Short Story III: Last Stand (see end of thread)
Based loosely on a custom battle I did recently, just to see how hard Lancers are...
Incident at Alcaniz
The knight’s footstep’s echoed in the great hall, sweltering still in the evening sun. He was tired and bruised, his armour bearing streaks of blood and sweat.
He knelt, knee plates clanking, his sword resting on the floor with a soft clatter.
The king spoke quietly.
‘Rise, Don Francesco, rise. Your scouting report tells me you met with victory, then why so downcast? Has the chivalry of Spain become tired of war while Moors yet hold our ancient lands?’
The knight did not respond to his king’s gentle jest.
‘Sire, I bring you the full account of a victory, it is true, yet also a tragedy which has little bearing upon the kingdom, but is of infinite personal grief to me.’
‘Ah…you cannot mean…?’
The king gazed compassionately upon the bowed and bearded head of his bravest knight.
‘Steward, bring him wine, and let him tell all.’
The knight drank deep, gasping, then toyed idly with the cup as though distracted. At length, as the hush grew amid the crowded hall, he began to speak.
‘Lord, as you know, three days ago I took a force of our best lancers south, to scout the Ebro valley towards Valencia. One the second day, we heard that a party of local scouts had seen smoke rising the southwest, so we rode that way, stopping only to eat and drink and see to our horses. The scouts joined us, some of them armed as jinettes. I thought they would be useful, as we were entering disputed territory and might be ambushed. I did not do more than glance at them, however, though some wore badges from the areas close to my home. Many of them wore veils of cloth across their faces to protect them from the sun. Madonna, had I only walked among them, I would have known…!’
The knight paused, wiped a trembling hand across his eyes. Gripping his sword, he seemed to draw strength from it.
‘My apologies sire, I will speak of it later. We rode to the village of Alcaniz, what they had left of it. People we found, none alive save an old man, dying. He told us that Moors had come with the sunrise and plundered and slain. Barely had he died than we saw them, their mail glittering in the morning sun, smoke in our faces hiding their numbers. I gave the orders, we mounted and donned our full armour, hurrying and sweating, the squires arming the horses as well. I ordered my men into line beyond the village, on the plain, three lines with twenty paces in between. We had fear, yes, and doubt, for the unbelievers had perhaps three hundred men, well mounted and rested, confident. I had two hundred, and now forty light horse. These I sent wide, to the flanks amid the scrub, for they would not be of much use in the fight ahead.
So we formed, and they formed opposite, their ranks wider than ours. I ordered the banners raised, lances couched, and we went forward at the trot, sweat and dung and leather reeking in the air, hearts beating and mouths dry…I felt sure we could break them, felt the hate become fury as it always does before the clash.
Hearing their horns wailing, now but a hundred yards away, I saw their horses begin the charge. I stood in my stirrups and cried our battlecry, sire, with all my strength ‘Santiago and the Virgin! The Crown of Aragon!’
And so we charged, in one mass, as one body, we bore down upon them and in the deafening crash of arms we broke their line in the centre, right upon the filthy banner of their emir. None could withstand us. I saw the Almohad banner trampled beneath the hooves of my charger as I turned, spirit soaring, sword out, cleaving Moors and horses alike, blood in my eyes…our flanks had not been turned, but the right was in trouble, only the fact that my best squadron was placed there had saved us, for they were hemmed in, their charge blunted. I gathered my guard about me, seeing in the briefest flash amid the chaos the sight of our scouts charging the enemy flank to aid our left. But for only a moment…I led my guard down upon their left and we broke that too in a frenzy, crying to Jesus and Saint James as we swung sword and axe. They gave at that, fleeing every which way, their horns silent now.
Ah, such bravery fights for Aragon. I am proud to lead it. I turned and saw their right withdrawing in good order, our lancers regrouping. I saw our scouts, only a dozen left, on foot amid the wounded. Bold fools, farmers, they had been slaughtered without armour, without experience. I rode over, ordering a squadron to see the enemy’s remnants form the field.
Dismounting, I saw…ah, I saw a group of men from my own home, clustered around one who lay still. Their faces looked up, flinched as I dragged off my helm, they stepped away. And so I saw the one who lay bleeding, bloody, dead.
It was my brother, come disguised behind a veil. It was Pietro…no warrior, just a wealthy farmer! He had come with his neighbours to relieve the boredom of long day by pretending to be a soldier, like his brother, who has gained fame and honour. But he had found neither, for he was dead, cut down by a Moorish scimitar.
