Chapter Eleven

  A Black Business and Terrible Work

  Dawn found that the Bloody 13th still held the Bridge of Bogat. All day, Edmonds and Mar had held the far gatehouse. Volley after volley until their ears were deaf and their lungs burned from the saltpetre smoke of the musket fire. The town, such as it had been, was a burnt ruin that smouldered in the morning light. Wolfgang and his boys had finished their work under the protection of Edmonds and his men. Shortly after dusk, they had retreated across the bridge. They had lost only four men of twenty, but nearly all were wounded. Still, they had held and done a damn good job. Pugh had stood and watched through his spyglass and resisted the urge to send more men across. War was as much a game as a clash of brutal violence. You did not put all your pieces on the board at once. You moved them only if and when they were needed, and not before. Havor had left command of the bridge to him. Dryden was in command of Baine’s Crossing. That was what they were calling the ford. He had taken Captain Khathan’s new squadron of native cavalry and had dug in upriver.

  The enemy had not come during the night. Presumably, they were waiting for daylight to attempt a crossing. Now that light was here, Pugh did not expect it would take long.

  Mar sauntered up to Pugh, holding a tin cup of tea, and held it out. “Good morning, Major,” Mar spoke a little too loudly.

  Pugh took it and sipped. He had not slept all night. The tea was weakly brewed, but it was better than nothing, “Much appreciated. How fare you after yesterday’s action?”

  Mar cupped a hand to his ear, “Pardon?”

  “How to fare you?” Pugh raised his voice.

  He pointed to his ears, “Can’t hear. Damned musket fire. I’ll live.”

  Captain Benton walked up soon after. He had dark circles under his eyes; like Pugh, he had not slept much. He squatted down next to where Pugh and Mar were seated.

  “How are we fixed, Captain?” Pugh asked.

  “The boys are ready and eager, Major.”

  “Good. How is Edmonds faring?”

  “Well, considering. Just a bit of shrapnel in his thigh. The surgeon says he’ll keep the leg more than likely.”

  Lieutenant Edmonds came hobbling up as if on queue, using a makeshift cane to help himself walk. He stopped and saluted his superior officers, who saluted in return.

  “How fare your men, Lieutenant?” Pugh asked him.

  “A little banged up, sir.”

  “You did well yesterday.”

  “Where do you want us today, sir?”

  “In reserve.”

  “Sir, we’re still in fighting shape, if you don’t mind my saying.”

  “I don’t mind you saying. All the same, I want your men to get some rest today. They’ll be needed sooner rather than later. You’ve one of the finest platoons in our regiment, and I’d not waste you all.”

  “Sir, I protest…” Edmonds frowned. He was not making a show of it. The mad bastard truly wanted to be front and centre again.

  Pugh smirked at him, “Better give the rest of the regiment a chance for some action, eh, Lieutenant?”

  “Sir!” He stamped his foot and saluted.

  Pugh chuckled, “At ease. Won’t you sit and have you breakfasted?”

  “I did with the men, yes.” The lieutenant relaxed and sat across from Pugh and next to Benton.

  “Holding that bridge is the stuff promotions are made of, you know.”

  The lieutenant looked abashed at the suggestion.

  “I’ve written a commendation.”

  “Thank you, sir. It was as much the boys as it was myself… Sergeant Krach, too.”

  “Write a commendation for the good sergeant. He and five others. We need good men to replenish our sergeants and officers. We lost more than half our number in Vurun, yet they still expect us to do the job of a whole regiment. The recruits were a good start, as were Khathan’s native squadron, but we need men leading them who have seen real combat.”

  “There will be plenty of those soon enough, including our new recruits, I’d wager,” Mar added.

  Will and Tommy were split from the other Marrowick boys when they received their assignments back in Kanmak. They had been placed under Lieutenant Albans’ command in Captain Brine’s squadron. Most of the other recruits had gone to serve under Adams and Benton. Brine, though young, had been given a squadron of veterans, presumably to make up for his youth.

