Ram; being the tale of one Ramillies Anstruther, 1704-55 .. (2 page)

But already that general had left, for the heavy cavalry had joined his Danes. The advance sounded. It began at a walk, then to a slow trot until the whole glittering line was within loo yards of the enemy. Even when the charge blared, the pace increased only to a fast trot, though its momentum had become tremendous. There seemed no pause as the vast multicolored flood rolled past Ramillies; yet its

wake was littered with fallen men and mounts, while eddies swirled where some engulfed French regiments were surrendering en masse. "The fight's won!" Dick yelled the Duke's own words, for the whole French position was being rolled up like a parchment. The pursuit was on and Howe's would be in it. He grimaced. But . . . "Rejoin your regiment!" None could command obedience more graciously than Marlborough or punish disobedience more sternly. But where was Howe's? Had it recrossed the quag and was now somewhere ahead of him? Suddenly cautious, he saw no sense in risking a wound in some half-ended cavalry melee—not now he'd gained the Duke's notice. No, best return the way he'd come and then catch up with his regiment.

But as he started down from the Tomb, his horse jibbed, dead lame in its off fore. He swore. Not only did he need it to spare his feet, but it was valuable. With Rivers dead . . . ? No, to sell it could bring awkward questions. Why not a French charger? Some of old Louis' corps were the best horsed in Europe.

Soon he had caught the trailing reins of a magnificent black stallion. It snorted and reared, but he soothed it expertly. Loot indeed! The bridle was silver-decorated, the saddlecloth was edged with silver lace, as were the velvet holster caps. The twin gold-mounted pistols alone were worth half a year's pay. Both had been fired, but fresh charges were in the holsters. He unsaddled Rivers' gelding. "You've done your work, poor masterless brute," he said and drove it limping away.

He mounted the stallion, thrilling at its vibrancy. What a figure I'd cut with the wenches now, he thought. But, still caurious, he held it in check while he recharged the pistols, admiring their heft, more so their mountings, which would jangle most pleasantly when he'd turned them into guineas.

He was nearing the overturned coach he had noticed earlier. Ha, perhaps here's more loot—if the Danes' ain't here first! Warily he redrew one pistol.

From the far side of the vehicle arose a thin human wail followed by a furious: "Quick, beat the little bastard's brains out and let's away!"

Someone—English at that— was before him! A touch of heels and the black bounded forward. The wail came again as he rounded the

coach. There, a slovenly woman was ripping a silver chain from around a small child's neck; beside her an English corporal was stuffing clothing into a sack. Two scrawny saddle horses were tethered to an upturned wheel.

Even as he took in the scene, the woman caught the child by its feet and, swinging its body out like a wet clout, was about to crush its head against the coach.

He fired automatically, without aim. The woman screeched and dropped her intended victim while the man, yelping, dived for his grounded flintlock musket.

"Hold!" Dick recognized them, and the sight was not to his liking. The man was his own Corporal Ely, while she was Welsh Meg, who passed as Ely's wife and was one of the two "laundresses" officially allowed the company. "Scum, what brings you miles from your duty?" he roared. "Begod, I've a mind to shoot you like dogs!" Holstering the empty pistol, he drew its mate.

Ely's thin face blanched, for when Howe's had marched at dawn, Dick himself had ordered him to remain with the wagons, since he'd shown blisters so raw it would have been inhuman to force him into the ranks. Yet here he was, on a stolen horse, helping his doxy plunder. He knew the penalty: Duke John often reduced sentences for military crimes, but never for looting while comrades were in battle. His lips worked futilely.

Meg, however, was of sterner stuff. Her black eyes blazed and her face purpled while her heavy breasts rose and fell under her kerchief. "Got's death, 'tis strange a Queen's officer shoots poor women!" she cried in her Welsh singsong. " 'Tis no harm I wass doing yourself, I think."

She and Dick glared at each other, yet with understanding. Last winter, while Howe's lay in quarters, he'd sometimes sent for her to bed with him. What else her faults, she was clean.

"Plundering the enemy's permitted you whores, but murder of babes I'll not have." The child, he saw, was crawling into the wheat. "Whose is the brat?"

"Indeet we found him in the coach, clinging to a dead bitch. We pulled 'em out, and surely your honor wouldn't have us leave a few trifles for the louse-ridden peasants to filch?"

"Enough!" Dismounting, he secured the stalHon. Beside sacked

clothing was a case of bandages, also a silver brandy-filled flask, which he pocketed. A dead horse lay under the coach. Another's legs were crushed and its flanks heaved with agony; the remaining two, unhurt, were still in the traces.

