Musket for a King Page 5

  Guns boomed in the distance to the right, sounding like thunder, but I didn’t know if they were ours or theirs. The artillerymen to our front went about prepping their guns, nervously looking across the open field toward the small village and stream.in front of us. I occasionally spotted an enemy officer on a horse making his way forward, checking our position, then quickly retreating out of sight.

  Soon, the gunners were ready, but nothing happened. They stood idly by their guns, waiting for a command to fire. Our officers rode up and down the line behind us, occasionally shouting encouragement.

  “What are we waiting on?” I asked Niklas, who was directly to my right -- part of the line that stretched a hundred paces in either direction.

  “This is what war is,” he said. “Waiting.”

  Men shifted about around me, a combination of boredom and nerves.

  “How long do we wait?” I asked.

  “In a hurry to die?” Simon countered.

  “This won’t be the same as before,” Niklas said. “We aren’t skirmishing here. If we stay in formation, keep step with the line and stay next to me. Things will get loud and confusing very fast.”

  “We’ll stand here all day,” Simon said. “The action is off to the right.”

  “It can stay there,” a man behind me said. “Standing here is just fine.”

  I took a drink of warm water from my canteen, relishing the moisture on my dry lips.

  “Save your water,” Simon advised. “Once the shooting starts, you’ll get thirsty and quickly run out.”

  I nodded, embarrassed at how little I knew about anything. At this point, I just hoped my stupidity didn’t get me killed.

  Another hour passed, and the guns continued to boom far in the distance. Men began to lean heavily on their muskets, then knelt. Zorn and the other sergeants moved up and down the long line, cursing and kicking anyone not standing, but after a while, even they gave up, and soon most of the line was either kneeling or sitting down.

  The day grew warmer as time passed, our battalion waiting in boredom ,while in the distance, men were being killed by the scores. The artillerymen in front of us lounged on their guns or laid down in the grass behind the pieces, their dark blue uniforms creating a mottled pattern across our front. Mounted officers were beyond the cannon line, their brass telescopes held up to their eyes, watching the enemy, who stared back through their own lenses.

  I sat and looked up at the wispy clouds moving across the sky, caring not for the foibles of the men below.

  “Something’s happening,” Simon said beside me, his voice urgent.

  The officers cantered back behind our lines and the artillerymen in front stirred into action as their officers began to yell orders in French, which I did not understand. We were on our feet in anticipation -- and partly because we wanted to see what was going on -- before our sergeants began yelling at us to stand back up, leaving them to fuss over the alignment of our ranks as men shifted positions to peer ahead.

  Distant drums beat and a row of whitecoats began to emerge from the trees across the field from us, but they were so far away they appeared only as a white fence, with their bayonets shining in the light, their faces lost in the distance. Men began filing off to the front of their line, spreading out as they moved forward.

  “Looks like we might get a little skirmish after all,” Niklas said as he watched the action.

  The men continued their slow approach, trotting half hunched over, continuing to spread further out the closer they came. I noticed these men were wearing brown coats instead of white, and I wondered aloud who they were.

  “Grenz,” Niklas said as he checked the flint in his musket one more time. “They are men that guard the border with the Turks, and most are expert shots.”

  Several cracks broke the stillness in the air, two puffs of smoke marking the two men who had fired. One of the artillerymen to the left doubled over, his comrades rushing to his aid.

  “Won’t be long now,” Niklas said, with a determined look instilling confidence in me.

  Sure enough, the drums beat the order for skirmish line to move forward, and I soon found myself walking between the guns, where the gunners said some words of encouragement in French, happy to have us as shields between them and the enemy.

  “Remember, you don’t fire until I’ve reloaded,” Niklas reminded me.

  I nodded, hoping I remembered correctly that my musket was loaded. We fanned out across the grass, the grenzers still shooting, but now it was Germans who were being hit instead of Frenchmen.

