“Which they’ve just destoyed,” Marc observed, urging his mount forward.
Distinguishable as the enemy only by their flowing capotes, the retreating figures suddenly stopped and turned.
“They’re going to shoot!”
The pop of musketry was heard, three puffs of smoke rose above the enemy horsemen, and one of the soldiers behind Marc cried out.
“Form up and fire!” Marc called out to Sergeant Ogletree.
Ogletree assembled half a dozen riflemen, and seconds later they fired off an ineffectual volley at the snipers. But it was sufficient to send the rebels scampering south. Three of the British rifles had misfired: damp powder or frozen fingers, no doubt. Colonel Gore and the company captains arrived moments later to survey the situation and develop a plan of attack. Marc and Hilliard, along with the other junior officers, dismounted and stood nearby, hoping for an order to pause, rest, eat, and re-group.
Hilliard had his scope to his right eye. “I can see the tops of the distillery buildings, sir. And there’s a huge stone house in front of them. They’ve knocked loopholes in the walls. And there’s a makeshift barricade of broken wagons and farm implements ringing it. The riverbank is close to the right, so that flank can’t be used to approach or enfilade. On the left there’s a small woods and a group of barns and outhouses. They’ll be nested in there and difficult to take out.”
“What’s the good news?” Marc asked wanly. He found himself leaning against his horse, suddenly faint from hunger and fatigue. Where would the infantry, who had struggled for eight hours on foot, find the resources to mount an all-out attack on a well-fortified position? In an open-field engagement, the superior training, ingrained discipline, and proven weaponry of the British troops would make short shrift of any collection of rebels-whatever their advantage in numbers and however committed they might be. But the rebels would not be foolish enough to come out and fight, as Montcalm had.
“There’s a coulee about a hundred yards in front of the stone house,” Rick enthused. “It will give us all the cover we’ll need. The Frenchies certainly won’t abandon their fortification to attack us there, not with a cavalry unit to protect our flanks. And they don’t know, poor fools, that Wetherall is moving up the river road from Chambly. If our pincer movement goes as planned, all we need to do is dig in here and wait for Wetherall and his gunners, and then hit the buggers from three sides.”
“I agree,” Marc said. “We can hunker down and wait. And cook ourselves an English breakfast.”
“You look as if you’d fall asleep in the middle of it.” Hilliard’s own eyes were as bright as a baby’s after a nap. The thrill of what was to come was keeping him alert and eager.
“We’ll need time for the men to check out their rifles and dry their powder. It would be suicidal to send them out there now.”
“What are the odds of that?” Hilliard asked glumly.
“The odds are very good.” It was Captain Riddell, who had just ridden over from the colonel’s briefing. “All companies, including the cavalry and the artillery crew, are to move immediately into that coulee ahead and prepare themselves for an assault on the stone house. Our company will form up on the right flank, and then escort the gun and its crew up to a big barn on the riverbank. We’ll clear out any skirmishers and snipers, secure the area, and protect the gunners at all costs. From that position we’ll blast that farmhouse to the far reaches of hell!”
“Yes, sir,” Marc said. “Ensign, will you-”
But Hilliard was already seeking out the sergeant and the men he would, at long last, lead into battle.
* * *
It took almost half an hour to get the twenty-four-pounder and its ammunition wagon across the creek at the bottom of the coulee. Thick limbs had to be cut from a nearby copse of hardwoods-by hands already stiff, swollen, and frostbitten-and jammed into the shallow, icy stream to form a makeshift bridge. All the while, the enemy took potshots from a variety of vantage-points close by, harried but not silenced by the loyal volunteer cavalry from Montreal, who lunged and darted fearsomely at the sound of any metallic click.
“They’re more likely to shoot us or each other,” Marc muttered, as he lent his shoulder to those already heaving the gun carriage onto the far bank of the creek.
“Let them know we’re here!” the colonel barked.
Minutes later, with the gun unlimbered, entrenched, and loaded, the air shuddered as a solid shot whizzed in a deadly arc towards the stone house. It sailed unimpeded through an open window on the second floor. The thundering crash of its havoc and the terrified yelling inside indicated a successful hit. The men cheered. Spirits rose. Sometime soon they might even be warm.
Captain Riddell gathered his company of sixty about him on the right sector of the coulee they were using for cover. The enemy had littered it with broken plough shares and rusted harrows that could slice a foot or leg in two if one were careless. But crouched low or kneeling on the half-frozen ground, the men were safe from snipers.
“We’re to go up and clear the skirmishers out of that barn and secure a permanent position for the gun,” the captain announced again. “Lieutenant Edwards will lead his squad out first. The other three will accompany the gun.”
Marc noted that a ploughed field ran all the way from the right edge of the coulee to the river. They would have to cross it to get to the barn. The relimbered gun and ammo carriage would have to traverse the same terrain. They were all on foot now. Anyone above saddle height would soon be dead. The inexperienced cavalry unit was back in reserve, guarding their rear and their exposed left flank.
With swords drawn and held aloft, Marc and Hilliard began sprinting across the furrowed field. Ogletree and his troop of fifteen came scampering behind. It had started to snow. The furrows were as slippery as rain-slicked ice. The men skidded, toppled, staggered upright-keeping their Brown Besses aloft as best they could-and followed their officers. Grim and determined, Sergeant Ogletree kept a step behind the men to encourage any malingerers. A ragged volley of shots poured out of the barn twenty yards ahead. Marc could hear the plump and sizzle of lead balls and pellets in the ground around him. One of the men was hit and collapsed, clutching his left calf.
“Get down!” Marc yelled. The riflemen, who could do so only when commanded, obeyed instantly. “You, too, Ensign!”
As soon as the next volley whistled harmlessly over their prone bodies, Marc gave his next order. “Fix bayonets and prepare to charge.”
“Ready, sir!” Ogletree said.
Marc raised his body as gracefully as his stiffening limbs would allow, then his sword, and brought it down as the signal to move forward. The men began to shout and ululate, their razor-sharp bayonets pointed straight ahead, and in a double line made a dash for the wide door of the barn. The rebels broke and ran from the barn without firing another round, retreating towards the barricade in front of the stone house.
“Advance rank, kneel and fire!”
A wave of bullets rocketed over the ploughed field, and several rebels screamed and fell. They were dragged, twisted and howling, to safety. All but one. His right hand rose slowly, as if in supplication, then dropped. No further movement was seen.
Hilliard hurled himself against the barn door and bounced backwards. Marc pulled it open and stepped inside, bracing for the bullet he expected from the sniper who would have been left behind to make them pay for this ground. His own pistol was already drawn. Something flickered in the gloom above the loft. Marc wheeled and fired in the same instant as the sniper. There was a single deafening explosion, and the stud behind his shoulder crackled. Then came a second explosion nearby. The sniper pitched over the edge of the haymow and fell wordlessly to the floor. His throat had been blown out. A few twitches and he lay still in a grotesque pose.