James McGee - Rebellion

The pistol flashed, another loud report sounded and a third fusilier spun away, his chest blossoming red. A body thrust past Hawkwood and he saw it was Stuart, making a grab for one of the other discarded muskets.

The remaining fusiliers, caught between the decision to return fire or make a run for it, were left floundering; their dilemma made worse by the cattle who, already unnerved by their aimless rush to the bridge, were immediately driven into fresh and increased panic by the gunshots. The scene suddenly became a mêlée of terrified soldiers and bellowing livestock all trying to choose the safest direction in which to flee.

Hawkwood heard the girl call out and saw her point. He looked immediately for Malbreau and caught sight of him across the backs of the scattering herd. The lieutenant had wheeled his horse about. It occurred to Hawkwood, as he watched Malbreau draw his sabre, that what the man lacked in humility he made up for in grit.

There was a loud crack from close by and Hawkwood felt the wind of a musket ball as it flicked past his cheek. One of Despard’s surviving companions had decided to make a stand, but in the fusilier’s excitement he’d fired too soon. An ear-splitting clamour filled the air as the ball struck one of the milk cows. The animal went down as if poleaxed. Hawkwood had never heard a cow scream before. It was a terrible sound. A spinal shot, he thought instinctively as the beast continued to writhe in agony, legs thrashing in the dust.

He saw Stuart raise the musket he’d recovered from the dead fusilier. Somehow, with his good hand, the lieutenant had managed to haul back the musket’s hammer. Jamming the muzzle into the midriff of the soldier who’d loosed off the last shot, Stuart pulled the trigger. There was a vivid flash and a loud crack and Stuart’s features disappeared behind a cloud of smoke from the ignited powder. The fusilier fell back with a shriek, arms spread wide as he went over the side of the bridge into the water below.

Hawkwood didn’t wait for the splash but raised Despard’s musket to his shoulder, ignoring the yell as the less nimble of the two fusiliers who’d taken to their heels lost his footing and slipped beneath a frenzy of trampling hooves.

Another pistol shot rang out and Hawkwood saw the remaining fusilier throw up his hands and pitch forward on to his face.

Then he was concentrating.

It had been a while since he’d hefted a musket. Compared to the Baker rifle, the weight and balance were all out of kilter. The damned thing was over a foot longer, for one thing. As for the weapon’s accuracy; that didn’t bear thinking about. The Charleville was supposed to be the best musket in the world. From Hawkwood’s point of view, as a rifleman, it was about as much use as a pair of sugar tongs.

He drew back the hammer.

Malbreau was seventy yards away and coming in fast when Hawkwood fired.

He doubted it was a killing shot the instant he squeezed the trigger and thought he might even have missed the target, for as the musket slammed back into his shoulder he saw Malbreau’s horse stumble. The ball, however, struck Malbreau high on his right breast, plucking him backwards as if by an invisible hand. The sabre dropped from his grasp and he pitched sideways out of the saddle. As the weight on its back shifted, the horse veered sharply, the sudden movement causing Malbreau’s boot to catch in his stirrup, trapping him by the ankle and spinning him over. Frightened anew by the now unfamiliar object attached to it, the horse turned upon its tracks once more. As Malbreau’s body hit the ground, his shako came loose and fell away, tumbling like a drum across the dirt. The horse began to pick up speed and with Malbreau’s body flopping and twisting behind it like a blood-stained scarecrow it headed towards the fort.

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