He strode to the child and saw it huddled against a dead woman. Her small dark head lay at an unnatural angle, and her unseeing eyes seemed to gaze up at him piteously. His gaze roved down. These ghouls had done their work, for the slight, finely made body was nude save for a pulled-up shift and a stocking on one slim leg. As he stared, a fly skated upward in tiny spurts along a pale thigh.

"You lumps of turd!" He spun around, cocking his pistol, needles of agony driving into his brain. He saw Ely sink on his knees beseechingly, saw Meg's mouth open in a screech. Then his head cleared. What use? The woman was dead and these vultures were no worse than others who'd come scavenging.

Turning back to the body, he pulled the shift down to its decent length. "The gown!" He felt material thrust at him. Spreading the brocaded dress from bosom to toes, he crossed the stiffening arms,

"Coins!" But an inner sense made him rise and whirl, Meg was behind him, coppers in one hand, a knife in the other. He smashed his pistol on her wrist. Screaming, she dropped the knife,

"Coins—you slut!" When, moaning, she opened her palm, he took them, closed the dead eyes and placed a piece on each,

"End that poor brute's pain," he ordered Ely and watched him go to the animal, place his firelock to its ear and fire,

"Good," Just as well the weapon was now empty, for he knew cowardice alone had prevented Ely from shooting him.

He remembered the child, who sat looking up at him with bewildered hazel eyes. What to do with him, leave him to starve beside the dead woman? Yet, what else?

An idea came, making him chuckle grimly. "Hark ye, Meg, Where's your own brat—with the wagons?" She nodded, weeping and nursing her wrist, "Take this babe and get ye back. And, mark me"—his tone made her whimper—"if ye don't care for it, I'll turn every man in the company on ye. And when they've done, I'll rip out your guts with this blade ye intended for my back!" Retrieving the knife, he pocketed it.

He tore the knot from Ely's shoulder and flung it in his face.

"I'll have no coqDorals like }'0u, when honest men die in the Queen's cause. Now, mount."

While he freed the two sun'i\ing coach horses, Meg climbed onto her stolen animal, which she rode astride, her thick legs well bared below her skirts. "The pillage," she w'hincd, but he merely glared and lifted the child into her arms. "Remember!" However, before remounting himself, he tossed the sack up to Ely.

"We ride to the company," he ordered. "From then on you march, even if your blistered feet wear down to the ankle bones!"

Red Brian O'Duane cantered back along the column, his blood surging. The orders were simple: Clare's must regain Ramillies and so win time for the French to re-form. Fight mounted if possible, afoot if necessary'; but the English must be driven out.

He regained the head of his troop as the Advance sounded.

"Way for Clare's!" The regiment clo\e through the fleeing French, troopers slashing at them contemptuously. "No mercy for the lily-livered bastards! Way for Clare's Dragoons!"

Lord Clare himself led into the burning village, bellowing: "The Sasanach are here—we root them out!"

When the grand place opened ahead, Brian turned in his saddle to grin back at his men. "I'll flay the hide off anyone who doesn't split a Saxon skull this day!" he challenged, and was answered by the age-long howl: "Death to the Sasanach!"

At the square's far side stood a stolid line of English foot. Swiftly the dragoons were formed in line of troops. "Remember Limerick!" Lord Clare roared as the charge sounded.

Redcoat of Ireland against Redcoat of England!

Rowels bit deep and 800 Gaelic throats gave tongue. Brian, well out in front, saw the flash of bayonets as enemy flintlocks came down. Fifty, forty, thirty yards! Then smoke and fire obscured the hated enemv. Balls whistled evenwhere, one struck Brian's left thigh numbingly. Yells and screams came from behind him. Twenty vards! English colors showed abo\e the smoke.

He reached the bayonets, slashed one aside. Fidele rose high and her hoofs smashed down on man-flesh. Brian glimpsed a face, felt his point jar on bone and jerked the blade free.

He'd won through! After him came more yelling Irish. Whirling

their mounts, they faced the backs of their foes. "To me, O'Duane!" As he shouted his slogan, he saw the Enghsh flag being borne off by a Clare's trooper. "They're ours!" he yelled deliriously. "Ours!"

Thus taken in rear, the Sasanach melted to left and right, leaving a gap. "O'Duane! Follow!" He spurred into the opening, to widen it with his sword. Gael over Saxon—at last!

