Swords and Saddles by Jack Campbell Page A

don’t why any more than we do, but as long as their officers appear to be dealing with events in a calm and controlled way, the men will stay calm and controlled. Don’t let the men see anything in you that might feed alarm in them. Understand?”
    Lieutenant Garret nodded, his worried expression smoothing out. “Yes, sir.”
    The cavalry rode down from the hills to the river, splashing across and up onto the edge of the open area. The closer the column got to the walled city the more details they could make out. “They’re fighting with swords,” Garret announced at one point. “I think they’re wearing armor, too.”
    Whoever had been attacking the city seemed to have noticed the cavalry company. While infantry continued to climb ladders to assail the walls, many other attackers ran back to their camp where a large herd of horses was visible, mounting up and forming into a mass facing the approaching cavalry. Benton watched the activity through his field glasses, shaking his head at the archaic armor, the brightly-colored banners and the lack of firearms. “Whoever they are, they’re not dressed or armed like Indians. Neither are the people on the wall. But the city people aren’t settlers like those in Ellsworth, either.”
    “The ones attacking the city look more hostile to me, cap’n,” Tyndall commented. “It appears they’re aiming to hit us, too.”
    “I’d prefer to parley first, but if they want a fight, they’ll get it. Bugler, sound form a line.” The sweet notes of the bugle resounded as the troopers in the cavalry column swung out to ride abreast, the two platoons of the company forming two lines, one behind the other, extending across a front facing the oncoming riders.
    Benton halted the cavalry, standing in his stirrups and raising one empty hand high in the universal sign of parley.
    The mass of horsemen facing them, now less than two miles distant, shouted what sounded like battle cries and came riding toward the cavalry without much semblance of a formation.
    Captain Benton evaluated the terrain, looked at the enemy with their armor and swords, and made his decision. Experience told him that the people in the city should be settlers, and the attackers hostiles. Moreover, the attackers gave every sign of having decided to attack the cavalry as well. His company’s horses were tired, there were only about one hundred men all told in the company against what seemed four or five times that number of attackers, and he wasn’t about to have his soldiers trade saber blows with a mass of men wearing armor. “Lieutenant Garret, Sergeant Tyndall, form two dismounted lines of battle.”
    Tyndall saluted, turned to face the cavalry and bellowed his commands. “Company B, dismount! Form line of battle, first platoon front, second platoon rear!” The commands echoed along the cavalry ranks, the cavalrymen pulling their Sharps carbines from their saddle scabbards and dismounting. One of every four took control of four horses, leading them back a ways to where the wagons waited, while the remaining three soldiers fell into two long, open lines facing the enemy, the front rank kneeling and the second rank standing, each man about a yard from the men to the left and right of him. Less than a minute after Tyndall had shouted the orders, the cavalry was arrayed for battle.
    Benton remained on his horse, riding slowly along the line. “Uncase the colors.” Canvas tubes came off the swallow-tailed guidon of the 5 th Cavalry regiment and the flag of the United States of America, the banners unfurling to flap proudly in the breeze.
    The oncoming horsemen were less than half a mile away, increasing their speed to a gallop. “They’re going to wear out them horses, charging that hard that far,” Tyndall observed, apparently unconcerned. He’d fought at Gaines’ Mill in the War of the Rebellion, and since then in dozens of other battles and skirmishes. This was just one more.
    Benton raised his empty