The Queen's Tiger

by Peter Watt

  Ian was jerked awake by the sound of an exploding mortar bomb as the first rays of the sun touched his face. He leapt to his feet, scooping up his pistols and rifle. When he looked to the shore he could see the smoke rising from the enemy fortifications. The battle had begun.

  Four

  ‘Fix bayonets!’

  Ian roared out the order above the din of the exploding mortar bombs and the sound of the long deadly bayonet blades clicking as they were twisted into place at the end of the Enfields. Very soon they would be storming ashore, shouting defiance at the entrenched enemy, and Ian knew it was inevitable that many of his men would fall to the enemy’s musket balls before they could get close enough to wreak havoc in hand-to-hand fighting.

  For the moment the flotilla of British paddle-steamer warships continued to pound the formidable entrenched positions of the Persians. The Persian artillery batteries responded with a hail of solid cannonballs that ripped into the British warships.

  As he stood on the deck of the troopship, his sword at his hip, his two revolvers tucked in leather holsters and his bayonet-tipped Enfield gripped in his hand, Ian noted vaguely that it was a clear and temperate day with a gentle breeze. It was too nice a day to die. When he looked up and down the river he could see the colourful flags flying from the masts of the warships and thought that it could have easily been a regatta day – except for the explosions threatening both Persian and English soldiers. The river was glittering under a rising sun and the smoke from the naval guns drifted gently in the air.

  On the riverbank Ian saw colourfully dressed Persian horsemen riding between the groves of date palms. He heard the heavy thumps of trunks hitting the earth as the naval shells smashed into the trees. Ian’s men were crouching on the deck with grim faces. No doubt each man was pondering the fate that awaited him when they finally went ashore to engage the Persian infantry hidden behind their carefully prepared earthen parapets. What was reassuring to Ian was that the naval bombardment was slowly reducing the defences. For three hours the cannonade continued. In that time Ian relaxed, drew on his pipe and puffed smoke that curled away in a lazy cloud. He was joined by Sergeant Conan Curry, who also took out his battered pipe and lit it.

  ‘It reminds me a bit of the Redan,’ Conan said.

  ‘But this time we have the navy providing artillery support,’ Ian replied. ‘All we have to do is wait for the navy boys to do their job smashing holes in their defences. Make sure the men have a good supply of water in their canteens and drink as much as they can now before we disembark. It is going to be thirsty work.’

  ‘Will do, sir,’ Conan answered. ‘I notice that the Persian guns are going a bit quiet.’

  Ian could see that the fire from the shore had slackened off and that their ship was altering course to disembark them a few hundred yards north of the Persian artillery guns. The point of landing was relatively clear of date trees, although swampy and intersected by creeks that clearly filled at high tide. Scattered musket shots covered the landing point and Ian watched as the fierce Scottish Highlander infantry – accompanied by grenadiers – poured ashore.

  ‘Riflemen! Time to go ashore!’ Ian yelled to his men.

  He felt the mud grip his boots as he clambered from the troopship, followed by Conan and the rest of the company. Very little musket fire met them as the enemy skirmishers fell back at the advance of the British troops while the company slogged its way through the mud, relatively safe from enemy fire for the moment.

  The order came down from General Outram’s HQ that the company was to form a defensive ring to protect the British artillery being offloaded to provide support to the infantry. By mid-afternoon this was completed and the rising tide was filling the muddy creeks of the landing place. It was time to move. Ian was pleased to be with his company in the advance on the main Persian camp beyond a date grove on the riverbank.

  En route, the company was fired on, but the musketry fire proved ineffective. From time to time Ian ordered his men to engage an enemy target, and the result was a string of dead Persians off to their flank, having foolishly exposed themselves to the lethally accurate Enfield fire.

