The Battle of Hackham Heath by John Flanagan
Lewin shrugged. “Who knows?”
Berwick rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Looks like he’s waiting for them to settle down,” he suggested.
Again, Halt and Crowley exchanged a glance.
“Not much point in our waiting to slow them down,” Halt said. “They’ve slowed themselves down.”
“I agree,” Crowley said. He glanced around and nominated two more Rangers. “Chase and Bedford, set up an observation point on that small hill to the east. Keep an eye out for them and let us know when they’re on their way.” He looked around the group. “The rest of you, mount up. It’s time we rejoined the army.”
Quickly the group mounted and set out, riding in two files. Halt and Crowley, naturally, took the lead. They had gone several kilometers when Crowley glanced curiously at his friend. The dark-bearded Hibernian seemed lost in thought.
“You’re quiet. Something on your mind?” Crowley asked.
Halt shook himself out of the reverie that had seized him. “Just thinking about how the Wargals reacted to Arald’s mock cavalry attack.”
Crowley made a small moue with his mouth. “They didn’t seem to react at all, from where I sat.”
But Halt shook his head. “I was a lot closer and they definitely reacted. They hesitated and lost their cohesion for a moment. They were still worried by the horses.”
“So what happened? They didn’t hesitate for too long, as far as I could see.”
“No. Morgarath was there almost immediately, and he rallied them quickly.” He paused, thinking hard, then added in a quiet tone, “He saw us coming. Maybe we can do something about that.”
31
“HE WON’T TRY THAT AGAIN,” DUNCAN SAID, AND HIS SENIOR officers nodded agreement.
“Another frontal assault like that and he’ll have lost almost half his army,” Lord Northolt said. There was a note of satisfaction in his voice.
“Let’s not get too cocky,” Halt said quietly, and they all turned to look at him. Several of them raised their eyebrows in surprise and glanced at the King. Most rulers didn’t take well to being told they were being cocky. But Duncan was watching the bearded Ranger with a questioning look.
“What do you mean, Halt?” he asked.
Halt was sitting on the edge of a table in the tent. He hitched himself up to a more comfortable position. He sensed every eye on him, and as usual, that attention made him slightly uncomfortable. The fact that Lady Pauline was among the group, her clothes muddy and dirt-smeared from riding all night, didn’t make him any more comfortable.
“It’s just,” he said, after a short pause to gather his thoughts, “Morgarath isn’t the type to take a beating like that and give up. He’s smart. He’s ruthless. You can bet he’ll come up with a new tactic to counter our arrows. So we should be ready to surprise him.”
“Do you have anything in mind?” Baron Arald asked.
Halt hesitated, then committed himself. “I may have. Let’s step outside for a minute.”
The group of commanders exited from the pavilion, making way for Duncan to go first. Outside, they stood surveying their new position, and the work that was going on to fortify it.
Hackham Heath was an open space covered with knee-high gorse, interspersed with clumps of taller bushes. It stretched for half a kilometer and on either side it was bounded by thick forest. The ground sloped upward, and at the beginning of the slope, the Slipsunder River ran in a huge U-shaped curve. The river widened at the semicircular curve, and the water shallowed, providing a ford. The army had crossed that spot the previous day. Around the ford, the banks were wet and muddy, but by no means impassable. To either side, in the arms of the U, the river ran among thick trees. It was narrower, but much deeper. And the current was fast and treacherous. The ford was the only point where it was possible to cross.
The army was camped on the eastern side of the heath, where the ground rose steeply to form a grass-covered knoll. It was this feature that had caused Lord Northolt to select the site. The defenses—another ditch and palisade—were set in a semicircle, protecting three sides of the knoll. The fourth was anchored against the thick trees. Any attacker would have to labor up the steep sides of the knoll, where he would be confronted by the ditch and another line of sharpened stakes, behind which the defenders would be waiting for him.
The six men and one woman all studied the ground for several minutes. Then Halt pointed downhill.
“We’re assuming Morgarath will camp across the other side of the river,” he said, “where he’ll be protected from any surprise attack on our part. Then, when he’s ready, he’ll cross the river, form his assault line, and head up the hill.” He looked around at the others. “Anyone disagree?”
There was a general mutter of concurrence and he went on. “It seems to me that if we could hit him with a cavalry charge—a real one this time—when his men are halfway up the hill, we could completely disrupt his attack.”
David frowned thoughtfully. “But we saw yesterday that the Wargals have overcome their fear of horses—if it was ever there.”
“Oh, it was there all right. And they haven’t overcome it. I’m sure of it. I was watching them yesterday. When Arald started to canter toward them, there was a definite reaction in the front line. They stopped. They tried to back off. For a few moments, they were disorganized and vulnerable. Then Morgarath rode forward and steadied them. He was goading and threatening them.”
Crowley rubbed his beard thoughtfully. “That’s certainly the way it looked.”
Halt nodded to him. “That’s what it was. The point is, Morgarath had plenty of time to order them back into line. He saw you coming”—he gestured to Arald—“then he saw his troops faltering and he rode forward to shore up their confidence. Once he did that, they started forward again.”