But Englishmen were turning inward, weapons aimed. Too late, he saw the trap. There came spurts of fire, a great sound.

Blackness.

The blackness persisted. He became aware of a crushing weight on his chest and of something across his mouth that was suffocating him. His head ached. Bewildered, he felt his face—and encountered only a soggy, yielding mass.

"Holy Virgin!" In sheer terror, he was sure that his eyes had been shot out and his face pulped.

But, sanity returning, he probed further and found that the sticky mass was only his misplaced wig. Weak with relief, he pulled it free and could see. The wig was soaked in congealing blood from a long bullet score across his scalp. The weight crushing him was dead Fidele's head.

He rolled free from the mare, but when he tried to rise, his left leg buckled under him. He remembered the blow he'd felt during the charge. How long since?

He looked around. The sun was already low and the sounds of battle had grow distant. Bodies lay everywhere. Using a discarded flintlock as a crutch he stood up, weight on his right leg. He stared down miserably at Fidele—a gift from Marie-Elise herself—who had carried him so long and gallantly.

He felt his left thigh. A ball had lodged in the great muscles; a hindrance, but not dangerous. He kept flexing the leg until some slight feeling returned to it.

Lise and the boy! They were awaiting him at the Tomb with bandages, wine and food. His strength flowed back.

Using the flintlock-crutch, he hobbled among the bodies. He groaned; there lay Des O'Mulconry, his devoted lieutenant, his skull crushed by a Saxon's musket, his saber deep in his killer's heart. Des had been one of the first flight of Wild Geese who'd left

Ireland in 1691, after the infamous Treaty of Limerick. Brian himself had come in that flight, but as an eight-year-old orphan, brought into exile by brother Rory. It was Des who'd helped him bring away Rory's body at Blenheim fight two years ago. Now he, too, was dead on foreign soil, never again to see the Old Land. Brian wept as he prayed for the soul of his most trusted friend.

He saw other dead from his troop, more from the regiment. Yet their number was far less than the English around them; a clear sign of victory. By now Clare's must be far in pursuit of the beaten enemy, harassing and destroying them. Well, as soon as his wounds were dressed, he must rejoin it and reassume command of O'Duane's Troop.

Painfully he hobbled from the village and emerged from a sunken road that gave onto the plateau. But there he froze, stunned, his mind refusing to accept what his eyes saw: long columns of Allies marching northward, their cavalry riding down fugitives, killing and capturing!

Aghast, he sank by the roadside. It was Blenheim over again; defeat, disaster! God curse all French generals! Des and the rest, had they died for this? That flag torn from the Sasanach; not by French but by the Irish Brigade, exiles, aliens!

He began to laugh quietly, then uproariously, insanely. When the paroxysm passed, it left him cold and trembling.

Lise and the child—and half the scum of Europe looting! He must reach them, though all Hell lay between.

A sound made him look up. A rider was coming, a peasant, his arms filled with pillage, riding an officer's fine charger.

Rising, Brian leveled the flintlock. "Halt and dismount!"

The boor gaped at sight of his tall figure, with his cropped auburn hair and his face streaked with dried blood.

"Monsieur, I meant no harm!" he gasped. "A few trifles—"

"Dismount, I say!" Brian flung him a gold coin. The man slid down, clawed up the money, then scurried off, dropping a trail of looted uniforms and equipment behind him.

Painfully, Brian mounted. He scanned the endless columns moving across his front, pondering how to pass through them. Then, inspired, he spurred the charger.

One against Marlborough's hordes!

Why not? Wasn't he The O'Duane, an Irish chieftain, lord of vast acres on far-off Connemara? True, the Sasanach had robbed him of his heritage, but soon there'd be a reckoning!

Briefly he regretted that he spoke no English; but already he was approaching a regiment of Dutch horse. "Malbrouck!" he shouted in heady defiance. Men stared at him with battle-glazed eyes as he spurred through their ranks.

As he'd hoped, because of his red coat they'd mistaken him for some arrogant English aide-de-camp! A wild song came as he raced across the fields. Soon he'd be with Lise.

Twice more he had to pass through enemy columns, and each time the magic "Malbrouck!" opened his way. Now he was passing the Tomb and nearing the Louvain road. He stared through the dusk. The coach must be near; his orders to Jacques had been specific. He reined in. The road was deserted, though discarded equipment told that many had fled along it. There was no sign of the coach; no doubt shrewd Jacques had driven well off the road to be clear of the rabble—perhaps down yonder track that likely led to last night's inn. He turned along it.