The Cavalryman
Pop. The Englishman's helmet exploded into a puddle of gore, his eyes landing onto the neck of his horse, and his helm collapsed to the side, unable to be supported by his collapsing skull. Blood rained out all sides as the bullet passed through his neck at 700 feet per second. Slow compared to a proper musket, certainly. But a pistol at close range certainly got the job done.
As the englishman's body collapsed onto the ground, the Cavalryman wheeled his horse around, and took aim with his second pistol. A second englishman, pike in hand, charged towards the horseman and thrust forward, catching the cavalryman in the arm, entirely unprotected by his breastplate, which caused his shot to go wild,and drop his pistol. The pike drew blood from the horseman's arm, as the fabric from his clothing torn apart as the pike pierced his arm, but barely missed his bone
With his pike firmly implanted in flesh, the pikeman withdrew his spear, ripping apart another handful of flesh, before thrusting it forward in the clean, disciplined motion of a thousand drilled movements. But the cavalryman had trained against Pike as well. As the pike went upwards, it was deflected to the right by the swing of a saber. Corbett raised his saber, up and over his shoulder, before coming down in a fluid motion towards the Englishman's pike, slicing it cleanly in half.
With his weapon cleaved in half, the now pikeless-pikeman was no match for the decapitating power of the simple cavalry saber. His head dropped without any drama, nor did his neck provide much resistance. As the pikeman's body hit the ground unceremoniously, the cavalryman was already riding away.
As pike and shot rang out around him, the cavalrymen retreated up a hill away from the main force of the fighting. Not to desert the fighting, rather, to give him enough time to bring his horse from a full gallop to a slow trot, stable enough to reload his weapons.
As the horse slowed down, The cavalrymen stowed his sword, and pulled out his one remaining pistol. While earlier guns had been far to delicate and unwieldy to reload while mounted, times had changed. The cavalrymen pulled up his helmet to reveal his red, sweaty face, his short, fashionable mustache, and his short, black hair, wet and damp from his hours with his full helm up. His brown eyes focused on a cartridge he drew from his belt, before he brought the box of paper to his mouth, and bit into it, ripping it apart like a wolf might with meat.
Spitting out the remains of the paper, he sprinkled some of the contents onto the flint of his pistol, and closed it, before he brought the ripped cartridge up to his gun, and poured the entire contents down the long barrel of the pistol, a mixture of gunpowder, a ball, and other chemicals the cavalrymen had no knowledge of. He was no gunsmith. Heck, to be honest with himself, he didn’t entirely know exactly how these newfangled modern pistols worked. All he needed to know was how to aim and fire them.
Once the powder and shot had empired out of the cartridge, he took the paper in hand, and stuffed the broken paper itself down the barrel of the gun, poking it first down with his gloved finger, and secondly retrieving a tiny scouring rode, in order to ensure the paper went all the way down the barrel, to where the bullet sat.
By now his muscles ached, the adrenaline from the previous engagement working off, and a part of his brain told him he was done. To stop with this watchmaker-precision, and get back into the fight. His laziness, as well as his duty, told him to spend time reloading like this was wasted time. More englishmen approached his lines, and more of his comrades died every second. Still, his discipline told him to ignore the battle for the moment, and focus. After all, if he pulled the trigger now, all he'd end up doing is shooting his own wooden scouring stick at the English, and thus be unable to reload.
He removed the stick from his pistol, and stowed it on the backside of his gun, before pulling the gun to full cock. With his other hand, he covered his face with his helm once more, and he grabbed onto the reins of his horse, and began to ride down the hill, towards the english redoubt.
“Heavy Horse, coming down the hill to the south!” The cavalrymen head the englishmen inside the fortification point towards him, and cry out in their tongue. While he did not speak English himself, what the musketeers spoke was of little concern to him. What mattered was that they saw him. And they were afraid. The cavalrymen, let go of the reins and began to guide his mount with his knees. With the loaded gun in his hand, he took aim at one of the musketeers who was in the process of taking aim with his own rifle.
