could act so and ignore the bloody corpses of their fallen mates.
‘Grape soon,’ Driffield said, out of the side of his mouth, as if he was about to be in receipt of a surprise and welcome gift. ‘We will charge after the first salvo, I’ll wager.’
That grapeshot came as if ordered, the tiny steel balls cracking as they passed Toby’s ears. His first thoughtwas to fall to the ground as if wounded, but having already employed that bit of subterfuge in a similar attack on the heights of Toulon he had severe doubts as to it serving a second time. In one hand he had a loaded pistol, in the other a raised sword heavy enough to make his young arm ache, and all his thoughts were on how to employ those weapons on himself, not the enemy. Yet, if he was afraid of the pain of a wound inflicted by others, he was even more fearful of one made by his own hand.
He had, he knew, begun to cry, the tears streaming down his face, his mind in a turmoil of thoughts and emotions, saved from discovery by the sudden command to charge, which allowed him to be dilatory and let those alongside him get slightly ahead. By sidestepping he got himself behind two bulky fellows – soldiers or marines it made no odds, they were taller than he and that sufficed: if a ball came his way they would take it first. Thankfully Driffield had lost all interest in his hero midshipman, his own lust for glory consuming his being. He was yelling and waving his sword like a banshee, and right before him lay the damaged earthworks of the enemy redoubt, still firing grape, as well as supporting musket fire.
Which one of those weapons took him in the chest mattered little: he stopped as if struck by a plank of wood, his body going rigid and seeming to rise from the ground, his weapons in the air as if he was aiming them at the heavens, his black tricorn hat flying backwards and off his head. Then he crumpled, collapsing not falling, first to his knees and then sideways to the ground. TobyBurns was beside him, kneeling, glad of the chance to stop going forward, looking into the still-open eyes.
‘Do not attend to me, Mr Burns,’ he gasped. ‘Lead my Lobsters to victory.’
It was a relief to Toby Burns that Driffield’s eyes closed then, that a stream of bright red froth burst between his lips, accompanied by a deep groan. With the man down, Toby did not have to go any further forward and from his kneeling position he could see that the redcoats were atop the earthwork, taking aim with muskets at what must be a fleeing enemy. He had survived!
The counterstroke was not long in coming. No sooner had the defenders abandoned the redoubt than those who had taken it were in receipt of musketry from their inland flank, a party of French infantry firing from the deep scrub and woods above them, those crowing their victory on the crown of the embankment taking the most punishment, with Colonel Stuart, who had led the attack, calling to them urgently to get down. From being a defensive position that had protected the French it now became one behind which the redcoats cowered, with Stuart, foolishly exposed, spyglass to his eye, seeking to assess what threat they faced, which given the swing of that tiny telescope, seemed to be coming from more than one direction. Toby, having run for that same shelter, was right by his legs as he spoke.
‘Humbugged, by damn.’ Then the movement at his feet caught his eye, and he barked, ‘Stand up, sir, do not let the men you lead see you cower.’
‘Mr Driffield is dead, sir,’ Toby protested, as a knot of other officers joined their colonel.
‘All the more reason for you to appear unconcerned, lad.’
He had no choice but to comply, not least because what officers remained had come to join their colonel. Faint over the ground behind him, Toby could hear shouted commands. A glance backwards showed the remainder of the British force forming up, their lines being dressed once more for tidiness. He could also see the guns
‘Grape soon,’ Driffield said, out of the side of his mouth, as if he was about to be in receipt of a surprise and welcome gift. ‘We will charge after the first salvo, I’ll wager.’
That grapeshot came as if ordered, the tiny steel balls cracking as they passed Toby’s ears. His first thoughtwas to fall to the ground as if wounded, but having already employed that bit of subterfuge in a similar attack on the heights of Toulon he had severe doubts as to it serving a second time. In one hand he had a loaded pistol, in the other a raised sword heavy enough to make his young arm ache, and all his thoughts were on how to employ those weapons on himself, not the enemy. Yet, if he was afraid of the pain of a wound inflicted by others, he was even more fearful of one made by his own hand.
He had, he knew, begun to cry, the tears streaming down his face, his mind in a turmoil of thoughts and emotions, saved from discovery by the sudden command to charge, which allowed him to be dilatory and let those alongside him get slightly ahead. By sidestepping he got himself behind two bulky fellows – soldiers or marines it made no odds, they were taller than he and that sufficed: if a ball came his way they would take it first. Thankfully Driffield had lost all interest in his hero midshipman, his own lust for glory consuming his being. He was yelling and waving his sword like a banshee, and right before him lay the damaged earthworks of the enemy redoubt, still firing grape, as well as supporting musket fire.
Which one of those weapons took him in the chest mattered little: he stopped as if struck by a plank of wood, his body going rigid and seeming to rise from the ground, his weapons in the air as if he was aiming them at the heavens, his black tricorn hat flying backwards and off his head. Then he crumpled, collapsing not falling, first to his knees and then sideways to the ground. TobyBurns was beside him, kneeling, glad of the chance to stop going forward, looking into the still-open eyes.
‘Do not attend to me, Mr Burns,’ he gasped. ‘Lead my Lobsters to victory.’
It was a relief to Toby Burns that Driffield’s eyes closed then, that a stream of bright red froth burst between his lips, accompanied by a deep groan. With the man down, Toby did not have to go any further forward and from his kneeling position he could see that the redcoats were atop the earthwork, taking aim with muskets at what must be a fleeing enemy. He had survived!
The counterstroke was not long in coming. No sooner had the defenders abandoned the redoubt than those who had taken it were in receipt of musketry from their inland flank, a party of French infantry firing from the deep scrub and woods above them, those crowing their victory on the crown of the embankment taking the most punishment, with Colonel Stuart, who had led the attack, calling to them urgently to get down. From being a defensive position that had protected the French it now became one behind which the redcoats cowered, with Stuart, foolishly exposed, spyglass to his eye, seeking to assess what threat they faced, which given the swing of that tiny telescope, seemed to be coming from more than one direction. Toby, having run for that same shelter, was right by his legs as he spoke.
‘Humbugged, by damn.’ Then the movement at his feet caught his eye, and he barked, ‘Stand up, sir, do not let the men you lead see you cower.’
‘Mr Driffield is dead, sir,’ Toby protested, as a knot of other officers joined their colonel.
‘All the more reason for you to appear unconcerned, lad.’
He had no choice but to comply, not least because what officers remained had come to join their colonel. Faint over the ground behind him, Toby could hear shouted commands. A glance backwards showed the remainder of the British force forming up, their lines being dressed once more for tidiness. He could also see the guns