“Why should it be any different next time?” Duncan asked.
“Because next time, I plan to hit them from the rear. He won’t see us coming and he won’t have time to reorganize his troops. They’ll be disrupted and surprised. I’m hoping they’ll lose confidence and their old fear will reassert itself before Morgarath has time to stop it. Besides . . .” He hesitated.
“Besides what?” Crowley asked.
“Well, I wouldn’t be surprised if his mental control over them has been weakened by yesterday’s fight. They saw hundreds of their kind killed as they tried to follow his orders. Looking at their camp yesterday afternoon, they were demoralized and disorganized, wandering around aimlessly. If we follow up with a surprise attack from the rear and catch them off guard, we might manage to completely disrupt his hold over them and force them to retreat.”
“How do you propose to hit them from behind?” Duncan asked.
Halt gestured to the wide plain at the base of the hill. “I thought I might take what cavalry we have back across the river and hide over in the trees to the south,” he said. But even as he spoke, he could see the weakness in his plan.
Crowley articulated it, shaking his head. “Too risky. You couldn’t help leaving a trail. You’d have more than a hundred men with you, after all. And their horses. You couldn’t move a party that size through that damp ground without leaving obvious signs. And then you could find yourself cut off, facing a thousand Wargals, bent on revenge.”
“Eight hundred Wargals,” Halt corrected him.
“Eight hundred then,” Crowley retorted. “If that makes you feel any better.”
Halt opened his mouth to argue. But he knew Crowley was right and he said nothing.
“Perhaps,” Duncan said thoughtfully, “you could go north and find another ford, then circle round behind them.” He looked at Sir David. “David, you said you were stationed here. How well do you know the terrain?”
David shook his head. “Not well, sir. But my son Gilan knows it like the back of his hand. He’d know if there’s another ford within a
“Let’s have him up here then,” Duncan said. He turned back into the pavilion while David sent an orderly to find his son. The others trooped back into the pavilion and took their seats again, waiting on David’s young son.
Halt studied the young man as he entered the tent. Gilan was tall for a twelve-year-old, and gangly. But he had a wiry strength to him and intelligent, calm eyes as he looked around curiously. He seemed unflustered to find himself in the presence of so many senior officers. He glanced around the group, nodding greetings as his father introduced him.
He wore a sword slung over his right shoulder and a heavy dagger in the belt around his waist. The weapons were strangely at odds with the young, serious face. Halt shrugged mentally. That was the way of the world these days. Young people grew up fast.
“Gilan,” his father said, “do you know of any fords across the Slipsunder? Preferably within a day’s ride from here.”
The boy considered the question. A slight frown furrowed his brow between his eyes. He answered carefully, not willing to commit himself absolutely.
“There used to be one to the north. I found it several years ago. But . . .” He spread his hands uncertainly.
“But what?” Halt asked quietly.
Gilan turned his gaze on the bearded Ranger, assessing him for a few seconds. “But since then, there could have been floods through that part of the river that might have washed the sand away.”
“But you have no evidence that has happened?” Halt asked.
The boy shook his head. “No. I’m just saying it could have.”
“We’ll assume the ford is still there,” Duncan said. He indicated the map on the easel by the tent wall. “Can you show us where it is?”
Gilan crossed to the map, peering at it with that small frown on his face again.
They were interrupted as a messenger knocked on the tent pole by the door and entered. He looked nervously around the King and his advisers, his eyes wide. Then his eyes fell on Lady Pauline, and she beckoned him forward, glancing apologetically at the King. He made a gesture for her to continue. The messenger leaned close to her and spoke in a low voice. When he had finished, she looked at the King again.
“I’m sorry, my lord. I have to attend to this.”
The King made the same gesture of permission and she hurried out. They all turned back to Gilan, who had stepped back from the map.
“I can’t show you on this,” he said flatly.
Halt frowned. “You can’t read a map?” He realized he had been rather abrupt and Gilan was, after all, only a boy. He softened his tone. “Or have you forgotten where it is?”
Gilan shook his head, unabashed. “Neither. The map is totally inaccurate. There’s no detail—or very little. I couldn’t indicate where the ford is within ten or fifteen kilometers.” He tapped his finger on the depiction of the river, at a point where it twisted in a series of curves. “This stretch, for instance. I assume it’s supposed to indicate the Serpentine Tumbles. But it’s nowhere near this spot. It’s easily five kilometers farther north. Maybe more.”
The boy spoke with confidence and Halt realized he knew what he was talking about. “So you can’t show us where the ford is?”
Gilan nodded confirmation. “No.” He paused and glanced at his father, then said, “But I could take you there.”
“Take me?” Halt said. “You mean come with us?”
Gilan said nothing, simply nodded. Again, he glanced at his father. Halt did the same.
“Sir David,” he said, “I’m not sure about this. If he comes with us, I’ll be taking him into danger. He’s only a boy . . .” Out of the corner of his eye he saw Gilan’s face redden.
Sir David glanced at his son, then back at Halt. “He’s young, Halt, I’ll grant you that. But he’s not wearing that sword for decoration. He’s faster than me—and more skillful. He can look after himself.”
