Read Online Run Them Ashore by Adrian Goldsworthy - Free Book Online
Authors: Adrian Goldsworthy
Ads: Link
French infantry, making the rearguard cluster together in a tight circle, bayonets ready to fend off the horsemen. So they stood and so they died, offering a target that even the wild crusaders would gradually whittle down. More and more of these risked jumping into the gully, pouncing on any isolated Frenchmen and shooting or knifing them.
‘Like watching a bird die,’ Murphy said softly.
Pringle glanced back at the sergeant, moved by the sadness in his voice. This was not the war that the officer knew, and he could not say that he liked to see it.
The trumpet sounded again, its notes urgent. Out in the wider valley, pursued by a loose crowd of serranos, the French hussars suddenly wheeled round and charged. The villagers stopped in their tracks, the cries dying in their throats. A few had loaded muskets and fired, but no horse or man fell. Pringle could imagine the drumming of hoofs, the hussars standing tall in their stirrups, cheering as they brought their curved sabres forward ready to lunge.
‘They won’t stand.’
Pringle saw that Murphy was right, and had the guilty sense that he was pleased to see the enemy soldiers gain their revenge. Already the serranos were turning to flee, but for many it was too late, and now the hussars were among them. They were too far away to hear the screams, but saw the curved sabres glittering as they chopped down. Bodies littered the valley floor behind the ragged lines of charging hussars.
The French chased the crusaders back to the mouth of the valley. Even then, a few enraged hussars tried to ride after them, only to be shot or cut from their saddles by the crowds that clustered in the broken ground. On the plain the hussars were masters, but they could not fight amid the rock-strewn hillocks and slopes. Again the trumpet sounded, and the forty or so hussars re-formed out of range of the peasants. They waited for awhile, heard the fire slackening from back down the valley and must have known what that meant. Their infantry had died or was dying and there was nothing they could do. Eventually the hussars wheeled again, and set off down the road towards the coast. They left more than twice their number of bodies dotted across the valley floor.
Pringle could see that it was nearly over. The circle of soldiers was now a pile of bodies, the few survivors being hunted out from their hiding places. He focused his glass on Don Antonio, and watched him lead his riders along the row of abandoned wagons. Behind the chief was one of the young women, her black cloak and clothes clear. He watched as a man stirred in the back of one of the wagons, pulling himself up with his arms clutching the wooden side. The girl produced a pistol, pressed it against the man’s chest and shot him.
On the slopes below them many of the women and other spectators were heading down towards the scene of victory. Most had long knives in their hands.
Billy Pringle snapped his glass shut. He did not want to see any more.
4
A n hour or so later, some seventy miles further east along the coast and about five miles out to sea, Lieutenant Williams sat once again in the black-painted gig and enjoyed the momentary calm now that they were in the lee of the other ship. Up close the frigate looked immense, and at one hundred and forty-six feet seven inches it was almost half as long again as the Sparrowhawk . It towered above them, its three great masts so high that the men in the tops looked liked dolls. Williams wondered how they managed on a calm day, let alone in any sort of blow.
‘Lively now, show them how it’s done,’ hissed the coxswain to the gig’s crew as they worked the oars. ‘Keep it steady.’ Although it was not obvious, all of them knew that they were being watched, every action examined and dissected in the eager hope of seeing an imperfection, anything to confirm this ship’s company’s belief in its own superiority.
Captain Edward Pringle seemed oblivious, but once again everyone
‘Like watching a bird die,’ Murphy said softly.
Pringle glanced back at the sergeant, moved by the sadness in his voice. This was not the war that the officer knew, and he could not say that he liked to see it.
The trumpet sounded again, its notes urgent. Out in the wider valley, pursued by a loose crowd of serranos, the French hussars suddenly wheeled round and charged. The villagers stopped in their tracks, the cries dying in their throats. A few had loaded muskets and fired, but no horse or man fell. Pringle could imagine the drumming of hoofs, the hussars standing tall in their stirrups, cheering as they brought their curved sabres forward ready to lunge.
‘They won’t stand.’
Pringle saw that Murphy was right, and had the guilty sense that he was pleased to see the enemy soldiers gain their revenge. Already the serranos were turning to flee, but for many it was too late, and now the hussars were among them. They were too far away to hear the screams, but saw the curved sabres glittering as they chopped down. Bodies littered the valley floor behind the ragged lines of charging hussars.
The French chased the crusaders back to the mouth of the valley. Even then, a few enraged hussars tried to ride after them, only to be shot or cut from their saddles by the crowds that clustered in the broken ground. On the plain the hussars were masters, but they could not fight amid the rock-strewn hillocks and slopes. Again the trumpet sounded, and the forty or so hussars re-formed out of range of the peasants. They waited for awhile, heard the fire slackening from back down the valley and must have known what that meant. Their infantry had died or was dying and there was nothing they could do. Eventually the hussars wheeled again, and set off down the road towards the coast. They left more than twice their number of bodies dotted across the valley floor.
Pringle could see that it was nearly over. The circle of soldiers was now a pile of bodies, the few survivors being hunted out from their hiding places. He focused his glass on Don Antonio, and watched him lead his riders along the row of abandoned wagons. Behind the chief was one of the young women, her black cloak and clothes clear. He watched as a man stirred in the back of one of the wagons, pulling himself up with his arms clutching the wooden side. The girl produced a pistol, pressed it against the man’s chest and shot him.
On the slopes below them many of the women and other spectators were heading down towards the scene of victory. Most had long knives in their hands.
Billy Pringle snapped his glass shut. He did not want to see any more.
4
A n hour or so later, some seventy miles further east along the coast and about five miles out to sea, Lieutenant Williams sat once again in the black-painted gig and enjoyed the momentary calm now that they were in the lee of the other ship. Up close the frigate looked immense, and at one hundred and forty-six feet seven inches it was almost half as long again as the Sparrowhawk . It towered above them, its three great masts so high that the men in the tops looked liked dolls. Williams wondered how they managed on a calm day, let alone in any sort of blow.
‘Lively now, show them how it’s done,’ hissed the coxswain to the gig’s crew as they worked the oars. ‘Keep it steady.’ Although it was not obvious, all of them knew that they were being watched, every action examined and dissected in the eager hope of seeing an imperfection, anything to confirm this ship’s company’s belief in its own superiority.
Captain Edward Pringle seemed oblivious, but once again everyone
Similar Books