  Albans was the most senior lieutenant in the Bloody 13th. He had fought in a dozen wars and come up from the ranks. Will felt lucky to have been placed under Lieutenant Albans, that is, until he realised, they would be put front and centre to defend the bridge once Lieutenant Edmonds had fallen back. They had spent a day digging trenches and foxholes all around the approach to the bridge, but they were positioned so close to the gatehouse that their unit had no clear line of fire. To the north of the bridge, a slight rise gave Benton’s squadron a good raking firing angle, but the men of Albans’ squadron would have to stand and get right up into the gatehouse to defend it. It would have been hard enough to do so against men, but everyone had seen the dragon flying above the fight the day before, and they all knew the enemy likely had wizards and artillery, too.

  Usually, during the quiet waiting, the boys would play cards, complain about the heat and biting insects, or find something to eat. Today, there was none of that. All the men sat silent. Some sharpened bayonets or cleaned muskets. Others went through their musket cartridges, ensuring each was in good condition. Will did his best to clean his musket with the rest. He had been taught how and had done it before many times, but now his hands shook, and he fumbled with the gun. The silence and the waiting were killing him. Part of him wanted to turn and run, while another just wanted the enemy to come and get it done. For a long time, nobody spoke.

  It was Tommy who broke the silence. Of course it was Tommy, Will thought as soon as his friend began speaking. “Oi, why’s it us at the front of the line?” His friend said out loud. Tommy was a lanky youth with red hair, green eyes, and rodent-like front teeth. He had always been a talker from the first time Will had met him when they were boys at the church school down in the low end of Marrowick.

  “Shut it, boyo,” A nearby veteran replied without looking up from sharpening his bayonet. It was a trooper called Gideon. The man was short and thin but sinewy with lean muscle and had a rugged, scarred face, black hair, and dark eyes. The thing that stuck out to Will, though, was that he had a scar about his neck as if he’d been hung and lived. Will didn’t know the man but knew he was one of those that the rest called the “Black City Men”. Will didn’t know much about why they were named such but knew they were regarded as the toughest bastards in the 13th.

  Tommy was never one to back down, especially not when he ought to, “You shut it. Don’t tell me when I ought to speak. Why is it not them native boys up here instead of us? That’s what thems for, ain’t it? Being in the front to eat the bullets?”

  “I said shut it, and I won’t tell you again.” The man turned his dark eyes on Tommy.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Tommy started to say something more, but Will elbowed him.

  “What, don’t tell me you’re on his side, eh?” Tommy asked.

  “We’re all on the same side, mate,” Will said softly, “So why don’t you find something else to crab about.”

  “It’s cause the darkie is the Major’s pal, isn’t it?” Tommy hissed, “He some guluk lover, eh?

  The man with the scar on his neck stopped and stared hard at Tommy, “Them’s hangin’ words, boy.”

  “Oi, you know all about that, do ya?” Tommy smirked at the man, gesturing to his scar.

  “I do.” The man said, “I’ll not hear you say a bad word about them two. There’s not a better fighter in the king’s army than them. Not one. You open that gob again, and it ain’t an apology, I’ll string you up myself on that gatehouse.” He pointed up with his bayonet, “We mind our words in the 13th. Respect your betters.”

  Tommy opened his mouth to say something more. He never knew when to shut his mouth. Will didn’t know what else to do to keep him from talking, so he punched him straight in the face. Tommy took the punch straight in the cheek, and spittle flew from his mouth. He fell sideways and shook his head, then without saying anything, he leapt up and tackled Will. They rolled, scuffling and wrestling. Men began to shout and form a circle, howling with laughter as they wrestled. He got his arm up under Tommy’s neck, and Tommy had his knee in his gut. They were grunting and heaving and trying to get the upper hand.

  Somewhere, a sergeant was shouting, “Oi, what in the blue bloody demon is going on there! You! Get those two shit-a-beds separated.”

  The rough hands of their fellow troopers pulled them apart. Will let them take him, but Thomas struggled, still trying to flail and kick at Will as he was dragged away.

  “What’s all this, then?” It was Sergeant Major Flint. He looked over the two troopers, their black uniforms scuffed and muddy, chests heaving. “Eager to fight, eh? A couple of proper doodle-dos, are you? Couldn’t wait for the enemy to come, had to fight your brother?”