  “Two of them, straight ahead,” Niklas said as shots started to pepper out from our advancing line.

  A pair of skirmishers, one forward of the other, were directly to our front, and I could see their long moustaches and dark hair. The man in front pointed his musket at me, a puff of smoke appearing just before the crack rang out.

  The ball passed so close to my ear that I felt the wind from it passing and sensed the heat as it moved by. “He almost hit me!” I exclaimed, but by now, the firing up and down the line was regular, and my statement was drowned out by the noise.

  Smoke spewed from Niklas’ gun and hovered in a cloud before him. The ground between us and the enemy was quickly becoming hazy with smoke, making it hard to see. I crouched down, trying to glimpse my target under the smoke as Niklas pounded the ball down his barrel with his ramrod.

  Another shot hissed by me, but this one wasn’t as close.

  “Go!” Niklas yelled, jerking his musket upright, ready to fire.

  I dropped to a knee, aimed at the last place I saw my target and squeezed the trigger.

  The flint snapped forward, igniting the charge, and the rifle kicked backward into my shoulder. “That hurt,” I muttered to myself, reaching for another cartridge.

  Someone was screaming in pain to my left, and I could see a couple of our men dragging someone backward across the field.

  “Hurry up!” Niklas yelled, drawing my attention back to my task. As soon as I rammed the ball home, I yanked the rod free.

  “Ready!” I yelled.

  Niklas took several steps to his right, looking for an opening in the drifting clouds of smoke. Seeing something, he raised his weapon, waited another second, then fired, moving to his reloading motion as if he had been doing this his whole life.

  A musket ball whizzed by at knee-height, leaving cut blades of grass in its wake.

  For the first time, I felt scared. The first skirmish was something new and exciting, and we were pushing forward. I knew we were going to win. This felt different.

  A figure emerged from the smoke not twenty paces from me. I raised my musket, but froze.

  The man stumbled about, his one remaining eye staring wildly, a bloody hand holding a quarter of his head together as liquid oozed between his fingers. He had taken a shot that had blown off part of his skull, but somehow, he was still alive. His arms jerked spasmodically and he spun around, finally dropping to the ground.

  I lowered my musket, mesmerized by what I had just witnessed, and began to walk forward as the din of battle drowned out all noises except for my heart beating in my ears.

  Had I done that? Had I taken off part of the man’s head?

  I could see him now, his body lying on the grass just to my front, his arm still flailing about in a vain attempt to hang on to this world, to hang on to this life.

  Suddenly, I was on the ground.

  Niklas stood above me, yelling, but I could not hear his words.

  He grabbed me by the collar and lifted me to my feet.

  “ ... doing? Wake up!”

  I understood now. “Yeah, yeah, I’m okay,” I said, confused as to what I was supposed to be doing.

  “Start shooting!” he yelled.

  Rising to my feet, my eyes locked on the body, the arm no longer moving, the hand grasped around a clump of grass, the blades now sticky red. It was only then that I realized that the soldier was wearing a green coat, not a brown or white
one.

  He was one of ours.

  A hard slap to my side from Niklas refocused my attention. I raised my gun, aiming at nothing in particular but the drifting smoke that obscured my vision, and pulled the trigger. I could no longer hear anything or understand what I was doing.

  My body took over, leaving my confused mind behind. Cartridges were loaded and fired, commands were shouted to Niklas and movements were made, but I was a coward, hiding in the back of my head, wishing for all the noise to go away so I could be alone with my thoughts.

  “Go!” Niklas shouted.

  More smoke. Another cartridge rammed home.

  “Ready!”

  Fire bellowed forth. My mouth was so dry, I could hardly talk, my voice raspy and faint.

  Drums beat in the distance, but I couldn’t make out the cadence between the cracks of the muskets.

  Men appeared in the smoke, dark figures released from the cracks of hell, their muskets spewing red death. All was lost, and I wanted to run, but my legs would not move.