I knelt before all my men, on the field of my victory, and wept, my little brother’s blood mixing with the blood of unknown heathens on my armour, even now as you see it. Such pain I will not know again, I do not think, for before this war I had three brothers, and now I have none.’
Don Francesco stopped speaking, hoarse with grief and effort. In the silence of the chamber, the king spoke.
‘Don Francesco, I grieve with you for every good man of Aragon who falls in defence of Christ. Your brother shall be buried with honours as a warrior, and I shall have masses said for him. Your duty has cost you much grief, and I mourn that I cannot recompense you for it. Take leave of us now, and rest, and I shall see to the details.’
The knight bowed, tears still upon his face.
‘Sire, I thank you for your kindness. I would give all I had to see all Spain free, even my brother who I pray now resides with God. My grief has made me remiss, for here is the tally of the encounter.’
‘Speak on, Don Francesco.’
‘Sire, we counted the bodies of one hundred and thirty four Moors, and lost seventy-six of our own. We found thirty-six enemy wounded also. They suffer the flames of Hell even as I speak, for I would take no prisoners on such a day. And I bring you this, with one request.’
Don Francesco pulled from his pouch a bloody banner, emblazoned with a crescent, and threw it contemptuously on the floor.
‘Their banner, sire.’
The king smiled.
‘That is well done. And the request?’
‘Sire, I beg that it be buried beneath my brother’s coffin, as a reminder that only by blood and sacrifice can we free this land.’
‘It shall be as you desire, my loyal Don Francesco. And three days hence you will lead four hundred lancers south for me, for Aragon, for your brother. The day is coming, and I would ask you never to forget, nor ever despair. Go now and rest, and pray.’
The knight knelt in homage, pride now in his bearing, then strode from the hall, his stride lengthening in vigour, revenge already kindling in his heart. The war would go on…
Re: Short Story II: Lancers
Excellent work! Touching. Which crusade is this story set in? Or does it not matter?
Re: Short Story II: Lancers
I agree! A lot of pathos, which I guess is the right think for this kind of story.
What was your intention? A battle description? Then it has too much pathos. A heroic epic? Then it is maybe not enough. More desperate situation, more suffering, more praying to the saints, more disdainfulness would be alright.
If it is a epic than there should be a moral, the knoght should be an idol and the battle should have been decisive.
Re: Short Story II: Lancers
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Originally Posted by Tiberius
Excellent work! Touching. Which crusade is this story set in? Or does it not matter?
~:cheers: I suppose it's set in the Spanish Reconquista, maybe 13th century or something.
Quote:
Originally Posted by Franconicus
I agree! A lot of pathos, which I guess is the right think for this kind of story.
What was your intention? A battle description? Then it has too much pathos. A heroic epic? Then it is maybe not enough. More desperate situation, more suffering, more praying to the saints, more disdainfulness would be alright.
If it is a epic than there should be a moral, the knoght should be an idol and the battle should have been decisive.
I guess it's not epic at all, too small! I wrote it in about half an hour one evening...I agree though, it was too short to properly explore either theme that you suggest, maybe I'll write a bigger version. I wanted to write something 'bare bones', just describing the skirmish, but make it more than a fancy battle report.
Re: Short Story II: Lancers
I also like it, though I agree with Franconicus that the style seems a bit undecided.
~:thumb:
Re: Short Story III: last stand (see end of thread)
thanks Ludens. I think the style of this one is a bit clearer, at least i hope so...
25th June 1876
He ran, panting, gasping, disbelieving. All hell breaking out behind him, shots, shouts, screams and whoops, horses screaming louder than men as the remnants of his company shot their mounts to provide some kind of cover. A desperate hope, the enemy had trapped them in a bowl shaped depression in the hills, leading up to a shallow series of ridges and valleys, fine ground for a massacre.
He stumbled, weighed down by fear, only his single-shot Springfield carbine and his ammo box for encumbrance, sweat soaking his coarse blue shirt and dusty breeches, uncomfortable army issue boots grinding the blisters on his heels. The ground was rocky, dry, all long grass and dried branches.
They’d set out that morning from the bluffs to the south, heading across the ridge. They’d marched all night before, a forced march, tired and blundering in the dark, terrified that they’d be found by the enemy. The General’s confidence had not been shaken, but then he was a veteran, a war hero, one of Little Phil’s hard riding horse-boys. The rest of his men were not. At least a fifth of the men in the unit had seen no action beyond popping cartridges at rabbits and shining boots, and some of them didn’t even speak English, Polish boys and German farmhands and even Italians and Irish.
