Excerpt from Lord John and the Brotherhood of the Blade
Copyright © 2007 Diana Gabaldon, Lord John and the Brotherhood of the Blade. All rights reserved.

[The beginnings of the Battle of Crefeld. The French and Austrian forces have been discovered behind a Landwehr-a large walled canal-and the Prussian and English forces are swinging into position to attack them. Lord John Grey, acting Lieutenant Colonel for his regiments, is overseeing the field movements.]

Near the Landwehr, he pulled Karolus a little to the side, watching his men stream by, listening to the noises becoming audible from the French and Austrian lines forming on the other side of the dyke. The Landwehr itself was a formidable barrier--two water-filled ditches, each some ten feet wide, with a massive central bank, fifteen feet in width, between them--but not a very wide one. A thick growth of trees and bushes edged the dyke here; he couldn’t see the enemy through mist and leaves, but he could hear them easily--French, he thought.

Shouts, cheers, the distant creak of caisson wheels as artillery wheeled into position...then these were drowned in the boom of drums, as Ferdinand’s Prussian cavalry came within earshot on Grey’s side of the Landwehr, led by their drum-horse. Dragon-Riders, they called themselves, with that typical German inclination for drama. They looked it, though. Tall men all, straight in the saddle and beautiful in their glory, and his heart was stirred, despite himself.

Karolus was stirred, too; he jerked, snorted, and made as though to join them. He had once been a cavalry horse--loved drums and adored parades. Grey reined him in, but the stallion continued to dance and toss his head.

Karolus was stirring up the ensigns’ horses, too, and Grey was not sure that Brett and Tarleton could keep their own mounts under control. Clicking his tongue, he pulled Karolus’s head round, and rode a little way into the trees along the Landwehr, trailed by his ensigns.

He could still hear the cavalry drums, but the horses had quieted a little, with the others out of sight. Brett’s horse bobbed his head, wanting to drink from the ditch, and Grey nodded at Brett to allow it.

“Not too much,” he said automatically, his attention divided between the sounds behind them, and those to his left, where the other British regiments were massing to attack the French right flank. The double ditches of the Landwehr were full to the banks, swelled by the recent rains, and the water ran muddy and quick below him, grass trailing in the current.

“What’s that?” he heard Brett say, startled, and looked where his ensign was pointing. Several tall, pointed shapes were dimly visible among the trees on the other side of the dyke. He blinked, and made sense of what he was seeing just as one of the shapes flung back its arm and hurled something in his direction.

“Grenades!” he roared, “Get clear, get clear!”

The first one struck a few feet to his right and exploded, sending pottery shards in all directions. Some struck Karolus, who shied violently, then bucked and reared as more grenades struck the bank between the ditches, bright flashes from the ones that went off, others rolling like fallen apples, smothered and harmless in the dirt, a few with live fuzes hissing like snakes.

Grey grappled the reins in one hand, fumbling for his pistol. There was a sudden feeling of warmth down his face, the sting of blood running into one eye. He got the pistol and fired blind. There were bangs nearby and the smell of powder; Brett and Tarleton were firing, too.

A thunder of hooves; Brett’s mount fled past him, riderless. Where--? He glanced round--there. Brett had been thrown, was rising from the ground, smeared with mud.

“Get back!” Grey shouted, pulling Karolus’s head around. The grenadiers were pulling back, too, out of pistol range, but one lucky last throw landed a live one in the grass at Brett’s feet, a blue-clay sphere, fuze sparking.

The boy stared at it, transfixed.

In sheer reflex, Grey spurred the horse and made for Brett, struck him glancing and knocked him away. No time to think, to swerve--Karolus shifted suddenly, bunching under him, and jumped the ditch. Hit the bank with a jolt that jarred Grey’s teeth, flexed once more and leapt the second ditch, skidding and floundering as he landed in wet grass, flinging his hapless rider up onto his neck.
A hand grabbed Grey’s arm and wrenched him off the horse. He fell struggling, throwing elbows and knees in all directions, tore loose and rolled, yelling "Lauf! Lauf!”

A yelp from the man who had grabbed for Karolus’s bridle, then the drumming of hooves as the horse galloped off into the mist. Grey had no time to worry about him; the grenadier who’d pulled him off was crouching, a wary look on his face and a dagger in his hand. Three or four more lurked behind him, wide-eyed with surprise.

“Surrender,” the grenadier said in French. “You are my prisoner.”
Grey hadn’t breath to spare in reply. He’d dropped his saber in the fall, but it lay on the ground, a few feet away. Gasping and swallowing, he gestured briefly to the grenadier for patience, walked over and picked up the sword. Then he gulped air, swung it two-handed round his head and lunging forward, struck at the grenadier’s neck with the fixed intent of removing his head. He halfway succeeded, and the shock of it nearly dislocated every bone in his arms.

The grenadier fell backward, the spurting blood from his neck failing to obscure the look of total astonishment on his face. Grey staggered, barely kept a grip on his sword, but knew that to lose it was to die on the spot.

Two of the grenadiers fell to their knees, trying to aid their stricken comrade. Another was backing away, mouth open beneath his moustache in horrified surprise. And the last, God damn him, was shrieking for help, meanwhile rummaging frantically in his bag. Grey began to back away, bloody saber at the ready.
Grenadiers weren’t schooled in hand-to-hand combat; they didn’t normally need to be. But there were plenty of troops nearby who were, and dozens of them would arrive in seconds. Grey dashed a sleeve across his face, trying to clear the blood from his eye. His scalp was stinging now; a shard from the first grenade must have struck him.

Meanwhile, the grenadier had drawn two more grenades from his bag, clay spheres each the size of an orange, filled with gunpowder. He carried a coil of hissing slow-match in a brass tube at his belt; the smoke from it wreathed his features, and he coughed, but didn’t blink.

Black eyes fixed on Grey, he touched the fuzes of the grenades to the slow-match, one and then the other. Sweat and blood were running down Grey’s face, stinging his eyes.

Jesus. At six feet, the grenadier could scarcely miss. Grey saw the man’s lips move, counting.

Grey turned and ran for his life. There was a roar of voices behind him, and the loud sharp pop! of an exploding grenade. Small objects pinged hard against his back and thighs, stung his legs but failed to penetrate the leather jerkin.

They were all after him now. He could hear the thump of feet and grunts of effort as they heaved their grenades. Terror leant wings to his feet, and he zig-zagged frantically through the trees, the flash-bang of explosions shaking the bushes and driving rooks and blackbirds shrieking into the clouds above.

He skidded to a halt and nearly fell. Oh, Christ.

A company of French infantry turned surprised faces toward him, then as comprehension dawned, several of them slung the muskets from their shoulders and began hastily to load. No way past them. Beyond them....beyond them lay rank upon rank upon rank of soldiers, a serried mass of blue and white.

A tremendous boom seemed to shake the trees, and a cannonball smashed through the brush on the far side of the dyke, no more than a hundred yards from where he stood. The battle had begun.
Lord John Grey sketched a gesture of salute toward the startled infantry, turned right, and amid a belated hail of musket balls and the occasional grenade, scrambled up the bank and jumped into the Landwehr.

[end section]