"A bold swimmer might spy it out!" was the suggestion of one aide-de-camp.
Nigel had thought of it; but for a man to go into that icy and turbulent water was to meet certain death, even were he roped. He would be numbed before he could see anything, or shot by some of the Swedes, who doubtless lay securely along their higher bank.
A boat, a raft, anything that floated on the surface would be a mark. No! There was but one way, to wait till the bridge workers had advanced to mid-river and then shatter their handiwork. But with what engine? Nigel had discovered that the guns of the Swedes from their slightly higher elevation commanded all the available pieces of Count Tilly, raking the Imperial entrenchments with a desolating precision.
Yet a reply had to be made. Every officer that could be spared was busy encouraging the gunners to face the enemy and load their pieces, sponge, ladle in the powder, ram home the fresh charges, with the certainty that here and there along the line a great ball would come, smashing backs and limbs, or terrifying the manhood out of their veins.
Again and yet again Nigel himself would snatch the rammer from a trembling wretch and ram home the charge: would point the gun, wedging it up to get the greater height needed. It was desperate work. And his two aides worked like him, shirking nothing.
A little change in the breeze and he saw where the Swedish engineers, working like men possessed, pushed out the bridge a few planks at a time, fastening them to pontoons which others rolled down to them. Now he knew his direction, and five of his guns were trained directly on to the growing bridge. But scarcely had they dropped their first hustling load of round-shot than a furious cannonade of the Swedes put the whole five out action. No gunners' bravery availed, or could avail. It was tempting useless slaughter.
Then Nigel led down files of musketeers from the entrenchment and disposed them along the banks to scare away the workers, but the enemy did likewise, and so harassed the musketeers that few of their shots reached a mark at all.
All along the banks on either side the battle raged in some sort. Mainly it was an affair of cannon-balls, but wherever musketry could be expected to make an impression Tilly ordered his men forward, exposing himself to the continual cannon fire. But everywhere the Swedes made the greater havoc, though the position, if resolutely defended, was still impregnable, and the Imperialists became more and more depressed.
The bridge crept out another yard. It could be seen how Gustavus was bringing up a fresh picked body of his veterans, Swedes all of them, calm, resolute, bearded men, bronzed and scarred with many a fight, ready for the rush across that would herald the hand-to-hand fighting that would follow.
Nigel hated the suspense. He longed for the moment when he could lead down his musketeers and pikemen to the crash of the charge. And yet was it wise to wait? Could nothing be done?