The ground was dipping now, sloping into a lengthy hollow running behind the ridge. ‘Cover!’ he thought, maybe even a way to escape, get out of there and hide, and find the other companies in daylight, if they’d survived. They’d all heard firing from below the river, south of the camp, moving away east, which the scouts had decided must have been Reno’s company engaging the village…
It had happened so fast. One minute they’d been crossing the coulee, which the General’s famed scout Mitch Bouyer had called Medicine Tail, the next minute Indians had come pouring out of the village below them, shots and arrows whistling around. Men had been hit immediately, lurching in their saddles, thumping to the ground, screaming in pain. The General had stood in his stirrups, shouting ‘Hurrah, boys, we've got them! We'll finish them up and then get on home!’
Even as he spurred his horse towards the water, he was hit, the solid axe-blow sound as the Winchester bullet smacked into his ribs clearly audible to those nearby. Face painted with shock, the General lurched over his horse’s neck, blood running from his mouth. His brother Tom spurred to his side and grabbed him, holding him up in the saddle, shouting for help, and the lead companies dissolved into a scrambling chaos back up the slope into the tangle of bluffs above the valley, as Indians continued to pour from the village…
Gasping, chest pounding painfully, he stopped beside a withered bush, desperately checking the chamber of the Springfield, unable to remember if it had been loaded, if he’d fired at anything. Looking across the hills to the west, he froze, horrified, limbs dangling as though the strings had been severed on a puppet.
The remaining five companies of the famed 7th Cavalry were strung out in a vague semi-circle of struggling soldiers and horses, firing, loading, cursing, dying. Even as he gaped helplessly, one company was overrun, men disappearing under swarms of Indians clubbing, hacking, stabbing. Fierce gunfire still crackled from I and F Companies, Captain Keogh discernible even at this distance, tall and powerful. A brave and respected officer, the captain had taken command at the river, yelling at the men to fall back uphill and get firing, but only his own company had paid him any heed, trying to form skirmish lines as the arrows plunged over the skyline and the horses reared and fought…
With a sudden shriek, an Indian burst from the low ground not ten yards away, warclub hurtling through the air, warpaint streaked features contorted with hatred for the white soldier crouched in terror before him. Desperately swinging his carbine round even as he tumbled backwards, the soldier pulled the trigger, smoke and flame gouting, and watched in utter relief as the Sioux was catapulted backwards to land in a twitching, sprawling heap.
The soldier kept stumbling, passing below the ridgeline, sparing one final glance back at the final stand of the 7Th cavalry. In those brief moments, the last for so many men, he saw the Lt. Colonel George Armstrong Custer himself, slumped on hands and knees groggily peering about him, blood soaking his shirt, unseeing, the body of Tom Custer next to him riddled with arrows, his men falling and failing as the enemy closed in…
Lone Horse Dances kicked his pony on, the scalp of the horse soldier dripping still-warm blood over his left hand, as he used his knees to control his mount, scanning the ground for more white enemies to kill. Son of the Morning Star was dead, and all his kin and all his troopers lay about him. Lone Horse Dances had watched approvingly as Custer’s feebly moving body was stripped and slashed, warriors struggling for choice souvenirs. A warrior, bonneted like a warchief, unfamiliar to him, had suddenly shoved another aside, knelt down and calmly shot Custer through the head with a captured Colt. The rebuffed warrior, a lone Lakota among the group of whooping Cheyenne, had turned, face stony with rage, and vented his anger by turning over Morning Star’s brother’s body and cutting the heart out, raising his own whoops of triumph alongside his gory fist. Thus is Rain-in-the-Face avenged, he yelled. All around him similar scenes were taking place, warriors looting and mutilating, the people coming from the village with knives and axes to take their share of victory.
Sudden squalls and shouts broke out to the west, quarry spotted. Lone Horse Dances kicked his steed down the slope, stuffing the scalp under the saddle girth and gripping his Winchester rifle in his other hand, the stock decorated with carvings and bits of string woven with colours for luck, his metal headed axe bumping on his thigh…
Private Richard Saunders of F Company of the 7th Cavalry, aged 23, formerly a mason from Nova Scotia and a soldier for less than a year, holding a jammed Springfield carbine, ran in hopeless terror towards the setting sun, the sound of hooves thundering behind. He never heard the rifle shot that sent a bullet like a shaft of ice straight through his back, never saw the warrior who leaped from the pony and sprang onto the ground behind him, never managed to scream a final plea into the dust of the Little Bighorn as the metal axe split his skull with such force that his nose broke against the earth.
