By My Sword Alone by David Black (ebook reader ink TXT) 📕

The two lines stood, immobile. James held his breath, until the sound of a distant bugle forced him to look to his left, where over the curve of the crest came another body of Russian hussars, in line, and advancing directly towards James’ troops at a brisk canter. Here were the Russians he’d watched detach themselves earlier, and who were now executing exactly the manoeuvre he’d hoped they would – charging to cut him off and pin him against the hussars to his front.

And then Poinatowski’s bugler sounded off too, high and tinny – a rhythmic run of notes he knew so well. The charge!

But he couldn’t watch. A bugle from his front announced the hussars in front of him where moving. James imagined their officer; what he was thinking now … Handed his orders to ‘go and drive off that Polish patrol!’ – and him thinking, he’d do more than drive it off, he’d roll it up. And now he was watching his bravado and flourish turn to shit.

The Russians in front of him charged. James felt his bowels turn to water, his knees crimp tightly against Estelle’s flanks and his breath rasp in his throat. A throat so dry he wondered if he’d ever be able to give the order when the time came.

Until the Russians had got into their stride and he felt the earth tremble even up through his horse, too late to stop now, and the time had come.

‘Ranga przednia, ogień!’

‘Front rank, fire!’ In Polish. There were some phrases he’d thought it best to memorise, even if he was never really going to master the language.

He’d hardly recognised his own voice before there was a loud, rippling crackle and the world to his front vanished in a billow of white smoke. He ordered the second rank forward, in Polish, and the first rank to re-load, aware now that he was yelling, so loud he could feel his throat rattle with the effort.

Mid-roar, the Russians burst through the smoke, no longer in regimental line, but a shambles, with riderless horses, and riders, tattered and bloody barely clinging to their saddles, but still coming on.

‘Drugiej rangi, ogień!’

The second rank fired.

Another ripple of cracks. More smoke, and then the men who had fired suddenly breaking their ranks and running back, muskets shouldered, for their horses, following their drill to the letter. James felt an unexpected rush of pride. But it didn’t last long. The front rank was now in place, and before the smoke had thinned, he yelled again.

‘Ranga przednia, ogień!’

His dragoons discharged another volley into the smoke bank. The same cacophony of screaming horses and men came back at him, and the dead thumps of meat hitting ground came echoing back too. And then his front rank were running back, and as his second rank troopers, now mounted, were wheeling into line. What was left of the hussars’ charge came bounding out of the second bank of smoke, sabres reaching for the backs of the dragoons still on foot.

James’ heavy cavalry sabre was in his hand – a fearsome lump of steel, long, straight and with a terrible heft to it that he gripped through a solid, utilitarian steel guard. He yanked Estelle’s head round and sank his stirrups into her, and they raced straight towards a Russian trooper trying to hack down one of his running Dzików.

James would never forget the face he saw; time telescoped in reverse for him. He saw every tiny detail in crystal clarity, every movement precisely as if he was gifted to predict where it would go. The man hatless, his long hair tied back with ribbon, skin gaunt, sun-weathered, peeled back in a killing rictus, the eyes suddenly all whites as he caught sight of James coming at him. The bad teeth beneath the huge, preposterous moustache, like a breaking wave. So dandy, in his hussar blue.

And James – aware of his own heartbeat and the rhythm of his breathing and the blood pumping through his veins and Estelle between his legs, the living, pounding force of her carrying him like a force of nature.

The Highlander’s battle cry. He remembered the stories. He never heard it at Glenshiel, there had been no Highland charge that day. But the stories of the battle-yell echoed in his head as he felt each individual thud of Estelle’s charging hooves reverberate through his own body, carrying him inexorably into the killing space and his Russian hussar. How you sucked the yell up from your very bowels and spewed it out with all the rage and fury of every wrong ever done to you, right in the face of the man you were going to kill, so that he would know, so there would be no doubt that it was him who was going to die here, and not you.

He felt himself reach for it, into his bowels.

And he heard the voice in his ear, warning that when you found it, it would be the only one you’d ever own, so it’d better be good, something to curdle blood.

And he sucked it up, and let it explode.

The Russian, just an ordinary trooper, was raising his own light sword from stabbing to parry to try and avoid James’ heavy blade.

And James’ Highland yell came forth.

He felt the sound of it in his own chest, rather than heard it, and what he did hear was like nothing that could have come from a man at all.

He saw the Russian’s expression change in that instant, saw his thoughts. It’s not supposed to be happening like this.

Then the Russian slashed down, tried to pull his horse’s head around to get out of James’ way, but he moved as if his muscle had been rendered flab. James watched as if in slow motion