Chapter 22 Divided Ranks
Divided Ranks
The morning broke grey and bitter, the ruins of Guildford still breathing smoke into the low sky.
Frost clung to the blackened timbers, and the air smelt of damp ash.
Elizabeth drew her cloak tighter as she left the tent, the chill striking through her bindings until her ribs ached.
Men moved in subdued silence, some scrubbing the last traces of soot from their faces, others staring hollow-eyed into the embers of dying fires.
At the trumpet’s call, the officers gathered. Major Darcy stood with Captains Bingley, Wilmot, Harcourt, and Lennox at his side, his voice carrying cold and steady over the yard.
“The column will be divided. The wagons remain behind under Harcourt’s command. Wilmot will take the slower companies by the lower road, to rejoin us by Kingston if fortune allows. Captain Lennox will ride ahead with the light cavalry to press the pace. The rest march with me.”
A murmur rippled through the ranks, surprise, unease, even protest, but no man gave it voice. Major Darcy’s expression allowed no argument.
Elizabeth felt William shift beside her, his jaw tightening. “Divide the column?” he muttered low. “If the French turn, we will be caught scattered like sheep.”
“Hush,” Elizabeth said, though her own stomach tightened with the same fear. “He means to move the fighting strength faster. The wounded have delayed us for days. If we reach the river after the French, all is lost.”
Major Darcy’s gaze swept over the men, unflinching. “We march hard. Scouts will carry word between the columns. We cannot hold the river unless we reach it before the enemy. You know your duty. Prepare to march.”
Orders rang out, companies shuffled into their new places, and the air grew thick with tension.
Elizabeth mounted her horse with William, Talbot, and Bell, finding herself once more under Major Darcy’s direct command.
His bearing was as stern as ever, yet she saw how deeply the shadows lay beneath his eyes, how sharply his grief was pressed into discipline.
The column set out. Their numbers felt thinner now, the road emptier. The ruins of Guildford fell away behind them, its broken tower fading into smoke. Ahead the London road stretched straight and unforgiving.
Major Darcy rode at the head, his voice carrying back along the column. “We press on. No halt until Kingston. The French are before us, and we will have them before nightfall.”
A murmur passed through the men, half fear, half grim resolve. Elizabeth felt her mount shift beneath her, restless with the scent of smoke on the wind. She tightened her grip on the reins, her chest aching against its bindings.
William caught her glance, his jaw set. “It will be today,” he said low. “One way or another.”
Elizabeth swallowed hard, unable to answer. The sun was already climbing; by its setting they would meet the enemy.
The column pressed hard along the London road, hooves striking the damp earth in a ceaseless rhythm.
The sun rode pale and cold above them, the smoke of Guildford thinning behind.
Elizabeth’s muscles ached with the pace, every jolt of the saddle grinding against her bindings, but she held her seat, breath measured, eyes fixed forward.
It was near noon when the scouts came racing back, their mounts lathered, eyes wild with urgency. They reined up before Major Darcy, saluting with hands that shook from haste.
“The French, sir, less than an hour ahead on the London road. A full column. They march hard.”
A ripple passed down the line, men leaning in their saddles, words muttered sharp and low. Elizabeth’s pulse leapt. She strained to catch Major Darcy’s reply.
Major Darcy’s gaze swept over the valley, the road, the tree-lined slopes that hemmed them in. His voice was clear, without hesitation. “If we press straight upon them, we spend ourselves before the fight. We must not meet them head-on. We go around.”
The order spread at once, sergeants shouting, officers wheeling their horses. The column bent away from the road, striking across fields where the hedges grew thick and the ground lay rough with the last of the harvest.
Elizabeth’s heart hammered as her horse plunged through furrows and stubble. William urged his mount close beside her. “He means to take them at Kingston. We must be before them at the bridge.”
She nodded, though fear pressed hard at her ribs. Smoke drifted on the air, faint still, but she knew it would thicken before the day was done. By nightfall, London itself might be in reach, or in ruin.
The column bent away from the road, cutting across fields rough with stubble and tangled hedges. Horses laboured through the furrows, breath steaming, hooves striking dull against the earth. Elizabeth urged her mount forward, her pulse quickening with every stride.