  My musket bucked against me, and one of the dark demons fell, one of its foul comrades rushing to provide it succor. To my disbelief, the injured man rose up and continued forward.

  I aimed and pulled the trigger, but nothing happened. I had forgotten to reload.

  “Fall back!” someone yelled.

  I turned and ran, grass blurring beneath my feet. I felt the hot breath of the enemy on my neck, whispering taunts of death, and I knew my time was up.

  Flying through the air, I hit the ground hard, dirt going into my mouth, choking me. I raised my head and realized I had tripped on a body -- one of ours, a man I had seen before but did not know, a strange smile on his face.

  Thunder burst from behind me, stirring the smoke.

  The man still smiled, knowing he saved me.

  The cannons were firing now, and a thousand iron balls the size of chestnuts filled the air, killing any and all who stood in the way, regardless of uniform color.

  I stayed on the ground, hugging the earth, gazing at my dead companion as we shared a secret. He saved me from beyond the grave. I laughed, my voice rasping, and the body laughed a silent laugh with me. Death would not find me here. No, not here, hidden in the smoke, lying on the ground.

  Men screamed in the distance, their wails cutting through the thunderous booms of the cannon. Death found them and tore them to bits.

  My comrade laughed, his eyes smiling all the while.

  ***

  I don’t know how long I laid there after the thunder stopped, but it was as if I was startled from a dream, suddenly snapping back to reality and sitting upright.

  Looking around, I snatched up my musket and brushed the dirt from it and myself. Men moved about the field, looking for wounded and treasures hidden on the bodies of the enemy.

  Jonas moved past me as if I weren’t there, stepping over the body of my comrade, his eyes now closed, the smile on his face gone. Had I imagined the whole thing?

  Jonas found the body of an enemy soldier and pulled on an arm to roll him over, but the arm came off, the upper portion sheared off by canister. Tossing it aside as a minor inconvenience, he flipped the torso over and began searching through blood and gore until the corpse finally gave up two silver coins.

  I stood, my knees weak, and began walking back toward the cannon, where a number of men were gathered about shouting as others helped the wounded to the rear, oblivious to the conflict.

  The French gunners were shouting at several men of my battalion, who were being held back by several others.

  “What’s going on?” I asked a man near the back of the crowd.

  He turned, his face stained black from the gunpowder and streaked with sweat. “Damned Frenchies fired before all our men were back, killing some. They say the Emperor himself ordered them to shoot, but none of us saw him.”

  Several sergeants were pushing their way to the front to break up the fight as more officers rode toward the melee, attempting to restore order.

  I ignored them all, caring not for the argument. I crossed behind the guns and plopped down against the wheel of a caisson, leaning my musket beside me. It was only now that I realized the end of my bayonet had been shot off at some point. I removed the stubby remains from the end of the barrel, turned it over in my hand a few times, then tossed it aside.

  More shouting came from the crowd as the officers were now using their horses to force men back, and my green-coated comrades begrudgingly fell back. Drums began to beat the order to fall in, so using the spokes of the wheel, I pulled myself to my feet and trudged toward the rapidly forming line.

  I looked back across the field where I had narrowly escaped death and saw the Austrians reforming on the far side as several dark-coated figures worked their way across the fallen to steal money and food left to this world that they couldn’t take with them to the next.

  “Fools,” a man beside me said. “They’re going to get killed for a few pieces of bread.”

  “Better to die with a fully belly than live with an empty one,” another man countered.

  I moved down the line, picking up a discarded bayonet to replace my broken one. A hand grabbed me by the shoulder and shoved me forward.

  “Skulking as usual, I see,” Sergeant Zorn snapped. “Get moving! Back to your company! Move it!”

  I managed a slightly faster walk, earning me a swat from the cane before he turned his attention to someone else he deemed a criminal. “Get back in line before the whitecoats overrun us,” he shouted, poking and prodding anyone within range. “Get in line.”