  For once, Tommy kept his mouth shut. So did Will. Flint turned to Gideon, “What’s this all about, eh, Gideon?”

  “That one was talking shite. That one shut his gob. Simple dust-up between boys.”

  “Not fou, are they?” Flint asked.

  “Sober as foxes,” Gideon answered.

  Flint turned his dark grey eyes back onto Will and Tommy, “First rule of the army, boys, fight the enemy, not your brothers. And on the morning ‘fore a battle. I ought to give you two some hard shite jobs, but there’s none harder than fighting, and we’ll all be in for it soon enough. Here’s your reward for foolishness; fight like picaroons today, and I’ll forget the whole damn thing, eh?”

  Tommy and Will both nodded, “Yes, sir.” They said. The men released them. Will glanced at Tommy, who still looked furious, but at least he didn’t keep fighting.

  “We good? No more slogging, then?”

  “Yes, sir.” They said again.

  Flint nodded, turned, and stalked off back towards his foxhole. Other men began to settle back in.

  As soon as the sergeant was out of earshot, Tommy looked around and asked, “What’s a bloody picaroon?”

  That brought a great bout of laughter from everyone. A veteran trooper clapped Will on his back and handed him a hot cup of tea. He had time to take one sip before a cry was raised by a lookout atop the gatehouse, “Enemy sighted!” Moments later, the bugle sounded the call to arms. Men readied themselves to fight at the sound, though most were already in fighting order or close enough that it took only moments for them to be. Lieutenant Albans and Captain Brine approached the front, trailed by Sergeant Flint, near where Tommy, Will, and the rest of Albans' platoon were positioned. They were close enough that Will could hear them well. They could not see down the length of the bridge, only the looming gatehouse above them and the wheel-rutted stone ramp up to the bridge's long walkway.

  Brine looked through his spyglass. “They’re coming all right. Looks like infantry, and a lot of it. Albans, I want ranked fire front and centre. Same as Edmonds did yesterday. I want that bridge piled with enemy dead. Benton will provide enfilading fire from the flank just there.”

  “What if that dragon shows itself again?”

  “Mar will handle it again.”

  Just then, a tremendous blast sounded from across the bridge, followed by a cracking sound as a cannonball whipped in and through just where the officers were standing. Lieutenant Albans was ripped from his feet. Then, silence. Albans was on the ground rolling. Brine turned to him, his face white. Sergeant Flint knelt, already tending to the officer.

  “Sir, I’ve had it,” Albans said, his tone steady.

  “Gods below, have you indeed?” Brine replied, his chin jutted forward. “You there.” He pointed to two nearby troopers, “Take the lieutenant to the surgeon’s tent. On the double, if you please.”

  Flint had already pulled Albans’ belt off and was using it as a tourniquet to stem the flow of blood from the lieutenant’s mangled lower leg. Will could see that the cannonball had half-torn off the leg at the calf. Blood soaked the officer’s dark trousers, and the leg flopped limply. He would certainly lose it at the surgeon. Soon, the soldiers would be up and into the same line of fire that had mangled the lieutenant. Once Flint had secured the officer’s dangling leg with a splint and tourniquet, the two troopers hoisted him up and carried him away towards the place where the baggage train and surgeon’s tent were located.

  Brine and Flint retreated to where there was better cover, “I’ll command the defence,” The captain told his sergeant.

  “Sir, no. We cannot risk you there. It’s not a job for a Captain.”

  “I’ve no spare lieutenant. We’ve too few officers.”

  “And no spare captains, either. I’ll do it, sir, if you’ll permit me.” Flint said.

  Brine sighed, “Very well. Lead the defence, sergeant.”

  The crack of musket fire sounded from the flank where Benton’s men opened fire on the bridge from their high ground. They had dug trenches, and their position was better prepared than at this low ground before the bridge. The cry from the lookout at the top of the gatehouse came again, “They’re coming!”

  Flint’s booming voice sounded, “All right, form up, you men. This bridge is our bridge, a Vastrum bridge, the King’s bridge. Those bloody Rakes are comin’ to kill you and take it over your stinking corpses. Are you gonna let them?” He shouted.

  “No!” The men sounded back.

