trained on the enemy cavalry.
Digby-Brown was trying his best to adjust to his commander’s curt and dismissive manner, even though it never failed to nettle him. It was obvious that in their short acquaintance his new captain had taken a dislike to him. Digby-Brown could not think with what justification Sloames had formed his poor opinion but he was certain the best way to proceed was to ignore the barbed remarks and prove his worth to his company commander.
‘There’s about fifty of them, I would say, sir.’
Jack ignored him, continuing to pan his field glasses slowly along the line of enemy cavalry.
‘Yes, definitely fifty.’
Jack’s mouth twitched in annoyance as his subaltern confirmed the obvious. ‘Are you of the opinion that I need assistance observing the enemy?’
‘No, sir, of course not.’
‘And do you think that I managed to make it all the way to the rank of captain without possessing the ability to count?’
‘No, sir! I was trying—’
‘Be quiet,’ Jack cut across him. ‘I can assure you, Lieutenant, that I am quite capable of counting the number of enemy troops without your damn interference.’
Jack went back to studying the Cossacks, his thoughts in turmoil. By keeping the glasses pressed to his face, he could avoid giving any orders. Right now, that was a good thing, as he had no idea what he should do next. He felt the gaze of his men burning into the back of his scarlet coat as they watched and waited for his command. It was as if their expectation was a physical presence leaning down on him, its weight pressing on his shoulders.
As he watched, the Cossacks started to move. Unlike the fusiliers, they moved fluidly and with confidence. Jack could not make out who was commanding the enemy troops. If there were any officers present then they were dressed in the same drab garb as their men, unlike their British counterparts who stood out against their troops like peacocks in a chicken coop. The left half of the Russian cavalry moved forward and down the slope, crossing obliquely in front of the right-hand troops and forming a new rank to its front. It was a calm demonstration of proficiency that was utterly chilling.
Jack finally pulled his field glasses away from his face, the purposeful deployment of the enemy forcing him to act. His last glimpse of the Cossacks showed them to be lifting the foot of their lances from the leather stirrup that held it in place as they rode, positioning it under their right armpits and readying it for use.
Jack turned to face his men, forcing himself to turn his back on the threat of fifty deadly lances. His throat felt constricted and dry so that he was forced to clear it noisily, despite knowing that it would make him appear nervous in front of the men.
‘Company! Prepare to load!’
The men stiffened, their bodies tensing as they readied themselves to load their newly issued Minié rifles.
Like any rifle, the inside of the barrel was grooved. When fired, the conically shaped minié bullet deformed at the base, allowing it to engage the rifling whilst sealing in the power of the exploding charge. The spinning ball was said to be accurate to six hundred yards, but the soldiers maintained it would penetrate a soldier at double that distance, pass through his knapsack and still have enough force to strike down men in the ranks behind.
The process of loading the rifle took around thirty seconds. Slower than the veterans of Waterloo could load their Brown Bess muskets, but the reduced rate of fire was more than made up for by the rifle’s vastly increased range, better accuracy, and the hitting power of the Minié balls themselves. A volley from a battalion armed with Minié rifles would devastate any opponent in a battle of musketry.
‘Company! Load!’ Jack bellowed the command and the men reacted immediately. In a sequence of movements they had practised until it had become second nature, the men of the Light Company loaded their rifles.
Digby-Brown was trying his best to adjust to his commander’s curt and dismissive manner, even though it never failed to nettle him. It was obvious that in their short acquaintance his new captain had taken a dislike to him. Digby-Brown could not think with what justification Sloames had formed his poor opinion but he was certain the best way to proceed was to ignore the barbed remarks and prove his worth to his company commander.
‘There’s about fifty of them, I would say, sir.’
Jack ignored him, continuing to pan his field glasses slowly along the line of enemy cavalry.
‘Yes, definitely fifty.’
Jack’s mouth twitched in annoyance as his subaltern confirmed the obvious. ‘Are you of the opinion that I need assistance observing the enemy?’
‘No, sir, of course not.’
‘And do you think that I managed to make it all the way to the rank of captain without possessing the ability to count?’
‘No, sir! I was trying—’
‘Be quiet,’ Jack cut across him. ‘I can assure you, Lieutenant, that I am quite capable of counting the number of enemy troops without your damn interference.’
Jack went back to studying the Cossacks, his thoughts in turmoil. By keeping the glasses pressed to his face, he could avoid giving any orders. Right now, that was a good thing, as he had no idea what he should do next. He felt the gaze of his men burning into the back of his scarlet coat as they watched and waited for his command. It was as if their expectation was a physical presence leaning down on him, its weight pressing on his shoulders.
As he watched, the Cossacks started to move. Unlike the fusiliers, they moved fluidly and with confidence. Jack could not make out who was commanding the enemy troops. If there were any officers present then they were dressed in the same drab garb as their men, unlike their British counterparts who stood out against their troops like peacocks in a chicken coop. The left half of the Russian cavalry moved forward and down the slope, crossing obliquely in front of the right-hand troops and forming a new rank to its front. It was a calm demonstration of proficiency that was utterly chilling.
Jack finally pulled his field glasses away from his face, the purposeful deployment of the enemy forcing him to act. His last glimpse of the Cossacks showed them to be lifting the foot of their lances from the leather stirrup that held it in place as they rode, positioning it under their right armpits and readying it for use.
Jack turned to face his men, forcing himself to turn his back on the threat of fifty deadly lances. His throat felt constricted and dry so that he was forced to clear it noisily, despite knowing that it would make him appear nervous in front of the men.
‘Company! Prepare to load!’
The men stiffened, their bodies tensing as they readied themselves to load their newly issued Minié rifles.
Like any rifle, the inside of the barrel was grooved. When fired, the conically shaped minié bullet deformed at the base, allowing it to engage the rifling whilst sealing in the power of the exploding charge. The spinning ball was said to be accurate to six hundred yards, but the soldiers maintained it would penetrate a soldier at double that distance, pass through his knapsack and still have enough force to strike down men in the ranks behind.
The process of loading the rifle took around thirty seconds. Slower than the veterans of Waterloo could load their Brown Bess muskets, but the reduced rate of fire was more than made up for by the rifle’s vastly increased range, better accuracy, and the hitting power of the Minié balls themselves. A volley from a battalion armed with Minié rifles would devastate any opponent in a battle of musketry.
‘Company! Load!’ Jack bellowed the command and the men reacted immediately. In a sequence of movements they had practised until it had become second nature, the men of the Light Company loaded their rifles.
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