Hostile Shores

“I think they’ve noticed us, sir!” Lt. Westcott shouted, his face twisted into a savage grin of joy. “We’ll be having company in a minute or so!”

At least a company of Dutch infantry were leaving their lines, clambering out of the nearest trench where they had been sheltering, and began to form up in the open, three ranks deep. Lewrie put his Ferguson up to his eye, again, sought what he took to be their officer, held high, and fired. As the smoke from his lock and muzzle cleared, he could see that his shot had struck the fellow square in the chest, dropping him as if pole-axed, and spread like an X on the ground. It took the Dutch a gawping few seconds before that company’s junior officer got them to move forward. Lewrie shot down a soldier in the front rank, who stumbled backwards into his rear-rank mates, slowing them a bit more.

Dutch cavalrymen who had been re-enforcing the lines scrambled out of the waist-deep trenches for their horses in the rear, on the reverse slope.

They’ll saddle up and keep on goin’, if they’ve any sense, he thought as he reloaded yet again; But, no … they’ll come up here!

The Marine sharpshooter hit the officer at the head of their column as his horse reared and he waved his sword over his head to rally his men, and he reeled out of the saddle with one boot caught in the right-hand stirrup, to be dragged by his panicked mount down hill several yards before flopping free. The horse kept on going. Again, another junior officer took charge and urged the Dutch horsemen on, up the slope towards the centre of the British line, right at Lewrie’s sailors. The crest of the ridge was narrow as it rose to their knob, so no more than seven or eight riders could attack them, pressed together knee-to-knee.

“Front rank, ready!” Lewrie shouted, dropping his Ferguson and pacing over to stand by the front rank of sailors. “Everyone, fix bayonets and remember t’stab the horses if they get close!”

Lewrie drew the first of his double-barrelled Manton pistols and cocked the right-hand lock, then drew his hanger to prepare for the onslaught.

“Hold fire ’til I order!” Westcott sternly cautioned. “Hold fire ’til we can see their teeth, then skin the bastards!”

“A pity, arrah, sor,” Patrick Furfy said with a shake of his head, “I’ve always liked horses.”

“You’re worth more t’me and your shipmates than ten blooded hunters, Furfy!” Lewrie cried, laughing. “So be sure you kill them, no matter! That goes for all you lads! We’ll show these Dutch sons of bitches they’ve messed with the wrong crew!”

A bugle was blown, and the Dutch horsemen launched into their charge, right off, with no trotting first to approach nearer. Their surviving officers must have wagered that they would suffer less if they closed quickly, with no messing about. Sabres were levelled with the points down and the cutting edges up, stiff-armed. Spurs were cruelly thrust upon their mounts to goad them into a full gallop, and harsh, howling cries came from the enemy troopers’ throats.

“Steady … steady!” Westcott shouted.

The first rank was eight abreast, a wall of flesh and thundering hooves! Closer … closer … within fifty yards …

“First rank … fire!” Lewrie cried, thinking that he might have left it too late, and that dead horses might stumble onto his front-rank men, crushing them and opening everyone to being hacked to pieces.

No! Those first eight horses were down, kicking their legs in the air, flailing in their death throes and screaming! Half their riders were down, as well, shot and flung off, pi

Gunfire from Simcock’s Marines, and from Lt. Strickland’s men, had not stopped, either, tearing at the Dutch cavalrymen from either flank and killing horses and men who rode behind the leaders.

“Second rank … fire!” Westcott shouted, and the Dutchmen who sat at the halt were hit and daunted, some shot from their saddles and others slumped low over their horses’ necks, trying to turn about and go back down the slope. A bugle rang out and the rest wheeled round to retreat, still under fire, and did not stop ’til they were out of what they thought was musket-range, leaving at least two-dozen of their fellows behind. There was a reef, a shoal, of dead horses in front of Lewrie’s position, which he hoped would end any thoughts of a second try. There was still that company of infantry to deal with, though, coming up to within one hundred yards and almost in decent shooting range.

They’re lookin’ over their shoulders, though, Lewrie told himself as he dropped his spent Manton and went back to re-load his Ferguson. Sure enough, the British regiments were advancing smartly and almost within their own musket-range of the shallow Dutch trenches. The Dutch were firing at them, their artillerymen coming out of their dubious shelter and aiming their guns, readying with grapeshot loads or wicked canister. One artillery piece roared and rocked back on its trail, then another. From their knob above it all, Lewrie indeed had a grand view as the British infantry broke into a rapid uphill charge, their bayonets glittering, and hundreds of wild and feral cries, with the pipers of the 93rd breaking into what sounded as urgent as a reel, a demonic war cry all of its own.

“They’re breaking!” Lt. Strickland shouted, standing fully erect and waving his sabre over his head in glee. “They’re ru

The Dutch cavalry troop gave the situation a quick look, and wheeled about by fours to clatter away, downhill for the plain below with hardly a backward glance.

“Huzzah! Huzzah!” the men on the knob were shouting as the British charge reached the trenches, and the Colours were carried forward. The Dutch infantry would not be as lucky as their cavalry, for they could not retreat as fast. They melted away, abandoning the trenches and turning their backs in flight. Those unable to scramble out, the laggards and the slowest, got swarmed over by British red and bayonetted. Some knelt in surrender, holding their muskets in the air or planting them muzzle down in front of them, and others just abandoned their weapons and ran like skittered deer. British blood was up, though, and the attacking troops had taken casualties and lost mates. Not all those Dutch who surrendered were taken prisoner; it would be a minute or so before sanity was restored.

The Dutch company that had tried to come up the hill to attack them were now trapped between Lewrie’s position and the British infantry who were now rampaging down the line of shallow trenches, looking for someone to shoot or bayonet. That company was now a herd of terrified men looking in all directions and looking for escape, which was now cut off. Their own retreating cavalry had delayed them too long.

“You, down there!” Lewrie shouted in his best quarterdeck roar. “Surrender to us!” He pumped both arms up several times. “Surrender! Bloody Hell, Mister Westcott. How did our old Master Gu

“Haven’t a single clue, really, sir,” Westcott said, shrugging.

“Soldaten!” Lt. Strickland yelled, raising his own arms as if giving up. “Haende hoch! Kapitulation! Hinlegen deine waffen!”

The Dutch soldiers dropped their muskets as if they were red-hot fireplace pokers, and littered the ground round them with shakoes, cartridge boxes, hangers, and equipment belts, and knelt with their hands high over their heads in a twinkling.