Halt chewed his lip. His previous observation about young people growing up fast in this world came back to him. “I suppose we could always leave him behind once we’ve found the ford,” he said. “Or send him back.”
Gilan snorted scornfully, but restrained himself from further comment.
Sir David actually grinned. “You could try that,” he said. “But don’t expect to succeed.”
Halt opened his mouth to reply but was forestalled by Lady Pauline’s sudden reappearance. The Courier was smiling widely.
“What is it, Pauline?” Baron Arald asked. She was his senior Courier, after all. Yet Pauline addressed her answer to the King.
“Two drafts of troops have just come in, my lord,” she said. “One from Norgate and one from Swinton, in the west. Word is going out that Morgarath has recalled his army and has stopped raiding the fiefs.”
“How many troops?” Duncan asked immediately.
“Fifty in all. Thirty of them cavalry,” she said, and there was a general chorus of satisfaction. The tide was beginning to turn against Morgarath. And as it continued to do so, more and more troops would join the royal army. The King came to a decision.
“Halt, take the one hundred and twenty troopers we have already, along with the thirty new arrivals. Have Gilan here show you the ford. Then get back here and hit Morgarath where he least expects it.”
Halt nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Gilan allowed himself a small grin of triumph.
Duncan saw it and addressed him directly. “Gilan, you stay out of trouble and do as Halt tells you. This isn’t a game.”
Gilan dropped his eyes and muttered an acknowledgment.
The King sat back in the high-backed chair behind the table and looked around the tent. “Gentlemen—and Pauline, of course,” he said, “this may be the beginning of the end for Morgarath.”
32
BY THE FOLLOWING MORNING, THERE WAS STILL NO SIGN OF the Wargal army. Crowley had sent a series of two-man patrols out on the high road leading back to Ashdown Cut. They traveled back fifteen kilometers but saw nothing.
“It might be a good time for me to head out with the cavalry,” Halt said to Sir David. “I assume Gilan will need some time to locate the ford. And it’ll be better if Morgarath isn’t here to see us leave.”
Accordingly, they mustered the cavalry—the one hundred and twenty troopers who were the original cavalry force and the thirty new arrivals. David and Halt inspected their horses and equipment. Two men were excused from the expedition because their horses weren’t in first-rate shape. One was limping slightly as the trooper walked him around. David knelt and gently felt the horse’s lower leg.
“Feels a little hot,” he said doubtfully. He gestured to an orderly and sent him to fetch Duncan’s horse master, Brogan.
The heavily muscled horse master repeated David’s examination and confirmed his verdict. “There’s definitely heat there. He could well go lame if we send him on a long journey.” He glared at the hapless trooper. “Couldn’t you see he was having trouble?” he demanded.
The trooper hung his head. “Didn’t want to be left behind,” he said. “I thought he was just a little stiff and he’d work it out.”
Brogan studied him carefully. On the whole, he believed him. The young man was open-faced and guileless and didn’t seem the type to intentionally neglect his horse’s well-being.
“He’ll need rest and treatment,” he told the young man. “Bring him to the horse lines this afternoon. Tell the apothecaries that I sent you and your horse is to be looked after.”
“Yes, sir,” said the young trooper, his eyes downcast. “What shall I do while he’s being treated?”
“You can join the army, my boy,” David interrupted. “Welcome to the infantry.”
The trooper greeted that news with a glum expression. In his world, the infantry was the last assignment one would choose. Infantry walked into battle. Cavalry rode. The
Brogan was less understanding about the other horse that didn’t pass muster. It was a bay gelding and it was suffering from very painful saddle sores—a sure sign that its rider had not been looking after it properly.
As before, Brogan told the rider to take his horse to the horse lines for treatment. The trooper, however, was demoted for not caring properly for his horse and set to cleaning out the horse lines and taking care of the army’s latrines.
So it was that by early afternoon, Halt had a force of one hundred and forty-eight cavalry men, all equipped with mail armor, helmets, mail aventails and round shields. Each man was armed with a heavy spear, which could be used as a lance or for throwing, a long sword and a heavy, double-sided dagger. Each man carried rations for three days, and two water skins. Behind their saddles they tied bedrolls and rolled tarpaulins. The latter could be joined with those carried by each man’s riding partner to make two-man tents. Sir David had appointed a young captain named Lorriac as their commander.
Gilan arrived at the mustering point half an hour before the due time. He wore a thigh-length mail shirt under a linen surcoat. His helmet was a simple cone-shaped one, with a mail aventail that spread down and protected his neck and shoulders. His sword was now in a scabbard attached to his saddle, alongside his left knee. He had a round shield as well—lightweight but reinforced with strips of brass and with a large central boss made of the same metal. The boy looked eager and enthusiastic about his assignment. Halt inspected him critically, without appearing to do so, and was pleased to see he didn’t appear to have any self-doubts about his mission.
“Ready to go?” he asked.
The youngster nodded eagerly. He pointed to the fringe of the trees that delineated the heath.
“We’ll stick to the tree line, heading north. Once we’ve gone about twenty kilometers, I’ll be looking for landmarks. Then we’ll head into the trees and make for the river.”