Two days later, the working party found his body, burying him in a shallow scrape of a grave where he had fallen, marking the position on a map, moving on. The legend of Custer’s Last Stand was already spreading in the newspapers and the society gossip, but here in the dry heat of Dakota, amid the stink of mutilated and exposed bodies of their fellows, the soldiers know that glory is just a word. Lonely and windswept, sun-beaten and desolate, the soldier’s graves at the Little Bighorn bear mute testament to the eternal fate of the soldier when glory comes calling.
Re: Short Story II: Lancers
Your attempt at describing the experience of a battle is well-done. However, you do put a bit too much information in too little space. This is most marked in the part described from the Indian's perspective. Also, the jumping perspective is rather confusing. I really liked the ending, though.
Re: Short Story II: Lancers
I like it very much. It is very intense.
I do not think that you have a sequence were you tell through the Indian's eyes. It is a bot confusing and interrupts the story. You should have had only one view or two complete streams.
The end is great!
Re: Short Story II: Lancers
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Originally Posted by Franconicus
I like it very much. It is very intense.
I do not think that you have a sequence were you tell through the Indian's eyes. It is a bot confusing and interrupts the story. You should have had only one view or two complete streams.
The end is great!
y'know, i thought the ending was a bit crappy, but i ran out of time! maybe i'll keep it then. i guess i had to put the Indian sequence in to describe the last moments of Custer cos i didn't think it was believable that the main character could have been close enough to see that without being immediately killed. this is an experimental version of a longer story that i plan to write involving not just the two characters already involved but also a descendant of the trooper driving to the battlefield to lay a wreath or something.
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Originally Posted by Ludens
Your attempt at describing the experience of a battle is well-done. However, you do put a bit too much information in too little space. This is most marked in the part described from the Indian's perspective. Also, the jumping perspective is rather confusing. I really liked the ending, though.
agreed. i guess i wanted it confusing and frenetic, just like it must have been for the troopers involved, but it needed more space and development.
thanks a lot guys, your comments have been very useful! ~:cheers:
Re: Short Story II: Lancers
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Originally Posted by matteus the inbred
y'know, i thought the ending was a bit crappy, but i ran out of time! maybe i'll keep it then. i guess i had to put the Indian sequence in to describe the last moments of Custer cos i didn't think it was believable that the main character could have been close enough to see that without being immediately killed. this is an experimental version of a longer story that i plan to write involving not just the two characters already involved but also a descendant of the trooper driving to the battlefield to lay a wreath or something.
Maybe you should build a two stream story then. Tell it from the eyes of the trooper and of an indian. In the end the two streams could meet as the descandent meet at the battle field and become friends or something (maybe they work in the same company, or they fought both in Iraq ...).
Another thought I want to add: Your first story was about the reconquista and the knight was very patriotic, brave etc. as you expect it. In the Custer story the fight was all in vane and useless; just as expected.
Maybe you could add something unexpected. That in the beginning the soldier was full of hope. That he believed in his mission, that he loved the general that he wanted to be promoted.
If the story would become longer you could also add why the soldiers are in the army and what the feelings are. As you wrote, most of them were immigrants. What did they feel when they were ordered to kill indians? Was there discimination within the army? Did they understand what this war was about? ...
Re: Short Story II: Lancers
these are all good ideas, although the descendants meeting thing is maybe a little cheesier (only in my opinion though, i'm quite cynical) than i'm happy writing about. still, i think the 'brother' plot in Lancers was if anything more contrived than that would be!
i guess Custer (and his immediate 'family') represents the reckless, flamboyant side of the US Army at that time...his troopers had ridden all night on the 24th June and were very tired, and probably hated the job or thought it was going to be easy. there's evidence of quite a few desertions prior to and during the action. your point is correct though, nothing very unexpected...i suppose some must have joined for patriotism, most for money and somewhere to sleep and something to eat. i dunno...i'd just finished reading a book on the battle that went through the reburials and condition of the bodies in great detail, and concluded that it was a nasty, brutal, one-sided and pretty sordid affair in the middle of nowhere for no particularly laudible objective (except on the part of the Indians, who were obviously fighting for their way of life). so that was the mood i wrote it in.
i hope i don't sound ungrateful; you've given me plenty to think about and some excellent suggestions, thanks!
Re: Short Story II: Lancers
Quote:
Originally Posted by matteus the inbred
these are all good ideas, although the descendants meeting thing is maybe a little cheesier (only in my opinion though, i'm quite cynical) than i'm happy writing about.
