Beat the Drums Slowly Read Free Page B

bouncing too much in the saddle to hold his own blade steady.
    The French were close. In front were three ranks of chasseurs, their shakos protected by light-coloured cloth covers, and their dark green uniforms looking almost black in the dim light. Some were loading, fumbling with paper cartridges and metal ramrods, for even the short-barrelled carbines were awkward to load on horseback. Others clipped the guns back to their slings and reached for their swords.
    Bobbie took off, leaping a ditch which Williams had not noticed as he focused on the enemy. The mare landed well, only an instant after Lord Paget’s horse, but Williams had not been prepared and almost lost his balance. Behind them the staff and escort, followed closely by the 15th, cleared the ditch and urged their mounts to one more effort, rushing at the enemy.
    A few Frenchmen had loaded fast enough to fire again, and an hussar was plucked from the saddle, but there was already movement and jostling among the chasseurs. Their horses were stirring and shifting. Many turned away, instinct making them want to join the herd rushing towards them and run on with them. The riders were nervous, for they had expected a feeble probe by the atrociously mounted Spanish cavalry and not an enemy who charged boldly home. Their volleys had had no impact and now it was far too late to come forward and meet the charge.
    Gaps opened in the formation and Williams felt a wild exhilaration as the last few yards thundered past in the blink of an eye. Bobbie shot into a space left by one of the Frenchmen pushing to the rear, barging against the rump of his horse. The man looked back over his shoulder at Williams, his face a rictus of horror. To the right a big horse, aggressively ridden by one of the general’s aides, knocked down a chasseur and his mount as they struggled to turn, but were trapped by the press behind. Lord Paget was cutting with his sabre, but as yet Williams could reach no one. Then he was through into the confusion that had been the French second and third ranks. A chasseur levelled his carbine, and the flame was enormous because it was so close and the ball took a chunk out of his right shoulder wing, knocking him back in the saddle for a moment.
    Williams’ body turned and he flung his weight into a wild slash with his right arm. By chance rather than design the tip of the sword struck just above the chasseur’s collar, opening his throat to the bone. Blood sprayed from the blade as Bobbie surged on, finding a gap in the press, and Williams’ arm swung round until it was almost straight behind him before he could recover. Another Frenchman came at him from the right, but the man’s cross-bodied slash was misdirected, then another horse struck his own mount, and there was just enough time for Williams to duck beneath the blow.
    The chasseurs were broken and running, although some still fought, and just behind them was another regiment. These were dragoons, with dark green jackets faced red and brass helmets with black horsehair crests, and they were also in three ranks. Fugitives from the chasseurs pressed into the formation, spreading panic and confusion, and with them came Williams and the first of the hussars, who gave a deep-throated roar that sounded more animal than human as they hacked with their heavy blades. One trooper screamed, and others grunted or sighed as they were caught by precise thrusts from the Frenchmen’s straight swords. Williams parried a blow and Bobbie was still going forward as, just like the chasseurs, the second French regiment’s horses chose to join the stampede. He was pressed so close to one dragoon that neither man had room to swing and the Frenchmen grinned at the absurdity of their predicament.
    The hussars cut mostly at the heads of their enemies. Williams saw a man with his face slashed open from cheek to chin. Another was knocked from his horse by a blow which dented his brass helmet. The hussars’ own fur caps were