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

cannon will be able to shoot up the slope of the glacis and command our battlements on the Hegelsberg bastion.’ The glacis being a rising earthwork in front of the city’s walls, to protect them from direct siege artillery fire.

Another of General of Brigade Vytautas’s dismissive slaps hit the map, again explaining nothing.

‘Tonight we will disrupt their work, and ensure there will be no-one left to continue it,’ he said with a conceited flourish, again failing to expand on his claim that he intended to ‘bury’ them; no mention was made as to exactly how.

Nonetheless they all set off into the night; an entire company of Polish grenadiers to directly assault the half completed batteries, and two squadrons of the Dzików to enfilade the saps where the engineers were expected to flee.

James’ quill scratches fervently on across the paper, each slash of ink a mark of his anger.

From my saddle, secure in all the privileges my rank bestows, I have an Olympian view of this comedy playing out around me, and what I see tells me men are cheap. Only those prepared to prostitute themselves to power, or useful idiots, prosper. There is no justice for the rest. The only rule is that of the strong over the weak, and no law but that of the wild. And all of this is happening today in the heart of Europe, in the cradle of what we call civilisation.

The Dzików approached the saps down a series of culverts in the land to the west of Hegelsberg, where Russian trenches had yet to reach. With them was a young Polish grenadier officer, wearing a padded leather jerkin instead of his regimental coat, and a forage cap instead of his usual mitre. Mud-spattered and haunted-looking, he was to be their guide.

Alas, also with them, having suddenly materialised out of the night, was General of Brigade Vytautas himself, come ‘to see the entertainment.’

Only the dull reflection of snow lit the landscape. The horizon ahead of them was marked by the distant campfires of the Russian army proper. The first trouble occurred with an argument between Vytautas and the Polish grenadier guide; except it was not so much an argument as the young grenadier merely pointing out something on his map, and Vytautas raging at him. James was too far away to hear what was said, but close enough to see Vytautas turn away triumphant.

The mounted dragoons then resumed picking their way further down the culverts, the snorting of horses and the jingling of bridles sounding like a regimental band parading in the freezing darkness.

It was then the rattle of musketry reached them, from back towards the city walls. The Polish grenadiers had launched their attack on the unfinished siege battery.

Another altercation between their guide and Vytautas quickly followed, something to do with exactly where they were. It ended with the general of brigade shouting that they must press on, and quickly. So they did. It was then that James became aware the guide was no longer taking the lead. So James reined Estelle in and dropped back to talk to him. Leaning from his saddle, he asked, ‘Can you explain how exactly my men are supposed to “bury” these Russian engineers in their saps, without shovels?’

The grenadier looked up at him as if he was mad. ‘I do not follow you, excellency.’

‘The general of brigade’s orders. If we are to “bury” them in their covered trenches, how are we supposed to do it?’

‘What he means is “kill”. With musket ball and bayonet, excellency. The way the general of brigade always does it.’

Even before they set out, James had never intended to ‘bury’ these Russians, always supposing he was ever to come across them on this gimcrack adventure, but to take them prisoner instead. That plan was no longer an option after Vytautas turned up. But James was not unduly worried. Amused rather, trying to imagine how the general of brigade was going to effect the sealing of the hapless Russians in their covered trench. By having his dragoons ask them first for their shovels, so they could start digging them in?

He’d never imagined his men would be drawn into bloody murder so directly and felt his gorge rise with fury. At that moment, Vytautas arbitrarily announced it was time to dismount.

James, controlling his rage, ordered his men to deploy on foot and form up in three lines. From that point they left their horses tethered and marched, or rather stumbled, through the dark to the line of the saps. Alas, when they got there, they discovered they were in the wrong place. Instead of covered trench, the cuts in the earth were open, and closer to the Russian infantry lines than had been planned. Too close.

James became aware of Vytautas behind him, berating the grenadier for his incompetence, when a stampede of feet could be heard coming down the trench. Vytautas had heard it too and appeared at his side.

‘March your dragoons to the lip of the trench and prepare to fire by ranks,’ he ordered James. But James had already decided: not while I command them! And then the charging mob had appeared round the zig-zag of the trench, and even in the dark, the nature of the running, shabby, disorganised men was plain to see; local peasants, farm labourers and herdsmen – forced labour from the surrounding settlements. Not a military engineer among them. Or a Russian.

‘Issue your orders, colonel!’ Vytautas hissed in his ear.

Sitting at his desk, as all the images of the previous night crowded in on him, James is aware of his pen scratching on. He remembers standing close by the flank of his men, looking down on the running peasants below as they realised what stood over them; the groan that rose from them and the way they’d half recoiled, half tried to speed on. Arms thrown up