Read Online Song of the Legions by Michael Large - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael Large
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fire. On they came, these brave fellows, the men in the second rank stepping over their dead comrades.
By now, our cannon had found its range, too. It scythed down ranks of these splendid grenadiers, and their advance collapsed, decimated.
Despite them being our mortal enemies, I felt a stirring of pity for them, and I felt pride at the wonderful spectacle of arms they presented, even as the bullets tore through their breasts. I thought of my Irish grandfather, a mercenary, who wore that same Russian uniform.
Finally it was our turn. General Zayonczek, boiling with impatience, rode up to our ranks. It was a warm day but he was wrapped in a thick fur over his uniform. Tanski, who had never seen him up close before, later remarked that this General should have had a sheep, rather than a pig, on his coat of arms, for the General's thick, curly blond hair was cut close to his scalp, like a ram's fleece. He had bushy blond cavalry moustaches to match it. Zayonczek was not one to mince words:
“Szarza! Charge!” he called, chopping down his flashing sabre. The front rank lowered their lances, the swallow-tailed pennants fluttering in the breeze. Then we hurled ourselves forward in a mad charge, a wave of furious cavalry emitting blood-curdling screams, spearpoints and brandished sabres glinting in the sun – szarza! Szarza!
We wielded those slim chivalric ashwood lances and wore a fine uniform – tight red trousers, a blue jacket with red or yellow facings, depending upon one's regiment, silver epaulettes, and a fur-trimmed red czapka. The front rank was a charging mass of beautiful Polish steeds, the descendants of the Arab chargers our Sarmatian forefathers brought with them from Persia.
It was a spectacle indeed, green grass beneath blue sky. Before us were the Russians on their stout, sturdy steeds, gaudily caparisoned, snorting, neighing, and prancing gracefully beneath their grim faced grey riders. The enemy cavalry were clad in varied grey costumes and greatcoats, with gleaming silver and gold cuirasses, many wearing bearskin hats decked with eagle feathers, others in helmets and wolfskins. They were armed with sabres and pistols.
Our lances were slim and graceful weapons, twelve feet long. The lance was difficult to wield but deadly in a skilled hand, and it could be handled almost as dexterously as a sabre. It was feather light, cut from ashwood, impregnated with linseed oil and tar, with a metal heel, and a red and white silk swallow-tailed pennant behind the steel spearhead.
The front rank held their lances between the looped forefinger and the middle finger of the right hand, before raising them high above their heads to deliver a powerful thrust at the enemy – this was called ‘ par le moulinet’ .
The sabres of the enemy cavalry met the lances of our first rank. The enemy may as well have been wielding dandelions as sabres. Our lances tore them apart, a flying wall of deadly spears. Many of the Russian horses had broken and run before us. They were transfixed and terrified by the fluttering swallow-tailed pennons on our lances, which were not merely for decoration, but terrorised the simple minds of the beasts. It was an unbelievable chaos – horses and cavalrymen falling together, felled like trees, men with their clothes on fire, set alight by the blazing wads from muskets and pistols, men impaled on lances like suckling pigs.
Only the front rank of the cavalry carried the lance, together with a pair of pistols. The second and third ranks, following behind, carried a musket into battle at the charge instead. I myself was relegated to the second rank, to make use of my English gun, for we were sorely short of firearms. Thus I arrived moments after this first great wave of devastation, and the front rank were already chasing the retreating Russian cavalry from the field.
Beside me were Russians, wounded, in a heap, burning, trying with their sabres to
By now, our cannon had found its range, too. It scythed down ranks of these splendid grenadiers, and their advance collapsed, decimated.
Despite them being our mortal enemies, I felt a stirring of pity for them, and I felt pride at the wonderful spectacle of arms they presented, even as the bullets tore through their breasts. I thought of my Irish grandfather, a mercenary, who wore that same Russian uniform.
Finally it was our turn. General Zayonczek, boiling with impatience, rode up to our ranks. It was a warm day but he was wrapped in a thick fur over his uniform. Tanski, who had never seen him up close before, later remarked that this General should have had a sheep, rather than a pig, on his coat of arms, for the General's thick, curly blond hair was cut close to his scalp, like a ram's fleece. He had bushy blond cavalry moustaches to match it. Zayonczek was not one to mince words:
“Szarza! Charge!” he called, chopping down his flashing sabre. The front rank lowered their lances, the swallow-tailed pennants fluttering in the breeze. Then we hurled ourselves forward in a mad charge, a wave of furious cavalry emitting blood-curdling screams, spearpoints and brandished sabres glinting in the sun – szarza! Szarza!
We wielded those slim chivalric ashwood lances and wore a fine uniform – tight red trousers, a blue jacket with red or yellow facings, depending upon one's regiment, silver epaulettes, and a fur-trimmed red czapka. The front rank was a charging mass of beautiful Polish steeds, the descendants of the Arab chargers our Sarmatian forefathers brought with them from Persia.
It was a spectacle indeed, green grass beneath blue sky. Before us were the Russians on their stout, sturdy steeds, gaudily caparisoned, snorting, neighing, and prancing gracefully beneath their grim faced grey riders. The enemy cavalry were clad in varied grey costumes and greatcoats, with gleaming silver and gold cuirasses, many wearing bearskin hats decked with eagle feathers, others in helmets and wolfskins. They were armed with sabres and pistols.
Our lances were slim and graceful weapons, twelve feet long. The lance was difficult to wield but deadly in a skilled hand, and it could be handled almost as dexterously as a sabre. It was feather light, cut from ashwood, impregnated with linseed oil and tar, with a metal heel, and a red and white silk swallow-tailed pennant behind the steel spearhead.
The front rank held their lances between the looped forefinger and the middle finger of the right hand, before raising them high above their heads to deliver a powerful thrust at the enemy – this was called ‘ par le moulinet’ .
The sabres of the enemy cavalry met the lances of our first rank. The enemy may as well have been wielding dandelions as sabres. Our lances tore them apart, a flying wall of deadly spears. Many of the Russian horses had broken and run before us. They were transfixed and terrified by the fluttering swallow-tailed pennons on our lances, which were not merely for decoration, but terrorised the simple minds of the beasts. It was an unbelievable chaos – horses and cavalrymen falling together, felled like trees, men with their clothes on fire, set alight by the blazing wads from muskets and pistols, men impaled on lances like suckling pigs.
Only the front rank of the cavalry carried the lance, together with a pair of pistols. The second and third ranks, following behind, carried a musket into battle at the charge instead. I myself was relegated to the second rank, to make use of my English gun, for we were sorely short of firearms. Thus I arrived moments after this first great wave of devastation, and the front rank were already chasing the retreating Russian cavalry from the field.
Beside me were Russians, wounded, in a heap, burning, trying with their sabres to
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