Send Me Safely Back Again by Adrian Goldsworthy Read Free Book Online Page A

audible over the cries and metallic clashing of swords – and the Spaniard was staring blankly forward with a neat hole above his right eye. He slumped to the side, hands lifeless, but sword still suspended from the strap around his wrist.
    There were some ten skirmishers in the same deep green jacket and buff equipment Williams had seen on the corpse. Tall green plumes with yellow tips decorated their shakos and they had the epaulettes of an elite company.
    There were more shots, but the two remaining Spanish officers rode on unscathed. Three French dragoons were walking their horses through the debris of the routed Spanish wing. A sergeant with a red stripe on his sleeves carried a captured standard, its crimson flag hanging lifeless in the still air. It was a trophy that would guarantee praise, reward and promotion, andthe dragoon assumed the officers were riding to recapture the symbol of their pride and turned to carry it to safety. The other two Frenchmen stood to cover his escape, their swords ready. By chance their horses were just a yard or two ahead of the fallen Spanish general, who had not stirred again. The skirmishers came on, lured by the prospect of fresh corpses with full pockets, and Williams was relieved that the men who had fired did not bother to reload. No one paid any attention to the two scruffy redcoats, walking slowly on.
    There was heavy firing away in the direction of the main line of Spanish infantry, followed by a great, almost unearthly moan unlike anything Williams had ever heard. Then there were screams, individual voices lost, but together joining one long, extended cry. The two Spanish officers reached the French horsemen and now the noise of steel on steel was closer.
    Several of the green-uniformed skirmishers knelt down to rifle bodies. One of the fallen Spaniards moved and cried out in pain, but the infantryman ignored his complaints and lifted him so that he could pull off the man’s tunic. He laid the man down again with some tenderness, but ignored his scream of agony, and started to run one hand along the seams of the coat, feeling for any coins sewn into the lining.
    The NCO leading the skirmishers noticed the two British soldiers. He called out in a language Williams did not understand, but knew was not French.
    ‘
Amis
!’ called Dobson, before the officer could think what to say.
    The NCO looked suspicious. He reached back to draw his bayonet from its scabbard and said something to his men. It was awkward to load and aim a musket when the bayonet was fixed, and so most skirmishers preferred not to attach the blade until absolutely necessary. Several of the closest men also drew their own blades. One slung his musket and instead reached for the short sword carried by the French elite companies and known as the
sabre-briquet
.
    Dobson stopped, raising his musket so the butt was snugagainst his shoulder. Then he fired, the noise appallingly loud just beside Williams’ ears, and shot the NCO through the throat. The man’s unfixed bayonet and musket dropped to the ground and he clutched at his collar as his knees gave way and he slumped forward.
    Williams followed the veteran’s example. He saw one of the skirmishers pulling back the flint to cock his musket and guessed that the man was loaded and so aimed at him. He made himself wait, hoping to steady the weapon, but then pulled the trigger more strongly than he should have. The powder flared in the pan and an instant later set off the main charge, but by the time the musket slammed back against his shoulder the muzzle was pointing a little down. The ball slapped into the skirmisher’s left thigh and the man gasped in pain as he was knocked from his feet.
    Dobson was screaming out a challenge as he charged, musket down and bayonet reaching hungrily forward. Williams followed a moment later and wished he had time to draw his sword as he no longer carried a bayonet.
    There was a shot, and Williams felt a ball pluck at his