Pop. A hole appeared, dead center, in the musketeers hat and head, as he collapsed. Drawing his sword, the calvarymen hew into the musketeers in the fort, their guns unloaded, and their guard down. 1, 2, 3, 5 men claimed by his saber. Fell to his saber. A grin of pride crossed the face of the horseman, but soon it was his own turn to take fire. A volley of musket fire, but mostly from the front, flew past him. One caught him in the finger, and another in the side of the leg. The vast majority of them, however, were aimed at his face and chest, which bounced harmlessly off his helmet, as well as his bright, golden breastplate.
Unfazed from the volley of fire, the calvarymen raised his saber high, and cut down another englishman, before looking around, and galloping across the redoubt towards the cannons that bombarded his comrades. The artillery that he had been sent into silence. The cannons that allowed the pikemen to advance, and wipe out most of his troop. Saber in hand, he let out a charge in his native tongue, and charged towards the partially.
“Horsemen approaching” came a cry of fear from the artillerymen. The cavalrymen licked his lips. Fighting Artillery was child's play. Most of the time they weren't issued swords, much less pistols. And even if they were, no gun would ever pierce a steel-hardened breastplate. Child's play. The cavalrymen raised his sword, and approached the cannon crew. “Fire!” came the order from Major Lloyd. With the lighting of a quick fuse came a blast of black powder and cannonball that erupted from the 9 pounder. Clutching his shoulder, Major Lloyd used his other hand to clear the smoke that is often caused by firing such a cannon at extremely short range. Shure enough, Lloyd saw a horse rising off the battlefield behind them, sans the stallions rider, who lay in a crumpled mess in the trenches beside the cannon crew, his bright, golden-yellow breastplate with a clear, 9 pound hole in it. Major Lloyd stared at the horsemen for a brief moment, accompanied by his crew, before the blood-loss from his shoulder snapped him back into adrenaline. “Come on, men!” he shouted towards his gun crew. “Napoleon isn’t winning this flank anytime soon. Reload!”
As the englishman's body collapsed onto the ground, the Cavalryman wheeled his horse around, and took aim with his second pistol. A second englishman, pike in hand, charged towards the horseman and thrust forward, catching the cavalryman in the arm, entirely unprotected by his breastplate, which caused his shot to go wild,and drop his pistol. The pike drew blood from the horseman's arm, as the fabric from his clothing torn apart as the pike pierced his arm, but barely missed his bone
With his pike firmly implanted in flesh, the pikeman withdrew his spear, ripping apart another handful of flesh, before thrusting it forward in the clean, disciplined motion of a thousand drilled movements. But the cavalryman had trained against Pike as well. As the pike went upwards, it was deflected to the right by the swing of a saber. Corbett raised his saber, up and over his shoulder, before coming down in a fluid motion towards the Englishman's pike, slicing it cleanly in half.
With his weapon cleaved in half, the now pikeless-pikeman was no match for the decapitating power of the simple cavalry saber. His head dropped without any drama, nor did his neck provide much resistance. As the pikeman's body hit the ground unceremoniously, the cavalryman was already riding away.
As pike and shot rang out around him, the cavalrymen retreated up a hill away from the main force of the fighting. Not to desert the fighting, rather, to give him enough time to bring his horse from a full gallop to a slow trot, stable enough to reload his weapons.
As the horse slowed down, The cavalrymen stowed his sword, and pulled out his one remaining pistol. While earlier guns had been far to delicate and unwieldy to reload while mounted, times had changed. The cavalrymen pulled up his helmet to reveal his red, sweaty face, his short, fashionable mustache, and his short, black hair, wet and damp from his hours with his full helm up. His brown eyes focused on a cartridge he drew from his belt, before he brought the box of paper to his mouth, and bit into it, ripping it apart like a wolf might with meat.
