Company Of Spears

Hervey waited until Worsley had given his orders, then told him his own intention. ‘You’ll recall the map: from here on the Lea and the canal converge for about half a mile, and then there’s a fifty-yard cut which practically joins them, albeit a narrow one. There’s no bridge over the Lea, so if Thoyts stands on the canal they can’t get across there either. We may just have them in the neck of a bottle. We’ll ride straight for the cut now and then beat back towards Thoyts if there’s no sign of them. Torches rear for the time being. Let’s use the moon while we can.’

Captain Worsley touched his shako.

Although he had not seen the ground north of the sluice, Hervey said he would lead. He had had the most time to imprint the map on his mind, and although by simply following the river any dragoon could have found the cut, he judged that he could lead them there quicker by swinging north-west across the common.

Mr Hairsine had objections, however. ‘Proper drill, sir, with respect! Best have scouts out.’

Hervey hesitated: the RSM was right, but every second counted.

‘I’ll scout with Lightowler, sir,’ said Hairsine by way of deciding it.

‘Very well, Sarn’t-major. Head north-west for half a mile; if you run onto the canal then just follow it right.’

‘Sir.’ The RSM saluted, and nodded to his groom. ‘Come on, Lightowler.’

They set off at a measured trot. It was moonlight to see well enough, and the treeless, marshy common ahead could hold few surprises. Hervey let them get a good fifty yards before signalling the rest of the troop to follow.

It took but five minutes to close to the cut, with not a sign of life other than protesting waterfowl. Hervey could see, too, that Cornet Thoyts’s party had made equally rapid progress, the torches now halted in a line, and four more where he supposed the canal lock must be. If there were fugitives on the common they were as good as in the bag. ‘Well done, Thoyts,’ he muttered.

A sudden and violent fusillade brought him up short. He held up his hand and reined sharp to a halt. He couldn’t work out from which side of the river, or even the canal, the firing came, for the two narrowed to a point at the cut. He took out his telescope. It revealed only that the RSM and Lightowler had dismounted. There were more shots – the muzzle flashes two hundred yards off at least. Not worth returning fire with carbines at that range. He had but one decision: dismount or not.

‘Front form line!’

NCOs shouted the order the length of the column as Corporal Parry blew the repeated Gs.

Hervey supposed they had a frontage of two hundred yards at most, and narrowing. They would be tight packed, even with the torch men in the second line. But the NCOs would manage it somehow. ‘Draw swords!’

Out rasped fifty blades.

‘Forward!’ He would keep them at the walk – all the better to hear the next words of command.

The moon disappeared behind a cloud as they swept the ground. Hervey cursed: the smiles of harlots! But the firing soon stopped.

They bumped, stumbled and barged on for a minute and more.

‘Sir!’ came a dragoon’s voice, urgent.

Hervey looked right.

‘Sir, it’s Lightowler. I think ’e’s dead, sir.’

He cursed again. F Troop could take care of Private Lightowler. Where was the RSM?

They found him twenty yards on, not a stone’s throw from the cut. It was still near pitch dark, for the torches served more to light up the line than the way ahead. Hervey jumped from the saddle.

The RSM lay clutching his left shoulder. ‘Other side of the cut they were, sir. Lightowler took a ball in the throat.’ The voice was as determined as ever but a deal weaker.

‘Johnson!’ shouted Hervey. Johnson was no surgeon’s mate, but he knew how to staunch and dress. ‘Did you see how many, Sarn’t-major?’

‘Ay, sir, I did: quite a little knot of ’em – a dozen and more, and at least half a dozen shooters.’

Hervey angered. He clasped the RSM’s right arm, then when Johnson came he sprang up and back into the saddle. ‘Forward!’

The clouds parted suddenly and the moon lit their front like a stage at curtain-up. Another ragged fusillade crackled directly ahead.

Hervey saw his quarry. ‘Charge!’

The canal cut was but a hunting challenge to any half-decent equestrian, especially now the blood was up. The squadron leapt, scrambled and tumbled across it. Sabres sliced left and right. There were screams, oaths and imprecations for a full five minutes until every dragoon had satisfied himself there was not a living thing on the marsh but in blue.

‘Rally! Rally!’ croaked Hervey.

Corporal Parry blew as well as he could, but he too had swung his sabre the while.

‘Captain Worsley!’

‘Think ‘e’s fallen, sir,’ came a voice Hervey recognized. ‘Sarn’t-major Collins?’

‘Ay, sir!’

‘Hand over all your torches to E, then get your troop in hand fifty yards back and wait my orders!’

‘Sir!’

‘Sarn’t-major Armstrong!’

‘Sir!’

‘I want every body and weapon recovered. Every last one. Get as many torches as you can forward.’

‘Sir!’

‘Hervey?’ came his lieutenant’s voice, breathless.