  “It’s a black business and terrible work I mean to do. Will you do it with me?”

  “Aye!” The men yelled out, “We’re with you, Sergeant!”

  “Then let’s get to it. Give me two ranks, now. Straight across the gate there. That’s good.”

  The men followed the orders and formed up, their training taking hold. The constant drilling they had done meant they acted on instinct. Will was in the front rank next to Tommy. The boys were pressed in close on either side, standing together. The veteran Gideon was to his right. Out across the bridge, hundreds of enemy soldiers marched forward. The enemy came in their green and whites, tiger banners raised above them in the morning sky, and bayonets fixed. A cannonball whipped in and cracked above, hitting the gatehouse and showering Will and the rest with stones and debris.

  “Load carbines!” Flint bellowed.

  The men obeyed.

  Will marked the steps he had been taught: first, take a cartridge and tear it open with your teeth. The smell of saltpetre filled his nostrils as he bit it open. The cartridge was a small paper-wrapped package containing everything he would need to shoot his muzzleloader. It was greased to prevent spoiling in the damp, and he tasted beeswax and tallow on his lips. Second, pour the powder down the barrel and drop in the ball. He shook slightly as he poured the powder, losing a little. He cursed himself silently. Third, take your ramrod and ram down the barrel. He fumbled with it but felt thankful he didn’t drop the ramrod. The wad of powder and the ball felt good and tight, and he secured the ramrod back on the gun. Third, bring the rifle to his hip and replace the percussion cap. Fourth, set the sights. The enemy was close enough, halfway across the bridge. One hundred yards would do. Fifth, cock the hammer back. Sixth, present arms, finger on the trigger. Seventh, mark his target. He aimed at the lead man jogging towards them. He was front and centre of the enemy advance. He was one of those men wearing the strange-looking bronze helmet that Will took as the sign of an officer. He seemed a brave man, his dark face full of righteous fury, with an almost euphoric look on his face. Will had never killed before. The man seemed as good as any target. He aimed down his sights. He waited for the order to shoot. All the men in the first row now had their rifles loaded, cocked, and presented. The moment before the order to fire stretched out into an eternity. Will’s heart was beating hard. His whole body buzzed with adrenaline. The enemy was getting closer every second. Muskets fired from the flank, and enemy soldiers fell. The man at the front kept coming. He could feel the enemy’s fury as the man roared defiance at Vastrum.

  “Fire!” Flint bellowed.

  Will squeezed the trigger on the command. Fire and smoke and lead balls belched forth. The front rank of the enemy fell to the firing squad, but the men behind them pushed on.

  “Front rank, kneel and reload! Second rank, present arms!”

  Guns were presented just above and beside the heads of the front rank.

  “Fire!” Flint roared again.

  The crack and roar of muskets sounded right next to Will’s head. His ears rang as he rammed the next cartridge down the barrel of his carbine. Another cannonball crashed into the bridge nearby, sending shards of stone shrapnel flying through the men. Something hit Will’s cheek, but he ignored it. He had a job to do.

  “Front rank, present!” Flint’s voice sounded far away and muted through the ringing in Will’s ears. He was shaking less now. He marked his next target. They were much closer now.

  “Fire!”

  He squeezed the trigger again. The muskets roared less loudly in his ears now, but they were no less deadly. Another wave of the enemy fell. The rear rank fired again, and more corpses were made upon the bridge. A cannonball finally hit home. Two men to his left were plucked from the line. Medics dragged the wounded away, and reserves came to plug the hole in the line. He presented arms again. Fired. Three times a minute. Each rank of men made a volley every ten seconds. He lost track of how many times they fired and how many cannon shots hit nearby. The bridge was peppered with shot and littered with enemy dead. Then suddenly, the enemy was falling back, leaving piles of dying and dead men. The men on the bridge cheered. Will and Tommy were still with them. As they cheered, another cannonball hit home. Will felt something hit him, and he was thrown back. The ringing in his ears was deafening. His vision went white. He heard someone crying out in the distance. It seemed a familiar voice, and he realised after a moment that it was his own. He felt hands lift and carry him away. “We’ve got you, boyo.” Was the last thing he heard as he faded from consciousness.