He probably would too, Poole thought gloomily, and rued the day he had listened to the recruiting sergeant when he came round the Horse and Hounds. Buying drinks for all. Telling them about the wonderful life in the army. The Queen’s shilling and a new life in “The Old Ducks” he had told them, that was what the regiment was affectionately called. Not much affection now.
“Forward — ”
At the same instant the command was spoken the soldiers became aware of the sound of galloping hooves from the scraggly forest of trees that lined the road. Louder and louder.
And then came the screams. A demented, high-pitched warbling cry that raised the hackles on their necks. There were shouted orders and they were just turning to face the enemy when the cavalrymen were upon them.
Gray-coated cavalry that shouted, screamed as they attacked. Firing as they came, firing over and over. Bursting through the British infantrymen, turning to attack again. And still firing. Not appearing to reload at all but pouring out a continuous withering fire that tore through their ranks.
It was brutal slaughter. The British lines just melted away before the rolling, ceaseless hail of bullets. Some of the infantrymen fired back, but very few. The horsemen stayed where they were, still shooting. They did not seem to stop, just kept blasting a blizzard of bullets into the men before them.
When they rode back through the British lines a second time there was nothing for them to fire at. Cavalry sabers slashed down at any movement among the fallen soldiers. As they cantered away into the cover of the woods they left only silence behind them.
Private Poole lay on his unfired Tower musket, a bullet through his arm. He waited long minutes until he was sure that the cavalry had gone, then pushed the dead weight of the sergeant off his back. Climbed unsteadily to his feet and looked horrifiedly about him at the destruction. Stumbled back down the road to escape it.
The sole survivor.
On the other side of the Atlantic an unseasonal summer storm was rolling across England. Streams swelled and burst their banks as rain lashed the countryside. Lightning flared behind the crenelated towers of Windsor Castle; thunder rumbled. The two men who emerged reluctantly from the carriage hesitated for a moment — then hurried over to the shelter of the doorway where they waited. Liveried servants helped Lord Palmerston to the ground and half carried him to the entrance to join the others. His gout had improved slightly, but walking was still painful.
Doors opened before them as they progressed through the castle, to the final chamber where they were all to meet.
The Duke of Cambridge, newly returned from America and resplendent in the full dress uniform of the Horseguards, turned as they entered.
“Capital — just the fellers I wanted to see. Come in, dry yourselves, have some of this sack,” he waved his glass at the sideboard. “Just the thing in this poxy weather.”
By no word or deed did he refer to the disastrous failure of the American Gulf Coast invasion. And none dared query him. He had remained in seclusion while the American newspapers crowed about the wonderful victory. When he emerged and once more assumed command of the armies there was no one so bold as to mention anything about the matter. It was part of the past; he looked forward to a brilliant future.
There were murmurs of greeting, most polite since the Duke was not only the Queen’s cousin as well as being Commander-in-Chief of all the British armies. They looked with interest at the lean officer who stood beside him, almost skeletal in comparison to the Duke’s portly figure. Instead of a stock or cravat they could see that the man’s neck and throat was covered with bandages and he held his head at a stiff angle. The Duke nodded in his direction.
“You may know Colonel Dupuy of the 56th West Essex? Home on a spot of sick leave, font of information on the colonials. Speaks well of their weapons and he appears to be most contemptuous of ours. Wants to spend money, a good deal of money I dare say. There Colonel, that chappy there is the one you want to speak to. Name of Gladstone, Chancellor of the Exchequer.”
“My pleasure, Colonel. I hope you are recuperating well.”
“Fine, thank you, sir.” His voice was a hoarse whisper.
“And what is it that you want to spend our nation’s gold on?”
“Guns, sir,” Dupuy said. “Modern rifles, breech-loaders at that.” He touched his throat. “Of the kind that did this. At a range of hundreds of yards.”
“You, sir,” Palmerston rumbled angrily, “you feel that your country has been amiss in supplying its military?”
“No, your Lordship, I did not intend that. I meant that the military, myself included, has accepted the status quo and not thought enough about modernization. Do you realize that some of my men actually use Tower muskets?”
“Brown Bess won wars,” the Duke said.
“Won, sir, in the past, sir. Fifty, a hundred years ago. One of my officers was so contemptuous of the weapon that he went so far as to say, humorously of course, that he preferred the good English longbow. Far better and more accurate than a musket. Four times the rate of fire. Does not discharge smoke that gives away a soldier’s position.”
“Quite a wit,” Palmerston said, angered at the levity. “Are your officers always this impertinent?”
“Rarely. This one won’t repeat his impertinence. He fell at the Battle of Plattsburgh.”
“You mention only weapons,” Lord Russell said. “Do you also take fault with our morale, our organization, our abilities to fight?”
“Don’t misunderstand me, your Lordship. I am a professional soldier in the most professional army in the world — and proud of it. But put simply, bullets win battles. If an enemy fires ten bullets at me in the time it takes me to fire one — he is then as good as ten soldiers. Which means that there are no longer level terms in combat. A hundred against a hundred means my hundred against their thousand. That is an engagement that cannot be won.”
“Training is what counts,” the Duke said. “That and morale. We have the morale and the training and the resolution to fight and win in every part of the world. This Empire was not built by men of little resolve. We have not lost in the past and we shall always win in the future. This minor setback will be overcome. The enemy will be trounced and we shall be victorious. We lose battles — but we do not lose wars. A temporary setback can lead to a future victory. If the enemy were to plead for peace we might grant it. But only so that we could return in even greater force later. In the end we will triumph.”
He stared around angrily waiting for someone to contradict him.
In the silence that followed they welcomed the announcement that Her Majesty had arrived. They turned and bowed her presence to her chair. Queen Victoria was garbed all in black; black gloves and tiny black veil, she mourned and would forever mourn her lost Albert. Since his death she had become more and more unstrung. Her face was puffy and blotchy and she had put on more weight. Members of the court worried about her sanity. She nodded at the Duke of Cambridge.
“I understand that it was you who called this meeting?”
“I did indeed. Matters of policy to discuss, serious ones. But first, if you please, I would like you to hear a personal report on the war that has affected me as no dispatch or written command has. A verbal report by one who has fought in it. Colonel Dupuy.”
“Well then, speak up. What of the war, Colonel?”
“I regret, ma’am, that I bring only bad news.”
“I am sure of that!” she said shrilly. “There has been too much of this of late, far too much.”
“I regret deeply that I must add to your disquiet. Your Majesty’s soldiers and matelots have fought most valiantly, I assure you of that. But we are outgunned on land, overwhelmed at sea. I assure Your Majesty that brave men have done their best, courage has not been lacking — but the material of war has…”