Spitting out the remains of the paper, he sprinkled some of the contents onto the flint of his pistol, and closed it, before he brought the ripped cartridge up to his gun, and poured the entire contents down the long barrel of the pistol, a mixture of gunpowder, a ball, and other chemicals the cavalrymen had no knowledge of. He was no gunsmith. Heck, to be honest with himself, he didn’t entirely know exactly how these newfangled modern pistols worked. All he needed to know was how to aim and fire them.
Once the powder and shot had empired out of the cartridge, he took the paper in hand, and stuffed the broken paper itself down the barrel of the gun, poking it first down with his gloved finger, and secondly retrieving a tiny scouring rode, in order to ensure the paper went all the way down the barrel, to where the bullet sat.
By now his muscles ached, the adrenaline from the previous engagement working off, and a part of his brain told him he was done. To stop with this watchmaker-precision, and get back into the fight. His laziness, as well as his duty, told him to spend time reloading like this was wasted time. More englishmen approached his lines, and more of his comrades died every second. Still, his discipline told him to ignore the battle for the moment, and focus. After all, if he pulled the trigger now, all he'd end up doing is shooting his own wooden scouring stick at the English, and thus be unable to reload.
He removed the stick from his pistol, and stowed it on the backside of his gun, before pulling the gun to full cock. With his other hand, he covered his face with his helm once more, and he grabbed onto the reins of his horse, and began to ride down the hill, towards the english redoubt.
“Heavy Horse, coming down the hill to the south!” The cavalrymen head the englishmen inside the fortification point towards him, and cry out in their tongue. While he did not speak English himself, what the musketeers spoke was of little concern to him. What mattered was that they saw him. And they were afraid. The cavalrymen, let go of the reins and began to guide his mount with his knees. With the loaded gun in his hand, he took aim at one of the musketeers who was in the process of taking aim with his own rifle.
Pop. A hole appeared, dead center, in the musketeers hat and head, as he collapsed. Drawing his sword, the calvarymen hew into the musketeers in the fort, their guns unloaded, and their guard down. 1, 2, 3, 5 men claimed by his saber. Fell to his saber. A grin of pride crossed the face of the horseman, but soon it was his own turn to take fire. A volley of musket fire, but mostly from the front, flew past him. One caught him in the finger, and another in the side of the leg. The vast majority of them, however, were aimed at his face and chest, which bounced harmlessly off his helmet, as well as his bright, golden breastplate.
Unfazed from the volley of fire, the calvarymen raised his saber high, and cut down another englishman, before looking around, and galloping across the redoubt towards the cannons that bombarded his comrades. The artillery that he had been sent into silence. The cannons that allowed the pikemen to advance, and wipe out most of his troop. Saber in hand, he let out a charge in his native tongue, and charged towards the partially.
“Horsemen approaching” came a cry of fear from the artillerymen. The cavalrymen licked his lips. Fighting Artillery was child's play. Most of the time they weren't issued swords, much less pistols. And even if they were, no gun would ever pierce a steel-hardened breastplate. Child's play. The cavalrymen raised his sword, and approached the cannon crew. “Fire!” came the order from Major Lloyd. With the lighting of a quick fuse came a blast of black powder and cannonball that erupted from the 9 pounder. Clutching his shoulder, Major Lloyd used his other hand to clear the smoke that is often caused by firing such a cannon at extremely short range. Shure enough, Lloyd saw a horse rising off the battlefield behind them, sans the stallions rider, who lay in a crumpled mess in the trenches beside the cannon crew, his bright, golden-yellow breastplate with a clear, 9 pound hole in it. Major Lloyd stared at the horsemen for a brief moment, accompanied by his crew, before the blood-loss from his shoulder snapped him back into adrenaline. “Come on, men!” he shouted towards his gun crew. “Napoleon isn’t winning this flank anytime soon. Reload!”
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