“What was all that, after soldaten?” Lewrie asked him.

“Told them to put their hands up, surrender, and drop their weapons,” Strickland said with a grin. “I had a German nanny,” he further explained, “and she was a right bitch.”

“Whatever, it worked,” Lewrie said. “D’ye think our own soldiers’ve lost their ‘mad’, or should we stay up here awhile more? I’d not like my men shot ’cause they’re not wearin’ red.”

“Oh, I think it’s safe enough now, Captain Lewrie,” Strickland allowed. “The rest of the Heavy Brigade is coming up in march order.”

Sure enough, the two attacking regiments had rushed on past the Dutch trenches and were moving down the East side of the Blaauwberg in skirmish order, their light companies firing at the fleeing Dutch survivors now and then. The other regiments of the Heavy Brigade were coming up towards the crest in columns-of-fours with their drums rattling the pace. Bandsmen and surgeons from the 38th and 93rd were busy picking among the few British casualties, or pilfering from the Dutch dead and wounded, on the sly.

“Canteens, sir.” Lt. Westcott pointed downhill to their prisoners. “We should go take possession of some, whilst we see to our own wounded.”

“Get them down so the Army surgeons can see to ’em, aye,” Lewrie agreed. “How many, Mister Westcott?”

“One hand dead, sir, two wounded,” Lt. Westcott told him as he took a deep drink from his wine bottle canteen. “Those two not badly, thank God. We’ve lost one Marine dead, and one wounded, as well. Durbin is tending them, but he will need assistance from the Army.”

Lewrie looked down-slope for a way to leave their knob. Horses and dead Dutch cavalrymen blocked the easiest way, many of the horses still screaming and thrashing.

“First off, Mister Westcott, have the lads shoot those poor horses, and see that all our muskets are empty,” Lewrie ordered. “If the Dragoons will … Ah, Mister Strickland!” he gladly said, spotting him. “If you’d be so good as to take charge of our prisoners, whilst we clear the way for our wounded? Good. Were any of your men hurt or killed?”

“No dead, sir, and only two lightly wounded. We came off rather easily, altogether,” Strickland reported, “though it seems that your men took the brunt of it, holding the centre of our line.”

“Once down with the nearest regiment, please direct their surgeon in our direction, sir, and we’ll try to move our wounded to them,” Lewrie requested. Strickland saluted and set off.

“Mister Rossyngton?” Lewrie called over his shoulder.

“Aye, sir?” the Midshipman replied.

“You’ve young and sturdy legs,” Lewrie said. “Do you run down to our waggon and order it up.”

“At once, sir!” Rossyngton said, doffing his hat and setting off at trots and bounds.

I just hope no one takes him for Dutch in his blue coat, and shoots him! Lewrie thought.

He went to where their Surgeon’s Mate, Durbin, was binding up his men’s wounds, and knelt and spoke words of assurance and thanks to them.

“Beg pardon, sir,” Durbin said, “but, do we take the blankets from the dead Dutchies’ bed-rolls, we can fashion ways to bear our men down the hill.”

“Aye, see to it,” Lewrie agreed.

That scavenging, and the slow procession of bearing both dead and wounded off the knob, was a gruesome ordeal. There were nearly fifteen or so dead horses which had to be bridged, and dead Dutchmen to be stepped and stumbled over, with here and there some few cruelly wounded, some still pinned under their dead mounts, who reached out with weak, bloodied hands, crying “Hilfe!” and “Wasser!” Sailors who were not carrying their mates bent down to give them a drink, a pat on the shoulder, but there was little they could do for them, not ’til all the British wounded had been seen to. That was the necessary triage following combat. Lewrie looked up to the morning sky and grimaced at the sight of hideous vultures already circling, and daring to swoop near the corpses round the Dutch trenches. The warm, coppery reek of spilled blood was almost as strong as the stink of voided men’s bowels and un-ravelled horse intestines.

At last, they got past the last of the Dutch casualties, and reached the South end of the Dutch trenches, where Army bandsmen were already carrying dead soldiers, British to one trench and Dutch to another, for a quick burial.

Lewrie stood and watched as Durbin had his two dead borne to the appropriate trench, and began to compose some final words in his head to see them off. He had left his Book of Common Prayer aboard ship, and would have to depend on an Army chaplain for the bulk of it. He was interrupted, though, by loud shouts, and turned about.

“You, there! You, sir!” a senior officer of cavalry shouted, coming on astride a glossy horse with a long riding crop in a gauntletted hand. “Come here at once, do you hear me? I’ve a bone t’pick with you!”

Damned if I ain’t gettin’ tired o’ bein’ shouted at! Lewrie fumed inside; From the Thirty-fourth? Their Colonel? Serve him sweetness and light, old son … sweetness and light. He put a faint smile on his face and raised a brow as if hailed by an old school chum.

“Good morning, sir!” Lewrie perkily said, doffing his hat. “I take it that you are Colonel Laird of the Thirty-fourth Light Dragoons? Sorry we have not yet made acquaintance. I am Captain Sir Alan Lewrie, Baronet, of the Reliant frigate, which escorted part of your regiment.”

“I know who you are, sir, and I am indeed Colonel of the Thirty-fourth Dragoons!” the livid fellow barked. “Those fools, Veasey and Strickland, have already informed me of your high-handed actions which instigated this idiocy!” he roared, sweeping a hand towards the carnage on the knob. “How dare you! Who gave you the right to order my officers about, deprive me of half a troop, and lead them into un-necessary peril, sir? Damme, had we gotten orders to charge this position, I would have been under-strength!”

“Captain Veasey, Leftenant Strickland, and I considered it a reconnaisance in force, since the knob was un-occupied, sir, so we came up to discover the enemy’s forces,” Lewrie replied as congenial and casually conversational as he could and still smile. “It worked, as you see.”

“Damn your eyes, sir!” Colonel Laird exploded, frightening his horse into shivers, circles, and flat-eared, eye-blared dread. “I’ll not have a bloody sailor, who knows nothing of proper military tactics, play ‘tin soldiers’ with my regiment! And, just what the Hell are you doing up here in the first place?”

“We’re part of the Naval Brigade that Commodore Popham offered to General Baird, sir, under the command of Captain Byng of the Belliqueux,” Lewrie sweetly answered, shifting the sling of his rifled musket on his shoulder. “We were landed to get the siege guns ashore, and re-enforce the guard on the baggage train. We came up alongside the train, sir.”

“The bloody baggage train is still far down bloody there!” Colonel Laird howled, pointing downhill to the West, where the regiments of the Light Brigade were now tramping up the slope to the crest of the Blaauwberg. “Damme if I do not settle you, this instant, Lewrie, for here comes General Sir David Baird. I will see you brought before a court! I will see you sacked!”

Colonel Laird snatched the reins of his horse and sped away at a brisk gait towards a clutch of senior officers at the head of the first regiment of the Light Brigade.

“Ehm … our waggon is coming up, sir,” a cautious Midshipman Warburton announced, daring a grimace of worry. “Should I see our wounded into it when it arrives, sir?”

“Do so, Mister Warburton,” Lewrie told him, “and break out the spare scuttle-butt. Our people will have need of replenishing their water bottles when the waggon’s up.”