Then again, wasn’t galling fire on the attacking force their prime duty, and be damned to personal hazard?
He dropped to all fours, conscious of the target he made in his officer’s uniform, and reached for the proffered musket. ‘Mark where the bugger is,’ he muttered, took off his cocked hat and used his sword to inch it above the leaves. There was a vicious whaap as a ball whipped through the brush not inches from it. This was a rifle pair or they were very close with muskets.
‘That bush, sir.’ The soldier indicated a low, straggling shrub not forty yards away, well out in front.
‘I see him, Bailey,’ Maynard acknowledged.
He used his elbows to lever forward next to the corpse and brought the firelock up to aim, holding the sight picture, the trigger to first pressure and waited. To the left side there was movement, a glimpse of colour and a flash of metal. Without waiting for more, he squeezed off the shot.
The effect was instant, a uniformed figure thrown into view twisting and writhing until at last it lay still, twitching occasionally.
‘Good shot, sir – winged ’im only, but he’s a dead ’un.’
Maynard yielded his place to him, shocked – not because he’d taken a life but because he was unaffected by it.
The marching line was nearing – they should be retiring.
The ploughed field would soon be crossed and the line would be into the woods where nothing could be done. Maynard remembered that further back there was another open field before more woodland. They should retreat and take a like position there – if the enemy front was not extended by further formations.
The windmill! He rose to a crouch and, motioning Bailey to follow, went back to the path and sprinted along to the end and the windmill. Two blasts with his whistle, taking care to remain in cover. The ground man did not answer. Annoyed, he was about to whistle again when he felt a tap on his arm and saw where the finger pointed. An untidy and very still form lay by the base of the mill.
But at the same time a nervous hail came from the crazy top structure at the sails. It was the corporal. ‘Sah – there’s another line same size further on. All I c’n see, sah.’
‘Right. Get down here, now! You’ve done your-’
A burst of musketry sent splinters flying around the man, who ducked inside.
Then a ball – and another whipped past Maynard from another direction. They were under direct fire from the enemy skirmish line, which must be very near – it was past time to retreat.
‘Tell ’em all to fall back through the wood, re-form across the field,’ he ordered.
He hesitated. With a stab of pity he knew he had to abandon the corporal – and the other man would know it. He’d have realised that his hail down would have drawn lethal attention but he’d chosen to do his duty by Maynard and his regiment.
And the information was vital. Another line meant at least another battalion formation. And further to the right, so the centre of the assault was there too. If this wasn’t a counterattack he didn’t know what was.
He glimpsed a pair of his men at a crouched run retiring through the woods. It was time to go. Then he became conscious of a change in drumbeat of the oncoming line. It had reached the woods but there it dissolved and the enemy troops began crashing through the brush, no doubt to form line again in the open field.
With a pounding in his ears he ran for dear life – and, with a growing horror, he realised he and his men were now doomed. When they reached the field they would be in the open, unmissable targets as they fled across to the trees on the other side.
He’d left it too late.
Dull with resentment he slowed his pace. The edge of the woods was just ahead and … Facing him was the most incredible, wonderful sight: a hastily assembling line of the 52nd and what looked like the 23rd in an ever-lengthening array. Even as he watched, the deeper-toned British drums spoke and the line began advancing.
Emerging from the trees the Danish milled in confusion until horns bayed and they fell into line, three ranks with colours in the centre. Sharp commands, and the front rank knelt and presented.
The 52nd came on splendidly, in perfect step and dressed right and left by their colour, a thrilling sight as they covered the ground.
The front rank of the enemy volleyed out, nearly hidden in the swirling smoke.
It was much too early but several men fell in the steadily advancing British line. Did the Danish commander feel it necessary to hearten his men by the firing, to deter them from running away?
The second rank came forward and knelt.
The 52nd drew nearer, a hundred yards, eighty – the enemy fired, more fell – and still they came on, in their bright red coats an unstoppable tide.
Fifty yards – the third rank opened fire but with little effect as their aim was wild.
At thirty yards’ range the 52nd halted and in deadly deliberation raised their weapons. Smoke billowed and roiled and through it with a full-throated roar stormed the implacable redcoats in a bayonet charge.
It was too much. The enemy line broke and ran, making for the safety of the woods. It was all over.
Chapter 65
Dear David … A wistful memory of his brother, so hard and tall in his stern naval uniform, floated into Ensign Maynard’s mind. He’d never written to him before: at home there hadn’t seemed to be anything to talk about that could stand next to the sea adventures his brother must be having. But now he desperately needed to share the titanic events of the day with someone who understood.
His young fellow officers were not the sort to explore feelings or reflect on deep affairs. They laughed off even the worst with some offhand understatement and treated the whole thing like schoolboys on a prank.
Most certainly his mother and father must never know what he’d seen that day.
I do hope you are well and … Just what did you write to someone who might recently have been in a great sea-fight, valiantly defending the expedition?
This is to tell you the news. We landed successfully at Vedb?k against no opposition, a great show in which I played my part in taking the colours to-But would David want to know how it had felt to be the one charged with such an honour, to be looked on by the whole regiment from the colonel down? Probably not. The navy’s flags were much vaster in size and were flown by the ship, not an individual.
I spent the night at the Crown Prince’s winter palace! Not as you might say an entertainment. The bed was very indifferent, it smelt of horse dung. That is, as we made bivouac in the sand of the riding stables, he added hastily, to explain to one who knew only a hammock. He scratched his head in irritation. This was not going right. It was sounding like one of the subalterns at mess. Better to get on to the real matter.
Next day we marched through a pretty enough country until we found our place in the line, where we set up camp, the Danes still shy of a mill. It was only hours ago but the time that separated the Ensign Maynard of then and now was a chasm. So ardent, proud and unsure, to now … In the afternoon, however, I went forward on picquet duty. All was quiet, but then … His first hearing of a shot fired in anger. The heart-freezing sight of an enemy whose sworn duty was to kill him…. we took fire from Danish light forces on the loose. When he’d had to find within himself the stature of an officer and beat down his anxieties to take life-and-death decisions that affected all around him.
As it turned out, they were scouts for the main force coming up on us. That lurching moment of dread when half a thousand men burst into view to form line of advance, and what were his orders? Thank God he’d given the right ones. We had a pretty time of it peppering their flanks. The sight of a human body with the life torn out of it, the questioning of his own humanity when he had gone on to kill a man, a stranger, a living being.