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Authors: Adrian Goldsworthy
Tags: Historical, Napoleonic wars
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sword tighter and drove his horse forward, its longer legs stretching out and soon passing the smaller animals ridden by the cavalry. His mouth was open and he was whooping with delight.
The French ran. Before the deluge of blue-coated cavalry and the redcoated officer at their head reached them their horses went about and they fled. Hanley saw their backs and realised that he was yelling with delight as he gave chase. The French scattered, but their horses were already weary and a couple of them tried to flee straight back. Hanley closed with one, a trumpeter in an orange coat laced with green. He looked to be barely eighteen, fresh faced and terrified as he turned and stared back at his pursuers.
Hanley grinned and urged his horse on, reaching back to slap the flat of his blade against it to make it run faster. He was closingquickly, saw another hurried look of terror from his target, who reined in, and then he was passing so fast that he simply slashed backwards and knocked the wind from the trumpeter and the trumpeter from the saddle. The man looked shocked as he lay on his back with his booted legs in the air. Hanley had meant to use the edge, but had forgotten to tighten his grip. He looked back and saw the trumpeter push himself up only to be hacked on the shoulder by a passing cavalryman and flung down again.
They rode on. Hanley looked and saw that the two hussars were still with him, the corporal looking a little bemused. All three of them slowed their mounts, for they were running away from the smaller and poorly conditioned cavalry horses. They went at a comfortable easy canter, which matched the little Portuguese horses’ gallop. A few more French stragglers were caught and cut down, others lay on the grass, and after a couple of miles they saw the 13th Light Dragoons, still haring across the plain and spread out as they hunted the enemy down.
Hanley found it all intoxicating, but as the time passed he began to think for the first time since they had set off. He had wanted to kill the trumpeter, and thought the man’s desperate fear amusing as he had run him down. The urge to kill again, so soon after he had killed for the first time, was disturbing. Hanley thought himself a peaceable man. He loved Spain and the Spanish people, admired the Portuguese, although with a lesser acquaintance, and he had found the closest friendships of his life with men like Pringle, Truscott and Williams. For all those reasons he devoted his energy and passion to driving the French back across the Pyrenees. His war was fought away from the battlefield, using stealth and deception to outwit the enemy.
Hanley knew that his successes often meant that the enemy were brought to the field at a disadvantage. Men died when they were beaten, perhaps more of them than if he had done nothing, but it was all at a distance. In his service with the 106th he had never taken a man’s life, and as far as he knew the same was true of Pringle, if not of Williams. The Welshman killed with a chilling fluency. Now he had run a man through and was puzzledbecause he felt no revulsion. It was almost as if there was now more honesty in what he did – not with the world, but with himself. Still, he wished one of the others were here and there was time to talk. Williams would have been hard to draw forth, Pringle would have joked, and Truscott looked to philosophy, so he was not sure how much they would have helped. Since he was being honest in his thoughts, perhaps it was better to say that he wanted them here to listen.
They rode on, the Portuguese mingling with the British. Many of the light dragoons rode horses white with sweat, and yet still they ran on, eating up the miles. Hanley and his escort edged further and further forward, and so were among the leaders when they raised a shout at sighting new quarry. Ahead of them on the road was a long procession of wagons and heavy guns pulled by horses and mules. Soldiers walked alongside, but there was
The French ran. Before the deluge of blue-coated cavalry and the redcoated officer at their head reached them their horses went about and they fled. Hanley saw their backs and realised that he was yelling with delight as he gave chase. The French scattered, but their horses were already weary and a couple of them tried to flee straight back. Hanley closed with one, a trumpeter in an orange coat laced with green. He looked to be barely eighteen, fresh faced and terrified as he turned and stared back at his pursuers.
Hanley grinned and urged his horse on, reaching back to slap the flat of his blade against it to make it run faster. He was closingquickly, saw another hurried look of terror from his target, who reined in, and then he was passing so fast that he simply slashed backwards and knocked the wind from the trumpeter and the trumpeter from the saddle. The man looked shocked as he lay on his back with his booted legs in the air. Hanley had meant to use the edge, but had forgotten to tighten his grip. He looked back and saw the trumpeter push himself up only to be hacked on the shoulder by a passing cavalryman and flung down again.
They rode on. Hanley looked and saw that the two hussars were still with him, the corporal looking a little bemused. All three of them slowed their mounts, for they were running away from the smaller and poorly conditioned cavalry horses. They went at a comfortable easy canter, which matched the little Portuguese horses’ gallop. A few more French stragglers were caught and cut down, others lay on the grass, and after a couple of miles they saw the 13th Light Dragoons, still haring across the plain and spread out as they hunted the enemy down.
Hanley found it all intoxicating, but as the time passed he began to think for the first time since they had set off. He had wanted to kill the trumpeter, and thought the man’s desperate fear amusing as he had run him down. The urge to kill again, so soon after he had killed for the first time, was disturbing. Hanley thought himself a peaceable man. He loved Spain and the Spanish people, admired the Portuguese, although with a lesser acquaintance, and he had found the closest friendships of his life with men like Pringle, Truscott and Williams. For all those reasons he devoted his energy and passion to driving the French back across the Pyrenees. His war was fought away from the battlefield, using stealth and deception to outwit the enemy.
Hanley knew that his successes often meant that the enemy were brought to the field at a disadvantage. Men died when they were beaten, perhaps more of them than if he had done nothing, but it was all at a distance. In his service with the 106th he had never taken a man’s life, and as far as he knew the same was true of Pringle, if not of Williams. The Welshman killed with a chilling fluency. Now he had run a man through and was puzzledbecause he felt no revulsion. It was almost as if there was now more honesty in what he did – not with the world, but with himself. Still, he wished one of the others were here and there was time to talk. Williams would have been hard to draw forth, Pringle would have joked, and Truscott looked to philosophy, so he was not sure how much they would have helped. Since he was being honest in his thoughts, perhaps it was better to say that he wanted them here to listen.
They rode on, the Portuguese mingling with the British. Many of the light dragoons rode horses white with sweat, and yet still they ran on, eating up the miles. Hanley and his escort edged further and further forward, and so were among the leaders when they raised a shout at sighting new quarry. Ahead of them on the road was a long procession of wagons and heavy guns pulled by horses and mules. Soldiers walked alongside, but there was
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