Her thoughts turned unbidden to the long hours of drill, the musket weighed in her hands until her arms ached, the flint checked and rechecked, the powder rammed home.
She remembered the sting of failure too: the bruises from being thrown when Wicked unseated her in the training yard, the jeers of men who thought her unfit.
All of it had seemed distant then, something to be endured, endured because it must. Now every lesson burned sharp in her mind, each moment of practice distilled into the knowledge that before this day was out she must act, or fall.
Her horse tossed his head, foam flecking the bit. She leaned forward, stroking his neck with a steadying hand, murmuring low so that only he might hear. The warmth of his hide, the rhythm of his breath, steadied her more than any command.
William urged his mount alongside. “Steady, Thomas,” he said softly, though his jaw was tight. “Save your strength. The day will test us all.”
Elizabeth swallowed, unable to speak. Her fingers lingered against her horse’s mane as though anchoring herself; her gaze fixed on the pale line of the horizon where smoke began once more to stain the sky.
The column pressed on through the rough ground, branches snapping beneath hooves, the line stretching thin across the fields. Elizabeth’s heart drummed as steadily as her mount’s stride, the air sharp in her lungs.
Then, carried faint on the wind, came a sound that stilled her breath. A steady beat, muffled by distance, yet unmistakable, the throb of drums. French drums.
The officers stiffened in their saddles. Men craned their necks, listening, straining, as though the very air might betray the enemy’s strength. The rhythm came again, closer now, followed by a scattered volley that cracked like twigs in the frost.
Scouts galloped in from the flank, their coats splashed high with mud, faces drawn. They pulled up before Major Darcy, saluting sharply, their voices quick with urgency.
“The French column is no more than a mile away, sir. They march for the bridge at Kingston. Their numbers are strong.”
A murmur rippled through the men, low and tense. William’s jaw set as he leaned nearer to Elizabeth. “It will be there, then. At the bridge.”
Elizabeth tightened her grip on the reins, her horse’s mane coarse beneath her fingers. Smoke drifted thicker on the horizon, and her chest ached with the certainty of it. The day had come.
The column pressed through the rough fields, breath steaming in the chill air, hooves striking dull against the stubble. Elizabeth leaned low, her hand against her horse’s neck, murmuring steadying words. He tossed his head and snorted, white breath flaring in the cold.
The sound carried farther than she expected. In the tense stillness of the march, it seemed deafening. Elizabeth’s stomach clenched.
Moments later, the crack of a musket split the air. Shouts rose ahead, sharp and guttural. French voices.
The men around her stiffened. William’s head snapped toward her, eyes narrowed, though he said nothing. Elizabeth’s pulse pounded. Had it been her horse? Her careless hand? The thought seared through her, that by some misstep, she had betrayed them all.
Major Darcy’s voice cut through at once, firm and commanding. “Forward. Line by companies. Scouts to the flank. We are seen.”
The column surged into order, no hesitation, no reproach. Yet Elizabeth felt her face burn as though every man knew, every glance judged her. She pressed her teeth hard into her cheek, forcing her hands steady on the reins. Whether her fault or no, the moment could not be undone.
And before the day was out, she would have to prove herself, or fall.
“Scouts to the town,” Major Darcy commanded, his voice carrying like iron. “Sound the alarm. Clear the streets, drive the people south. Every cart, every beam, every barrel brought to the bridge mouth. Go!”
The riders spurred off at once, hooves striking sparks as they vanished into the lanes.
Moments later, bells clamoured harsh and uneven, striking panic into the air.
Shouts rose, thin at first, then swelling as townsfolk poured from their houses, women clutching infants and leading young children; old men bent double; older children staggering beneath bundles of bread or pots.
The street filled with chaos, a tide of fear surging southward even as soldiers pressed forward to meet the enemy.
Elizabeth’s throat tightened. The sight was too near to Longbourn, too near to Meryton’s quiet lanes. She gripped her reins until her knuckles whitened, her horse tossing beneath her at the din.
“Forward companies, with me,” Major Darcy called, spurring toward the bridge. “Bingley, hold your men in readiness. Wilmot’s reserve will take the rear when they arrive.”