Here and there along the line there was a clash of arms, as some volunteer who’d been too slow turned to fight or tried to defend a wounded comrade. The regulars charged like lancers, spitting these unfortunates on their fixed bayonets, then carried on up the hill with a cheer. Winter saw one thin figure-whether it was a boy or a girl, she couldn’t be certain-jump up from the grass like a pheasant taking wing in front of a hunter, only to be brought crashing down by a blast of musketry from the advancing line.
The majority of the volunteers escaped their pursuers, however, and the regulars quickly realized the chase was futile. They slowed down, then halted, sergeants shouting furiously to dress their ranks. The men cheered at the sight of their enemies in panicked flight.
“Halt!” Winter shouted. “Halt and fire!”
This, she knew, was the moment of truth. Conventional military wisdom said that, once a body of men had broken formation and started to run, it was impossible to get them to return to the fight until they’d fled out of sight of the enemy and their ingrained discipline and fear of their officers could overcome the terror of battle. If that was true, the volunteers would keep running, down past the guns and the Colonials, and likely panic the formation of pikemen along the way.
On the other hand, as Marcus had explained the plan, this was a different sort of army, with a different sort of soldier. They didn’t have a complicated formation to maintain, and more important, they had a cause, something beyond their immediate survival or possible punishment by their officers to motivate them. Janus was gambling that this would make them tougher than the time-serving rankers who opposed them.
Whether it was true of the volunteers in general Winter couldn’t say, but her heart lifted when it became clear that Jane’s girls, at least, were going to confound the tactics manuals. They stopped running at her command, and as she jogged up toward where they were gathered, they went back into their loading and firing, their shots cutting short the cheers among the surprised regulars. More muskets cracked along the line-while some had no doubt continued to run, it seemed as though the volunteers had justified Janus’ faith. For a few minutes, the enemy was dumbfounded, as balls zipped over their heads and men fell in place. Then, ignoring the shouting officers who were still trying to reorganize the ranks, they began to fire back. The smoke grew thick once again, and the nightmare of dimly seen figures firing and falling in spasmodic flashes began anew.
Winter could well imagine the enemy commander’s consternation. The roar of musketry was continuous, but the return fire from the volunteers did not seem to be slackening. If they couldn’t be broken with firepower, they had to be shifted with cold steel, but when his troops stumbled forward they found their opponents flitting back out of their reach like ghosts, only to stop when the attack had spent itself and return to their constant, galling fire. Twice more the regulars worked themselves into a frenzy of cheers and charged, and both times they caught only a handful of stragglers.
Among the volunteers, confidence was steadily increasing. Balls struck home, and men fell here and there along the line, but their loose formation made for a much harder target than the disciplined shoulder-to-shoulder ranks of the enemy. Janus’ artillery had joined in as well, switching its fire to the infantry and arcing balls to bounce through the enemy line. And when the breeze tore gaps in the wall of drifting smoke, they could see the damage they were inflicting. A carpet of blue-coated bodies marked the slow progress of the regulars across the valley floor and up the slope, mounding in drifts in some places where they’d halted to exchange fire.
Whoever was in charge over there-Orlanko, Torahn, some army colonel-had one card left to play. How long will he hold it back. .?
“Abby!”
Jane’s shout jerked Winter’s attention back to the here and now, amid the skeins of drifting, powder-scented smoke. She saw a knot of her girls gathering, and hurried in their direction, trying to listen through the earsplitting din of musketry.
“Spread out!” Winter croaked. Her voice was almost completely gone, and she resorted to grabbing the clustered girls by the arm and pushing them to either side. “Don’t make a target! Spread out!”
“Winter!” Jane was bending over Abby’s prone body. Her voice was as raw as Winter’s. “I think she’s hit, but I can’t find where.”
“We should-”
“Help her,” Jane said. Her eyes were very wide, and her dark crimson hair had faded to dull gray under a layer of grime. The hand that reached out for Winter was gray as well, cut by streaks of sweat.
Damn. Winter looked down at Abby, then up at the enemy. Damn, damn, damn. She knelt beside the girl, curtly waving for Jane to back off.
Abby lay on her side. Winter took her shoulder and pushed her onto her back, limp arm flopping into the grass beside her. No time for half measures. If she’s dead. . But taking a pulse was impossible amid the constant crash and jar of muskets and cannon.
There was a crust of blood and a sticky trail, right at Abby’s hairline. Winter probed it tentatively with one finger, anticipating the soft, sick shifting that meant a shattered skull. Instead she found only a narrow ridge of torn flesh. Abby’s mouth opened, and she gave a low moan.
“She’s alive.” Jane put her arms around Winter and squeezed tight, as though she were somehow responsible. “We have to get her out of here.”
“We can’t leave the others,” Winter said. “Find a couple of the taller ones-”
She stopped. Another sound was barely audible, under the blasts and concussions of the battle. More shouts, not the cheers of excited troops but screams and warning. And, beyond that, the rumble of hooves.
“Run,” Winter said. She tried to raise her voice, but it came out as a hoarse squeak. “Run! Jane, tell them to run!”
“I’ll take Abby-”
“No!” Winter jumped to her feet and grabbed Jane by the arm. “Come on. There’s no time!”
It was a few moments before Jane realized what was happening, and she allowed herself to be dragged a half dozen steps before digging in her heels. “What are you doing? We can’t just leave her!”
“No time,” Winter gasped. Another couple of figures loomed out of the smoke, two of Jane’s girls. Winter grabbed one with her free hand, eliciting a squeak of surprise.
“Help me with her!” she said, nodding at Jane. “We have to run. Back to the Colonials!” From somewhere, she found the energy to raise her voice one last time. “Run! Over the hill!”
Gradually-thank God-the cry was taken up, passed down the line by those who still had the voice to spread it. The two girls took Jane by either arm and dragged her up the hill, away from where Abby had fallen, heedless of her orders and protestations. By the time they’d gotten clear of the smoke, the need for haste had become obvious to everyone.
The cuirassiers, sweeping around the ends of the line of regulars, were converging on the volunteers from both sides. Even if they’d had fixed bayonets, without a tight formation there was no way to halt the cavalry charge. That was, after all, why the shoulder-to-shoulder line had made its way into the military textbooks-without a solid front of bristling steel, infantry was always vulnerable to a sudden rush by enemy horses.
The volunteers ran for it. This wasn’t the steady jog they’d used to retreat from the regulars, but a true, panicked flight, streaming up the hill and over the crest. Some men tossed their muskets away in the panic, while others fell to the ground and lay still, hoping to be passed over. The cuirassiers were in among those who’d reacted slowly, sabers rising and falling in sprays of blood, cutting men down and trampling them into the dirt.