Page 2 of The General's Gift
Hawk raised his glass. Below, the enemy flank stretched longer than their intelligence had suggested. Out of the dust, a column of cuirassiers emerged, their breastplates flashing like a thousand mirrors, the crests of their helmets catching fire from the Spanish sun. Behind them, infantry bristled in tight formation, tall bearskins rising like a wall above the bayonets. Three Frenchmen for every two of his. Two guns for every one. And the way they cheered their horsemen was enough to make any recruit wish himself back in Bond Street, safe and unblooded.
Hawk lowered the glass, jaw tight. “Your ghost had better intelligence than us.”
Just then, his aide-de-camp, Lieutenant Graves, reined in hard beside Hawk and held out a missive, sealed in blue wax.
“A courier, sir. From the French.”
Hawk had once seen Graves take a bayonet to the ribs, stagger to his feet, and steady a crumbling line before bleeding out in the surgeon’s tent—only to ride the next day. Graves never blinked at odds. Which made his silence now… deafening.
Hawk took the message and broke the seal.
To the Commander of the British Flanking Force: You are surrounded by superior numbers. For the sake of your wounded, we offer honorable terms of capitulation. Refuse, and we cannot be responsible for what follows.
Général de division De Lapp.
Capitulation.
The word swam in his stomach like black oil until he thought he would vomit. Heat surged up his neck, yet his hands were ice on the reins. Hawk saw himself on his knees, the saber torn from his hand and laid at an enemy’s feet. Saw the 13th stripped of their colors, their faces hollow with defeat.
The French and his own regiment would see him broken. In shame.
Hawk crushed the letter, then let it fall into the mud, where it belonged.
No surrender. Anything but that.
Hawk lifted the spyglass to one eye. The French left flank was overextended, weighted by supply wagons near the low ridge. Between those wagons and the ravine mouth, there was a patch of churned earth where a creek had flooded and dried, leaving a hardened shelf of earth. There—God above, there it is. A gap. Small as a needle’s eye, but enough.
He could take two squadrons, and strike there. While the grenadiers hit the front, the 13th would tear through the gut of their flank like a blade. A pincer. It was a gamble. But surrender was not an option.
Behind him, the officers waited. Hawk turned in the saddle and raised his voice so that every man in the 13th Light Dragoons could hear him.
“Soldiers, the enemy wants us to lay down our arms. But the 13th are not prisoners. We were born for the charge. For the clash of steel. For glory. The 13th has never surrendered. Not in Flanders. Not in India. Not in Portugal. And not today. If any believes bowing to the French is an option—dismount now.”
The ridge held its breath. Not one man moved.
“Good,” Hawk said, his voice dropping to a growl. “The Hawk never yields. And neither will his men. Ride with me—and tonight, glory herself will remember your names. To arms!”
Cheers split the air, and sabers rattled, the sound rolling like thunder across the line.
“Graves,” Hawk said, “I want two squadrons mounted and ready to ride light. Stripped kits. Full blades. They’ll take the creek. Tell Quartermaster Ferris I’ll have his head if a single hoof stumbles on that descent.”
“Aye, sir.” Graves thundered down the line, shouting for captains and formation leaders.
Hawk turned to Philip. “Order your grenadiers into position. We’ll draw them to you while the 13th moves to gut their flank.”
His friend didn’t move. “Only if you give me your word.”
Hawk’s spine stiffened. “This is not the bloody time for ghost stories.”
“This isn’t a story.”
Hawk’s eyes flicked to the battlefield. The moment was upon them. If he hesitated now, the next morning would see them in a French pen.
Hawk exhaled hard through his nose. “We survive this day, I’ll listen to all your premonitions over brandy.”
Philip didn’t smile. He reached into his coat and pulled out a small pouch, cinched tight with a black ribbon.
“What the hell is that?”
