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

Pyotr had uttered one true thing last night, that nothing he said would prepare him for this.

So many firsts for him, these months past, to test him. He was still here, but now was coming the ultimate rite of passage. Now he was about to find out whether all his presumptions to being a soldier were mere arrogance. He thought back on every step that had led him here, and he knew he would accept the judgement of this day, and with that, he found he was smiling to himself, because he was content.

Battle. So be it.

He was looking forward to meeting the man he would be after this day – if he was allowed to survive. And with that, he consigned his fate to God, saying the words in his head: I am ready then, let us put it to the touch once more.

What caught his eye appeared at first as a mere an anomaly against the horizon; nothing more than a tiny disfigurement of the land, as if a stretch of field had been too eagerly ploughed, so that the earth stood proud on the shoulder of a too-deep furrow.

Then he wasn’t sure; was that a glint of the sun off steel? Or what had first appeared as boulders, did he just see them begin to bob and move? Were those the shapes of tricorne hats? But the questions were rhetoric; he knew what he was looking at, instantly. The movement of soldiers behind a trench line.

He did not rein in Estelle, or pull her round so he might more conveniently yell or gesticulate wildly to the rear. The trench was still far off. He let Estelle maintain her pace, while he retrieved a pencil and paper from his sabretache and scribbled a note to the general. Then he handed it to Casimir.

‘Cornet, I want you to deliver this with all dispatch personally, into the general’s hand,’ said James. ‘And on your way, seek out Captain Poinatowski, present my compliments and inform him his presence is requested here.’

James watched as Casimir’s horse carried him, in the most tearing hurry, back down the column of still advancing dragoons. From that moment on, all the terrible events of the day began to unfold with an almost mechanical inevitability; like watching a series of interlinking cogs and wheels grind wheat in a mill, but with blood instead of dust.

To his left, James was aware of a tiny knot of militia uhlans, appearing and disappearing in the grass-tufted rises of the broken ground. Perhaps his general was not so clueless after all; these Polish irregular cavalrymen were acting as his flank guard, there to give warning of any Russian attempts at harassment.

Poinatowski arrived. ‘There,’ said James, pointing towards the scar against the horizon. The long smudges of green running well behind the trench line were more distinct now; demonstrably not the hedge rows he’d first assumed, but rank upon rank of green-coated Russian infantry – still; rigid in the shimmering air.

‘I would advance no closer than double cannon shot before you deploy, excellency,’ said Poinatowski, taking it all in.

James shook his head. ‘Nor yet so close, captain. I believe I will throw out our screen now. If the general wants us closer, then I am sure we can accomplish such a move in line. Have the bugler sound the left wheel. We shall form in line to the front, two squadrons up, one in reserve.’

‘This instant, excellency.’ And Poinatowski wheeled away himself, and cantered off to make it so.

James turned to watch the parade precision as his troopers walked up to where a corporal of horse marked the turn, and then they peeled, in single file, trotting to their left on an angle one could measure by a set square. James led his colour party a short distance along their walking files to a point that would stand as the centre of the line, and there he halted. He could not help the tiny frisson of pride as he watched his men execute his orders so precisely.

Then he turned back to face the enemy, un-slinging his telescope for the first time to survey the Russian positions. At first, the only movement he could discern was a galloping aide; like a tiny equine banner moving in a wake of dust behind the trench line. Then he made out the Russian guns. Nothing heavy; much like the French artillery coming up behind him, no more than six-pounders, clutched together in batteries of three. Another mirror to the army marching to oppose them. Such fussy etiquette, he thought, for such gory purpose.

And as he thought it, another notion descended on him; a powerful one, from out of nowhere, that here today they would be facing the Russian general in chief himself, Lacy. It sent a shiver through him. But events behind him would not let him dwell on it.

His bugler was sounding ‘Halt, and wheel!’ and he turned, just in time to see the fragile single file of walking horses step right, as if a wire running under them had been pulled, so that in an instant they had become one continuous front, over 300 troopers in length, presenting towards the enemy. He gave the order, and the bugler sounded, ‘Advance’, and the line resumed its slow walk towards the Russians. No written order from his general was required; he knew what was expected of him at this stage in the dance; to screen the main body of the army while it too deployed in line behind him.

At their slow pace, it took what seemed an age for the Dzików to cover the remaining distance to what James reckoned was just beyond the Russian’s effective artillery range. And there he raised his left arm and brought the line of troopers to a halt. Looking to his left he could see the considerable distance that lay, wide