You may be right with the cheese. Maybe you find something else. Maybe you point out that the desc from the winner has to live now as the slave of the desc. of the looser. Maybe the Indian kills the white man. Many options.
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Originally Posted by matteus the inbred
i hope i don't sound ungrateful; you've given me plenty to think about and some excellent suggestions, thanks!
No, not at all. I hope you do not think my proposals are cocky.
Re: Short Story II: Lancers
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Maybe the Indian kills the white man.
hey, that's good, Murder at the Little Bighorn Cemetery! maybe i should turn it into a murder mystery involving one or more descendants...~:idea:
Re: Short Story II: Lancers
Yeah, maybe in the Sam Spade style. Like the Maltese Falcon.:book:
Re: Short Story II: Lancers
I think you took on a bit too large of a event for the amount of space you gave it. You should probably limit your number of view points so that you can devote more time and energy into really fleshing out the ones that matter. Perhaps also limit your scope from the entire battle/battlefield (as the battle was a rather long affair) to a small section and time frame (ie: the last few minutes of a doomed soldier rather than trying to cover the entire battle). You moved too quickly and just skimmed over many details that could have been further developed and give a better tone and atmosphere.
What im trying to say is that i think you tried to do too much and ended up with not enough developement. I think it would be much better if you limited yourself more and really focused on developing that small portion.
I do like your idea and its obvious that you know a good amount on the subject. Overall i think its a good attempt to capture the chaos of the battlefield and i think you do it rather well.
I liked the beggining. In specific i like how you mention the blisters caused by the regulation boots. Its a very nice detail and it helps establish a background of what things are like in the army and what condition the soldiers are in. Although now that i think about it would a cavalry regiment get blisters on their feet? I never thought of them as doing alot of walking.
I like your first story better though simply because you took more time describing a smaller event and because of it did a better job of developing the characters and the plot and setting. It also sounds like the knight is actually telling the story.
Something that i think would work much better than saying to the effect of "and all across the battlefield men were being hacked and killed". I know you didnt say this but im just warning against something to avoid. People prefer gritty details rather than unspecific generalizations. Also people already have a preconcieved notion of what battlefields are like. We've all seen war movies. It also seems to describe the whole battlefield when youre writing from the viewpoint of one soldier. Its much more effective i think to really describe a few choice scenes that represent what is going on throughout the battlefield. In this way you can really describe the specific scene and give it tone and atmosphere and describe the battle as a whole at the same time. If you really show a scene or two of US troops really being overrun then people will extrapolate those scenes in their mind as representations of the battle as a whole and get a sense of the bigger picture.
Again i enjoyed reading what you wrote. I hope my suggestions help you at least a bit. Just some things to think about if nothing else.
Re: Short Story II: Lancers
cheers mate, all very useful comments. i'm definitely going to have to write a bigger version of this one! but principally, i agree, it's a big topic and needed more space, even for a single trooper's 'eye-view' account (and a single Indian).
the nice thing about this particular scrap is that from a certain point it all becomes conjectural as we have no (white) eyewitness accounts, just often contradictory Indian ones (not that this means they can't be truthful as well), so you can really play with it.
Quote:
Although now that i think about it would a cavalry regiment get blisters on their feet? I never thought of them as doing alot of walking.
:embarassed: :laugh4: that's a good point...! maybe he'd lost his horse fairly early on and the boots were really rubbish...gah
some accounts suggest that Custer's men had been riding for 30 hours including a night march by then...i expect his backside would have been pretty sore too!
Re: Short Story II: Lancers
Although now that i think about it would a cavalry regiment get blisters on their feet? I never thought of them as doing alot of walking.
I think they can. If they march long and fast, they have to give the horses a break. Normally the soldiers dismount and march. Now, troopers are not used to walk and their boots were not made for walking!:sweatdrop:
Re: Short Story II: Lancers
Quote:
Originally Posted by Franconicus
Although now that i think about it would a cavalry regiment get blisters on their feet? I never thought of them as doing alot of walking.
I think they can. If they march long and fast, they have to give the horses a break. Normally the soldiers dismount and march. Now, troopers are not used to walk and their boots were not made for walking!:sweatdrop:
ha, thanks Franconicus!
actually, the other bona fide mistake I made was the idea of the sun setting at the end of the battle (penultimate paragraph)...most accounts agree that proceedings at Little Bighorn (although not the Reno/Benteen engagement) were done and dusted by 5pm at the latest...in June. so, not really sunset time!
I claim artistic licence.