  The order was passed down to Ian that the infantry were to halt at the edge of the date grove. General Outram rode past Ian’s company and Ian saluted him. The general returned the salute, calling out, ‘Damned fine work by your men, Captain Forbes,’ before continuing his reconnoitre of the enemy camp now clearly visible to the advancing British and Indian troops. The general sent forward troopers of the Scinde Horse to get a closer look. His military secretary who had gone with the Indian unit reported back that there were two camps on either side of a village and the Persians had drawn up their army into a formidable force to resist the advance. Even as he reported, the men with Outram’s expedition could still hear the navy guns firing in the distance at a few remaining Persian guns.

  A rider came to Ian, who was smoking his pipe and leaning on his rifle.

  ‘Captain Forbes, General Outram would request that your company be used as skirmishers in our advance on the enemy encampments.’

  The young lieutenant delivering the message was breathless with fear and excitement and Ian suspected that this was his first action.

  ‘Inform General Outram that my men will be in place within ten minutes.’

  The young officer saluted, wheeled his horse around and galloped away.

  Ian called in his officers and senior NCOs to instruct them on their role in the advance. It was a quick briefing and the orders then delivered to each and every soldier. Under command of the junior officers the riflemen deployed to the front of the line arranged for the attack. Each rifleman moved forward, selecting any cover he could find, always ready to pick off an enemy target.

  Ian had placed himself just behind his line of skirmishers with Conan at his side. They could clearly see the Persian troops opposite them prepared for battle near the town of Mohammerah. British artillery had been sent to their flank to provide cover fire, and the assault forces was composed of a combination of British and Indian infantry.

  General Outram had chosen to initially attack the encampment to the left rear of the village where his opposite, the Shah-zadeh, had the bulk of his artillery and cavalry. It was obvious that the British general knew he must knock out the Persian’s most potent weapons before taking on their infantry in the second encampment about five hundred yards to the right, where groves of date trees provided some cover for the Persians.

  Ian gazed at the distant target and felt a knot in his stomach. They were to advance across an open plain. This would be the time they were most vulnerable and it was possible many of his skirmishers might die.

  Bugles and drums signalled the advance, and Ian stepped forward, his rifle across his chest as his own company moved well forward of the red squares of the vastly outnumbered advancing British troops.

  ‘Tell Molly that I died well this day,’ Conan mumbled as he and Ian trudged forward, acutely aware that they would probably be the first to die when the enemy commenced firing. Ian was very aware of the love that existed between the colonial Irishman and the pretty Welsh girl. Molly was the sister of Owen Williams; a bright, educated young woman who had invested her brother’s money – as well as Conan’s – into a very successful confectionary shop in London.

  ‘You bloody well tell her yourself,’ Ian replied, staring at the mass of waiting enemy still holding their fire. Range was all-important to the much shorter-range enemy muskets, and Ian was pleased to hear the occasional crack of one of his riflemen opportunistically firing at a target.

  Before the advancing British formations, the Shah’s army seemed to dissolve. They could see the Persians fleeing the front lines, throwing away their arms in their haste to make their retreat faster.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Conan swore, hardly believing his eyes. ‘The bastards are running away when they had the best opportunity to defeat
us in our advance!’

  A strange thought went through Ian’s mind that it was, indeed, too nice a day to die.

  ‘Conan, spread the word to the skirmishers to keep a lookout for landmines,’ he said, aware that the Persians often buried casks of gunpowder with protruding metal tubes that when stood on fired a charge into the powder. He had witnessed the devastating effect of such hidden weapons in the Crimea.

  Suddenly there was a massive explosion from within the Persian camp and the shock wave almost blew Ian off his feet. A thick column of smoke rose into the blue skies and he guessed that the fleeing Persians had detonated their reserves of ammunition. The British squares continued the advance until they were inside the rows of tents. The desert earth was strewn with muskets, small-arms ammunition, bedding, carpets, saddlery, band instruments and even half-eaten meals. Amongst the debris of war were a few unexploded British artillery shells. Very few Persian wounded remained and it appeared that most of the wounded had been carried away or had sought refuge in the nearby village.

  General Outram would not rest until he had finally cornered the Persian army and brought them to the point of surrender. He ordered his units to continue the pursuit, leaving the Persian camp behind. Outram despatched his Scinde cavalry to track the path of retreat but they returned to report that the enemy were fleeing so fast that only cavalry reinforcements had any hope of catching them.

