The Scarlet Thief by Paul Fraser Collard Page A

Their rifle butts hit the wet soil as one, each the regulation six inches in front of the soldier’s body. The weapon was held in the left hand while the right hand deftly extracted a cartridge from the ammunition bag. The top of the cartridge was bitten off and the powder poured down the rifle’s barrel, swiftly followed by the Minié ball.
    Their hands and arms moving in unison, the fusiliers whipped the ramrod out of the loops that held it suspended underneath the barrel and used it to ram the bullet down on to the powder. As soon as they had rammed it home, giving it two final taps to make sure it was resting on the powder, the ramrod was withdrawn and returned to its loops. The rifle’s butt was brought up from the ground to rest against the soldier’s right hip while a fresh percussion cap from the cap box on the front of his belt was fitted to the firelock.
    The two ranks of Cossack horsemen stood ominously still. The Light Company finished loading, the fusiliers now as primed for a fight as their weapons. The company was formed into two ranks with the three sergeants and two lieutenants making a third line three paces behind the second rank.
    Jack ordered the men to fix bayonets and then, with as calm a demeanour as he could muster, walked to his station on the right of the line. His men were in a precarious position. Sixty-three fusiliers, three sergeants and three officers were not much of a force but it had to be at least the equal of fifty mounted Cossacks. But Jack was not confident.
    Twice he cleared his throat to order the men to withdraw and twice the order died on his lips. Trying to withdraw in an orderly fashion whilst being harried by the best light cavalry in the Russian army would be a desperate affair. Jack could sense the men’s growing unease. They were starting to fidget. He knew they needed firm leadership to steady them. He tried to imagine what any of his former captains would have done. What the real Captain Sloames might have said to calm the men’s anxiety. The responsibility of command was more daunting than he could ever have imagined. His right hand gripped and re-gripped the hilt of his sword, his indecision infuriating and frightening in equal measure. He sensed the first man in the rear rank make a shuffling movement backwards. The tiny movement rippled through the ranks as if the men were gently stirring in the light breeze that blew inshore from the coast.
    The movement shamed him into action. If the men took it into their heads to run, they were all doomed. The Cossacks would pounce on them as soon as the tight formation broke up. On their own, the men would be slaughtered. He could not let that happen.
    He strode forward to stand in front of the company, the heels of his boots hitting the ground with such force that each step sent an explosion of water out of the ground.
    ‘Stand fast!’ Jack demanded of his command, his eyes roving over the two ranks. ‘You are British fusiliers. Where is your goddamn pride?’ He raised his voice, challenging his men, hiding his lack of experience under a covering of anger.
    The few fusiliers who had been stalwart enough to meet his gaze dropped their eyes.
    ‘We stand together and we face the enemy. We don’t show fear. We don’t show panic. We stand in silence and let them know they are facing the finest soldiers on this whole damn earth!’
    Jack turned to observe the enemy. His show of anger might have disguised his indecision but it did nothing to stop the Cossacks. They began to advance before his eyes, the line of horsemen moving forward as one.

The pit of Jack’s stomach lurched as he stared at the Cossack advance, transfixed by their control and discipline. The horses pulled at the bits in their mouths, sensing their riders’ quickening excitement, but the Cossacks kept them in check and the pace was steady. This would change soon enough, Jack knew, and if the Cossacks caught the company in line then the redcoats were dead