  Spotting Niklas, I fell in beside him. Like the entire skirmish line, his face was black -- his eyes two white orbs contrasting with his skin.

  “See you survived,” Niklas said sounding glad for the news.

  “Indeed, but just barely,” I said. “I was still out there when the guns went off.”

  Niklas scowled. “As was I and many others. Damned fools, caring not whether they hit friend or foe. They should have let us teach them a thing about manners.”

  “Have you seen Simon?” I asked, realizing he wasn’t beside me.

  Niklas looked past me toward Simon’s spot in the line. “No,” he said, sounding worried.

  There were still men straggling to get in line, plus a dozen or so still in the field picking at the dead, so hope still remained. The drums beat the recall, attempting to get everyone back into line once more. A few men in the field looked up, but failed to break from their task, the lure of food and money too great.

  A messenger thundered down our line to the rear, pulling his mount up sharply when reaching the captain. The battalion’s attention was focused on the exchange, knowing it meant something was about to happen.

  The messenger spurred his horse forward as the captain began issuing orders. Soon, the word was passed. “Skirmish line forward,” came the cry.

  “Not again,” Niklas muttered as everyone checked their flints and cartridges.

  I had about three dozen cartridges left, realizing as I counted that I didn’t remember firing the two dozen shots that partially emptied my cartouche. The drum beat, and we moved forward once more, spreading out as we went.

  “Push all the way to the enemy this time,” Zorn yelled as we crossed the field. “No stopping!”

  We moved at a slow walk, stepping over first our dead, and then those of the enemy, strange, dark-haired men who looked like they were from a distant land, their faces contorted into expressions of death, their coats ripped open by the human scavengers, or in some cases, flying lead, exposing bloody entrails that the living were not meant to see.

  The whitecoats stood in their formation at the edge of the field, their long line perfectly straight, their muskets shouldered, the bayonets glittering in the sun. Their brown-coated brothers moved forward to meet our advance with one of their own, and soon, shots rang out and men died.

  “Keep moving!” Zorn’s voice tore through the noise the same way the cannon ball
s tore through a man. “No stopping! Reload on the move.”

  I fired aimlessly into the smoke, hoping I hit someone. Shots hissed by me high and low, but from whence they came, I could not tell, for the smoke appeared to be spitting the small wads of death with no enemy to be seen.

  Drums beat behind me, the deep rumble coming like thunder. The rest of the battalion was moving up behind us in support, but that did little to calm my racing heart. I just kept firing and reloading, waiting for Niklas’ signal each time, just like a good soldier.

  “Keep moving!”

  My foot bumped up against a body. One of the browncoats lay sprawled on the ground, his limbs every which way, his form like that of a rag doll dropped from the table. But the next time someone picked this doll up, it would be to toss it in a hole in a mass grave.

  We passed through the drifting smoke into partially clear air, and as one, we hesitated.

  “Keep moving!”

  The sergeant could yell, but it would do no good.

  The brown-coats were gone, their surviving number trotting off to either end of the long white line or forcing their way through the ranks to shelter behind it.

  Commands were given, and as one, the line raised their muskets and leveled them.

  “Get down!” Niklas shrieked.

  I dropped to my knees as the volley rang out, fire and smoke belching forth as the air filled with lead balls that sounded like a passing swarm of angry bees.

  “Keep moving!”

  I didn’t wait for Niklas but leveled my rifle and fired at the white line. Men were dropping all along the front as we found our targets. There was no way to miss.

  Fire and fire again. Each time, a man dropped, clutching the remnant of an arm or a leg or just completely dropping to the ground, never to get up.

  Another volley rang out, but this one more ragged and disorganized than the first. The line was wilting as more men left wounded or to help a fallen comrade. I saw the line starting to waver, like water under a bright sun. Officers rode up and down the line, brandishing swords and flags, attempting to keep the men steady, but our murder never slowed.