  The order was given to camp for the night, which proved to be bitterly cold in the open. Neither soldier nor officer had tents, and after looking to the welfare of his junior officers and their men, Ian huddled by a small fire that Conan had been able to make. A tin pot boiled water for a much-anticipated cup of hot tea. They were joined by Corporal Owen Williams, who was offered a spare mug.

  ‘We never had the chance to go through the Persian’s camp for any loot,’ Owen complained.

  ‘No doubt the local villagers have done the job already,’ Conan added, sipping his black tea and adding a good dose of sugar to sweeten it.

  ‘You are both alive, that has to be a consolation,’ Ian said, poking at the small fire as if attempting to extract more heat from it. ‘This war is not over and we might run into a rear-guard defence by the Persians. They still outnumber us.’

  ‘What I wouldn’t give right now to be back in that pub near the barracks with an ale and a big meal of Yorkshire pudding by the log fire,’ Conan sighed.

  ‘You forgot to mention Molly on your lap,’ Ian grinned, knowing that his friend had promised the pretty Welsh woman that he would marry her when his term of enlistment was up.

  Conan glanced at Owen, a hint of self-consciousness visible on his face in the flickering shadows of the campfire. ‘That, too,’ he said quietly.

  ‘You had better do the right thing by my sister, boyo,’ Owen said good-naturedly.

  Rank and class did not exist around this small campfire under the Persian night sky. These were three friends bound by blood and war.

  ‘What do you think General Outram and Brigadier Havelock plan to do next?’ Conan asked.

  ‘If I were them, I would continue to pursue the Persians upriver until they sue for peace,’ Ian replied. ‘We have a formidable flotilla of warships, and from what I have gleaned the enemy has a well-fortified position on the river at Akwaz.’

  Conan nodded, trusting Ian’s knowledge of military tactics and strategy.

  In the darkness a jackal yipped its call and the three men settled into the comfort of their companionship and small campfire.

  *

  When the sun rose over the desert the order was given to return to the town of Mohammerah and occupy the abandoned Persian camp. By day Ian’s company took shelter under the shade of the date palms, but they moved camp to the desert at night to avoid the malarial waterways. They moved between diurnal swarms of annoying flies and nocturnal clouds of biting sandflies. Ian had to release many of his company to guard private property in the town, which at least garnered respect from the local inhabitants who had expected their homes to be looted and burned to the ground. Nonetheless, the British army had acquired great stores of grain, a good amount of ammunition and some cannons left behind by the retreating Persian army. However the stench of unburied Persian soldiers mixed with the other pungent smells around the town, so it was not a pleasant place to be.

  Mohammerah was located at the junction of the Karoon and Euphrates rivers and was a filthy mud-bricked settlement with a large bazaar. Its only redeeming feature was the governor’s house with its well-maintained gardens. The town was surrounded by a patchwork of swamp and cultivated farmland. Beyond the village was an endless horizon of flat desert. The river was the lifeblood of the people, who lived as they had for thousands of years. Throughout the day the British and Indian troops heard the routine call to prayer from the tall minarets of the mosques.

  Ian had a chance to tour the town and was impressed by the variety of fruit trees in the governor’s garden. He saw apple, mulberry, plantain and pomegranate trees side by side and noticed a small boy selling the fruit by the road. Ian guessed the boy had used the confusion of the fighting to raid the orchards, and admired his enterprise. Ian purchased a basket of mixed fruits for distribution amongst his troops and determined to send back a party of his men with money to purchase more so that each man would have at least one piece of fruit.

  Ian had been tasked with carrying out a review of the Persian defences, accompanied by a villager who had a good grasp of English. The old man had once worked in the lucrative local trading houses when goods from India had poured into the town. Conan also went with Ian, as well as a platoon under the command of Lieutenant Sinclair. They crossed to the right bank to examine the earthen ramparts the Persians had erected and came across three dead horses still harnessed to a capsized gun carriage. The bodies were bloated and decomposing, covered in clouds of evil-looking flies. Beside the carnage lay four human bodies with massive injuries, and it was apparent that an English naval shell had found its mark, taking out the gun crew. Ian recognised the rank of captain on one of the corpses and knelt down to search his stretched uniform, maggots falling onto the sandy desert as he did so. He slipped a letter out of one of the pockets and passed it to his interpreter.

