marines, and from Lt. Strickland’s men, had not stopped, either, tearing at the Dutch cavalrymen from either flank and killing horses and men who rode behind the leaders.
“Second rank … fire!” Westcott shouted, and the Dutchmen who sat at the halt were hit and daunted, some shot from their saddles and others slumped low over their horses’ necks, trying to turn about and go back down the slope. A bugle rang out and the rest wheeled round to retreat, still under fire, and did not stop ’til they were out of what they thought was musket-range, leaving at least two-dozen of their fellows behind. There was a reef, a shoal, of dead horses in front of Lewrie’s position, which he hoped would end any thoughts of a second try. There was still that company of infantry to deal with, though, coming up to within one hundred yards and almost in decent shooting range.
They’re lookin’ over their shoulders, though, Lewrie told himself as he dropped his spent Manton and went back to re-load his Ferguson. Sure enough, the British regiments were advancing smartly and almost within their own musket-range of the shallow Dutch trenches. The Dutch were firing at them, their artillerymen coming out of their dubious shelter and aiming their guns, readying with grapeshot loads or wicked canister. One artillery piece roared and rocked back on its trail, then another. From their knob above it all, Lewrie indeed had a grand view as the British infantry broke into a rapid uphill charge, their bayonets glittering, and hundreds of wild and feral cries, with the pipers of the 93rd breaking into what sounded as urgent as a reel, a demonic war cry all of its own.
“They’re breaking!” Lt. Strickland shouted, standing fully erect and waving his sabre over his head in glee. “They’re running!”
The Dutch cavalry troop gave the situation a quick look, and wheeled about by fours to clatter away, downhill for the plain below with hardly a backward glance.
“Huzzah! Huzzah!” the men on the knob were shouting as the British charge reached the trenches, and the Colours were carried forward. The Dutch infantry would not be as lucky as their cavalry, for they could not retreat as fast. They melted away, abandoning the trenches and turning their backs in flight. Those unable to scramble out, the laggards and the slowest, got swarmed over by British red and bayonetted. Some knelt in surrender, holding their muskets in the air or planting them muzzle down in front of them, and others just abandoned their weapons and ran like skittered deer. British blood was up, though, and the attacking troops had taken casualties and lost mates. Not all those Dutch who surrendered were taken prisoner; it would be a minute or so before sanity was restored.
The Dutch company that had tried to come up the hill to attack them were now trapped between Lewrie’s position and the British infantry who were now rampaging down the line of shallow trenches, looking for someone to shoot or bayonet. That company was now a herd of terrified men looking in all directions and looking for escape, which was now cut off. Their own retreating cavalry had delayed them too long.
“You, down there!” Lewrie shouted in his best quarterdeck roar. “Surrender to us!” He pumped both arms up several times. “Surrender! Bloody Hell, Mister Westcott. How did our old Master Gunner, Rahl, say it in German? That’s close t’Dutch, ain’t it?”
“Haven’t a single clue, really, sir,” Westcott said, shrugging.
“Soldaten!” Lt. Strickland yelled, raising his own arms as if giving up. “Haende hoch! Kapitulation! Hinlegen deine waffen!”
The Dutch soldiers dropped their muskets as if they were red-hot fireplace pokers, and littered the ground round them with shakoes, cartridge boxes, hangers, and equipment belts, and knelt with their hands high over their heads in a twinkling.
“What was all that, after soldaten?” Lewrie asked him.
“Told them to put their hands up, surrender, and drop their weapons,” Strickland said with a grin. “I had a German nanny,” he further explained, “and she was a right bitch.”
“Whatever, it worked,” Lewrie said. “D’ye think our own soldiers’ve lost their ‘mad’, or should we stay up here awhile more? I’d not like my men shot ’cause they’re not wearin’ red.”
“Oh, I think it’s safe enough now, Captain Lewrie,” Strickland allowed. “The rest of the Heavy Brigade is coming up in march order.”
Sure enough, the two attacking regiments had rushed on past the Dutch trenches and were moving down the East side of the Blaauwberg in skirmish order, their light companies firing at the fleeing Dutch survivors now and then. The other regiments of the Heavy Brigade were coming up towards the crest in columns-of-fours with their drums rattling the pace. Bandsmen and surgeons from the 38th and 93rd were busy picking among the few British casualties, or pilfering from the Dutch dead and wounded, on the sly.
“Canteens, sir.” Lt. Westcott pointed downhill to their prisoners. “We should go take possession of some, whilst we see to our own wounded.”
“Get them down so the Army surgeons can see to ’em, aye,” Lewrie agreed. “How many, Mister Westcott?”
“One hand dead, sir, two wounded,” Lt. Westcott told him as he took a deep drink from his wine bottle canteen. “Those two not badly, thank God. We’ve lost one Marine dead, and one wounded, as well. Durbin is tending them, but he will need assistance from the Army.”
Lewrie looked down-slope for a way to leave their knob. Horses and dead Dutch cavalrymen blocked the easiest way, many of the horses still screaming and thrashing.
“First off, Mister Westcott, have the lads shoot those poor horses, and see that all our muskets are empty,” Lewrie ordered. “If the Dragoons will … Ah, Mister Strickland!” he gladly said, spotting him. “If you’d be so good as to take charge of our prisoners, whilst we clear the way for our wounded? Good. Were any of your men hurt or killed?”