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

Not that Colonel Chevalier James Lindsay cared. Not now. The young man who’d stepped out onto the field of Glenshiel really was no more. And if there had ever been a vestige of doubt, the way his eye was sizing up the ground where his fight this day would unfold, confirmed it. There was no fire in his belly anymore, no cause burning in his breast, no champing at the bit to vanquish a mortal foe. He was more like an artisan builder, working to construct a victory from a plan he had in his head, just like the builder constructs his palace. There was no moral cause at stake for him, nor even glory; just the thalers he hoped Mr MacDougall had successfully shifted by now. A cold, steadying satisfaction settled about him at the thought. It seemed altogether wiser to be pursuing his destiny these days as a journeyman, rather than as a dreamer.

As for Casimir? The boy was going to have to look after himself on that front and get his own wisdom as best he could; always assuming, of course, that he was left standing after all this. That they were both left standing.

The second Russian regiment, in marching column, was coming on – colours to the front, drummers beating. Stepping out, a four-man frontage, their line snaking back, drill immaculate. What had that French fool Chapuis called them – ‘dandified barbarians’? James didn’t think so, not looking at them now. As tight and disciplined a body of troops as he had seen. But then, Chapuis had never faced a Russian soldier in anger; no French general had, nor any French army.

As he watched their determined step, a volley of musketry exploded to his right. The first Russian line had advanced to exchange fire with the Polish grenadiers. A ridge of grey powder smoke had risen beyond the Polish line, and as he looked at the grenadiers’ backs he could see gaps open up where some of the Russian balls had hit men in the second rank. Another ripple of fire, and another rising billow of smoke; this time it was from the grenadiers, returning the volley.

It was time for his dragoons to remount and prepare. James ordered his bugler to sound the order, and the boy blared it out with gusto, so it would be easily heard by the standing Dzików troopers to his rear.

Then the Russians fired again, as James had expected them to, noting that there had been no delay, no time for them to have advanced to close the range before they fired. Because, as he’d predicted to himself, the Russians had no intention of advancing on these hapless Poles, no wish to absorb their punishment at closer range; they only had to pin them to their position in order to seal their fate.

But he had no time for smug satisfaction. When he looked back to see if his dragoons were ready, he saw how far the Russian column had advanced. There they were, in all their military splendour, having marched clear now of the flanks of the two duelling lines to his right, and halted, as he’d hoped they would. In perfect position to advance on the Polish grenadiers’ flank. Just where he wanted them to be.

Except part of the Russian column was still marching on; marching on too far, instead of coming to a halt too. For a moment, he could not figure out what was happening. Then he saw it was the flat terrain that had robbed him of perspective, that had tricked him into thinking he’d been looking at one regimental column, when all the time his Russian foe had been coming on in two battalion columns, marching in echelon instead of one after the other.

And with that one little deviation from parade ground form, they had out-manoeuvred him and his plan, leaving him to stand and watch while his failure played itself out to the relentless beat of the Russian drummers, before even a shot had been fired.

His plan had been simple; he would let the first Russian regiment advance to face the grenadiers. Indeed, there had been no manoeuvre he could have used to stop them. Instead, he would wait until the second regiment marched to outflank the thin Polish line, which would be then fully engaged to its front. And once the second Russian regiment was committed, he would have the Dzików advance from the grenadiers’ cover and take them in the flank, the first two squadrons advancing to discharge their carbines into the enemy, one after the other, throwing the Russians into confusion; then the leading squadron would pass through, charge, and roll them up.

But only one Russian battalion had marched into that position on the grenadiers’ flank. The other had marched wide. And once it was in place, the Dzików would not be able to approach the first Russian battalion without taking withering enfilading fire from the second. The Dzików’s manoeuvre would be shot to pieces.

Unless he went now. Right now. Before the second Russian battalion had marched far enough to deploy and face him. He yelled at his bugler to tuck in behind him, and spurred Estelle, hell-for-leather for the Dzików’s lead squadron. Casimir, stunned by the swiftness of it, merely turned and galloped after.

It was a race, and James was winning. He reined in by the Dzików’s colour party, and immediately ordered them to the third squadron. ‘Inform Captain Poinatowski I wish him to hold in position,’ he barked at the cornet holding the regimental banner. And as he did, he watched across the thousand paces to the marching column of Russian fusiliers, and the frisson of alarm as their mounted officers galloped to confer, and hundreds of eyes followed his every manoeuvre.

He turned to a strangely calm Beart, sitting to attention as if he were on parade and not a battlefield. ‘Squadrons one and two will