Jack’s eyes momentarily glazed over like kitchen-window glass frosted by winter’s breath. His mind was not yet ready to accept the violence to which he had just awoken. He leaned against a massive timber post for support and allowed his mind to wander away from the chaos around him. He was once again a carefree boy of seven, assuming command of an army of noble cavalrymen and valiant musketeers scattered around the sand mound overlooking the fields that ran endlessly towards the distant unseen borders of the family’s estate. He was a fearless and seasoned commander, loved and respected by the motionless toy troops stationed about him. His father’s people, who tilled and worked in the surrounding rolling paddocks of wheat and rye, were the make-believe enemy. Safe in his puerile and perfect world, he slipped away into countless conflicts and endless hours of playful stratagems and bloodless campaigns. His silent and fiercely loyal men went where he dictated without question. The heavy, battle-scarred helmet belonging to Jack’s father covered the boy’s milky curls as he manoeuvred his troops into positions of the greatest advantage among the folds of sand in which he sat. He would adjust the helmet as it frequently slipped down over his striking blue eyes. He had never lost a single battle. He was invincible. He could not die.
Nearby, oppressive musketry fire eventually shook Jack rudely and reluctantly away from his halcyon nostalgic reminiscence and dragged his mind back to brutal reality. His glassy eyes slowly focused on the scenes of war engulfing him. He smiled surreptitiously, mouthing the words he had often repeated as a young general in the sandpit: I cannot be beaten.
Their first assault had come shortly after initial light. Repeated cannon shots ruthlessly battered the thick and obstinate walls, the gunners probing for weaknesses. Defending troops had been ordered to occupy the battlements, and a company was assigned to protect each of the three main gates, which had been immediately barred and heavily braced. The guns on the walls continued to return fire, but the main body of the enemy’s cavalry and infantry had been installed safely beyond range. The obdurate defenders were like granite, as dogged as Pilsen’s walls. Smoke wafted across the intervening countryside, carrying with it the smell of acrid gunpowder and sulphur. Eventually the cannon fusillade gave way to sporadic volleys of musket fire, the guns’ barrels cooling in the chilly autumn air as the attacking force advanced in preselected squares. Drummers sounded the beat, and pikemen, supported by musketeers, marched forward in lines with scaling ladders. There was clearly no point sending in a cavalry charge; the infantry units were given the responsibility of taking the city.
It was now early afternoon on 20 September 1618. The attackers, beaten off repeatedly, had earlier withdrawn their main force to a safe distance to allow an initial sequence of gun bombardment to dampen the Imperialists’ spirit. Jack had been knocked senseless and his comrade crushed during the barrage. A cannon shot had clipped the roof of the corner tower on the south-eastern city wall, raining masonry and heavy timbers down around them. Jack had been taking aim at an enemy soldier on a ladder, but the exploding debris knocked the pistol from his hand and showered him with detritus, a tile hitting his shoulder and knocking him unconscious to the ground. The splintering of the disintegrating structure had temporarily deafened him.
Dusting off his tunic and breeches, Jack made his way to a small group of defending musketeers intent on their fight from the battlements a short distance away. Their intermittent shooting, although deadly and accurate, had little effect in staunching the approaching enemy’s rush. Senior in rank to all of them, Jack barked at them to muster to his side. The musketeers were confused at first, but they bustled to congregate around him when he raised his rapier, holding it above his head like a rallying beacon, and repeated his intentions with a peremptory roar, his commands booming over the chaos.
Checking his drawn pistol as he ran ahead, Jack led them to a section of the defences where the wall embrasure had been pounded partially away, leaving a yawning gap. He shunned complacency and always considered the impossible. This would be the perfect emplacement, he judged propitiously, to make an initial stand. Ordering the musketeers into two ranks of four, Jack directed them to reload. He pointed with his outstretched sword to a designated score of attackers advancing about thirty paces away from the base of the wall and commanded the front rank to aim and fire. Before the pungent smoke cleared away, he yelled for the front rank to move behind the second row and reload, the rear rank now taking the firing line with another effective volley at the oncoming group. Jack had no time for fear. As always, his fear quickly wore away into resolve.
Although Jack’s throat was hoarse from shouting and dry from the choking smoke, his orders to fire resulted in the decimation of the advancing party. It was a simple, logical manoeuvre, yet devastatingly effective. He took aim himself at one point, firing his pistol and hitting the leading officer in the shoulder. Finally the demoralised group scattered like disorderly rabble, with only two enemy soldiers managing to escape unhurt, nursing three others with them. Yet there was more to be done. Ignoring the nagging ache in his head and buoyed by his group’s success, Jack directed his squad of eight to reload while assessing their next action and seeking the most effective striking position. Aware of sporadic enemy fire, the band took advantage of whatever cover was available.
“What is your name, soldier?” Jack asked, shouting over the din at the man closest to him after studying the group.
The old, craggy soldier adjusted his grey cap and turned his argentine eyes to face him.
“Chauvin, sir. Corporal Alain Chauvin,” the man replied respectfully in French.
“Well, Chauvin, take this fine crew of lads to where that broken wooden buttress spans the rampart,” Jack engaged the man’s attention with a pointing finger. “Scatter them into four tight pairs around that segment of wall, making sure that they remain concealed behind the merlons to maximise their cover. You may be aware that the enemy has muskets as well, and a few know how to shoot them,” he beamed with a broad, cheeky grin.
“Have them fire at those who are closest and advancing towards the scaling ladders, and ensure that every shot finds its mark. I’ll go back down to the bailey and return with every available bandolier and shot pouch as soon as I can,” Jack continued, blaring above the furore and stared into the man’s face until Chauvin nodded confirmation. Still smiling, Jack added loud enough for the whole group to hear, “And Chauvin, as you’re in charge, don’t get yourself killed, or I’ll shoot you myself!”
The corporal smiled back agreeably and warranted in an emphatic tone, “Yes sir. I’ll be here when you return.”
“Then go!” shouted Jack, jerking his head involuntarily as a musket ball suddenly whistled within inches of his ear and struck the nearest tile above. The group members, bent to provide the smallest visible target, moved off in a single line to the nominated point with Chauvin encouraging them from the rear.
Jack treaded gingerly to the nearest parapet staircase and glanced back at his little band before descending the rubble-strewn steps one at a time from the rampart to the yard below. As he looked up, he could see that the French musketeers had taken squatting positions behind the cover of the broken battlements and had begun firing carefully at menacing targets beyond the walls. He sheathed his sword while shoving his empty pistol into the back of his belt and moved methodically from one body to another with his baselard, slashing or pulling the leather bandoliers free and draping them over his shoulder. He also searched the dead for pouches containing lead shot, filling his pockets. He found an unfired musket and two pistols and pocketed a collapsible, leather telescope that he’d discovered from inside the tunic of a dead officer. His mouth was like parched sand, and his bladder pressured him although he’d emptied it minutes earlier. Calculating that he had been away long enough, Jack returned at a steady trot up the steps to his little band on the walls, the pain in his legs and shoulder now a distant memory.
The group was firing progressively, although Chauvin pointed to one dead Frenchman, who had taken a lead ball in the