  ‘What does it say?’ Ian asked as his men stood upwind of the foul stench of death.

  The interpreter scanned the letter. ‘The man writes that he might die in the great battle to come, and wishes that his brother in Tehran look after his wife and children if that happens.’ He passed the letter back to Ian, pointing out a forwarding address.

  ‘Sergeant, see that this letter is passed on to brigade HQ for posting,’ Ian ordered.

  Conan frowned. ‘Yes, sah. It will be done.’

  The party spent the rest of the day moving amongst the shattered bodies of their enemy. Arms, legs, decapitated heads and entrails lay scattered around them as they continued the review of the defences on the riverbanks. It was not a day Ian wanted to repeat, and that night he prayed that the advance would continue and put some distance between them and this obscene place of death. He had made the same prayer when he was in the Crimea.

  Over the next couple of days, the expeditionary force of British and Indian troops went about the business of landing more stores, including tents. The work kept the men of Ian’s company busy whilst General Outram planned his next move. As Ian had predicted, the fortified town of Akwaz, on the river upstream, was his objective.

  Ian’s company was to board the steam warships allocated the task of taking the town by force of arms. This time it appeared the enemy was going to make a determined stand and Ian knew that his company’s bayonets would be stained red in the battle to come. He also knew that many would likely be killed and wounded, and the faces of his soldiers boarding the Indian navy ships showed that they knew it too.

  Ian had little interest in the politics of campaigning. All he knew of their re
ason for being in Persia was that an emir in the Afghan province of Herat had rebelled against the occupying Persians and, with the support of the Kabul emirate, had appealed to the British in India for support. He knew, too, that the reasons for war were complex and varied. What really mattered to Ian was that God was on their side – and the Enfield rifled musket.

  Five

  There had been an air of unspoken tension between Alice and her husband since his return. It annoyed Alice as she knew she had nothing to feel guilty about. She had remained loyal to Peter, although she had to admit that Scott flirted with her whenever he had the opportunity.

  The endless round of tea parties, visits to the homes of influential families of the East India Company and afternoons spent under the shady trees of the villa garden were becoming boring. It was as if she was still in England, albeit with an unfamiliar world beyond the gates.

  One way to break the boredom was to visit the local markets where the colourful mix of people and cultures never failed to fascinate Alice. Whenever she took a trip to the markets Scott had insisted that one of his troopers accompany her to keep away the riffraff that loitered to pick pockets or even rob the wealthy – Indian mostly, English rarely through fear of the severe reprisals that might follow.

  Alice had planned such a trip today and was waiting impatiently at the spacious residence for her escort, who had failed to arrive at the designated time. Peter was away treating some of the poorer residents of the Bengali town, so apart from the servants going about their daily chores, the house was deserted. Alice impulsively decided to go to the markets on her own. After all, she had looked into the eyes of a tiger and defeated the great and magnificent beast.

  Parasol aloft, Alice made her way out of her relatively safe neighbourhood dominated by European homes. After several wrong turns she eventually found herself in the marketplace crowded with vendors selling everything from local produce to imported silks. A man sat cross-legged playing a musical instrument Alice did not recognise whilst a deadly cobra appeared to sway to the rhythm of the music. Alice stopped for a moment to watch in fascination at the seeming bravado of the turbaned man in the loincloth and dropped a couple of coins at his feet, carefully keeping her distance from the hooded snake. She approached a stall festooned with colourful silks and began looking through them. Gradually she became aware that the mood of the people around her seemed unusually sullen. A man bumped into her roughly and growled something in a language she did not understand. Others in the marketplace cast angry looks at her. Something had changed since her last visit and she experienced a twinge of unease.