'Not yet, Sergeant,' Jack remembered Colonel Maxwell's patrol; he had no desire to shoot into British soldiers.
He peered forward. The mist swirled around, distorting vision, making a mockery of distance, altering perceptions of sound and space. There might be ten thousand Russians out there, or there might be ten. He drew a deep breath to try and control the racing of his heart.
'Can anybody see anything?' He asked quietly.
'I can see bloody mist,' Coleman said.
'Nothing, sir,' O'Hara said.
The noises increased, the sound of feet scuffing on the ground, the rustle of men passing through the tangle of oak trees, the rattle of equipment, a subdued murmur as of a thousand men talking quietly among themselves. Jack heard the confident bark of an order, and then a stronger gust of wind blew a clearing in the mist.
'Sweet Mary Mother of God!' O'Hara said, 'it's the whole Russian Army!'
The mist had hidden their advance until they were within two hundred yards of the Fatal Redoubt. Led by proud officers and with colours displayed in front, they marched slowly, hampered by the rough terrain and the small trees, but they moved with purpose and determination.
Unlike the helmet-wearing infantry of the Alma, these grey-clad men had flat, muffin-style caps on their head. They came forward remorselessly in two dense columns, rank after rank after rank with each step bringing them closer to the Fatal Redoubt. As Jack watched, the colours flopped in the mist and then wavered as a gust of wind caught them, opening the brave flags out.
'Present,' Jack heard the nervousness in his voice. He cleared his throat. 'Present!' he knew he did not need to give such precise orders: his men knew what to do. Their duty was plain: they were here to defeat the Russian Army, and here it was, marching toward them in all its panoply and glory.
'Wait,' Jack said. He knew that the Minie had a longer range and greater accuracy than the old Brown Bess, but he wanted to ensure that the first volley would make an impact. 'O'Neill and O'Hara: aim for the officers. All the rest of you, shoot into the brown.'
He judged the distance: one hundred and eighty yards; one hundred and seventy. The Russians were close enough for him to make out facial features now; they were no longer a mass of uniforms but men most remarkably like these he commanded here.
'Fire,' he said quietly, and then louder: 'fire!'
The first volley of the Minies ripped into the massive column. Men fell; one of the officers in front staggered, recovered and bravely carried on, gesturing to his men. With the unseen musketry taking them by surprise, the head of both Russian columns wavered.
'Fire,' Jack said again. He had twenty men to stand against a Russian force of what seemed many thousand; this would be a very short encounter. As the British rifles fired, a cloud of Russian skirmishers broke into a run toward them. Moving faster than the columns, they were making good progress when a second British force appeared through the mist and took them on the flank. A volley ran out, smashing into skirmishers and the left-hand column alike.
'Who was that?' O'Neill asked as the skirmishers hesitated.
'I have no idea. Fire at will!' Jack allowed his men latitude. That way the faster would not be hampered by the slower or less experienced. He saw the skirmishers turn back as the Minie bullets took savage effect, ripping through men, flattening with contact with bone to spread and cause hideous wounds, tearing great holes in skulls or blowing off arms and legs. With every moment the Russian columns came closer, but correspondingly they became more vulnerable to the British fire so that the powerful Minie bullets were passing through the leading man to kill or injure the man behind him.
'We're slaughtering them,' Logan said and unleashed one of his incomprehensible Glaswegian slogans.
'They're getting very close,' Thorpe glanced behind him as if measuring the distance back to the main British lines.
That second British party rose from cover and unleashed rolling volleys on the Russian skirmishers, sending the survivors scurrying back to the columns. There were about thirty of them, tall Guardsmen in uniforms that seemed immaculate despite the conditions.
'You don't mind if we join you, do you, Lieutenant?' The captain in charge was debonair and very calm. 'Goodlake, Coldstream Guards.'
'Join us by all means, sir,' Jack said. 'Jack Windrush, late of the 113th, now of the 118th.'
'Good man, Windrush.' Goodlake indicated his men. 'We've been roving all over these Inkerman Heights doing whatever damage we can.' He raised his voice. 'Keep firing, Guards!'
Still vastly outnumbered, the reinforced British of the Fatal Redoubt increased their fire, watching the leading ranks of the Russians tumble down, and others take their place in a never-ending procession of grey uniforms that advanced through the mist. They appeared like giants stepping over their dead and wounded to get at this minuscule pocket of British resistance.
'There's plenty of them,' Jack said. He had emptied his revolver without realising it and now reloaded, fumbling the fat brass cartridges with a shaking hand.
'More than you realise, Windrush. I think. I would say that the Russians have sent Soimonoff and Pauloff's armies against us, one army on either side of the Quarry Ravine. Of course, it's too early to tell yet for sure.' Goodlake reloaded his revolver. 'You're not falling back, I see?'
'No sir,' Jack said. 'I have orders to hold on here.'
'Good man. Death or glory eh?' Goodlake fired at the Russians, now only forty yards away. 'It should not be long now before it's the former. I'd get my men to fix bayonets if I were you: except that pugnacious little fellow there; he seems ready to take on the whole of Russia himself.'
Logan was kneeling on the lip of the breastwork, bayonet already in place, shouting obscenities as he fired and reloaded with an enthusiasm Jack had never seen before.
'Logie!' That was Riley, looking after his friend, 'get back down you stupid bugger!'
'He will soon have to,' Jack said. He glanced along the breastwork. His 113th and 118th were firing steadily, while the Guards were acting like Guardsmen always acted; disciplined, unemotional, exact, unhurried. Perfect soldiers. Compared to the approaching masses their numbers were nothing; the Russians should roll over them without thought. Indeed, they did not even break formation but marched on, absorbing their losses with apparent impunity.
'Here they come,' Goodlake murmured. Transferring his revolver to his left hand, he drew his sword. 'It has been an honour to fight alongside you, Windrush.'
Thousands strong, the Russians marched like some steam-powered machine, stepping over their dead with the colours hanging limply above them and the men chanting something; no, Jack realised, they were singing something. A hymn! They were singing a hymn as they marched to kill and be killed.
'Bayonets, lads! Over the parapet and at them.'
Jack knew it was hopeless; there were too few British, too many Russians. He would die here at Fatal Redoubt, never having achieved success, never having regained his reputation or position back, never having known love except for these few kisses from Helen.
He heard the click as practised hands pressed bayonets into place, and then there were more men, another order from a familiar voice: 'Stand fast 118th! Keep your heads down lads!' Immediately after came the ear-splitting thunder of a volley from a regiment of British infantry.
The entire front three rows of the Russian column were thrown back by the fusillade of bullets, and some men behind them staggered and fell. Others turned away or held hands up to their face as if to deflect the bullets.
'Fire!' Jack roared. 'Fire away men!'
'Open fire the Guards!' Goodlake echoed.
'Fire!' That was Maxwell's voice, distinct above the rattle of musketry. The Russians had stopped singing now, and only the yells and groans of the wounded sounded.
The British rifles sounded again; more Russians fell. The column began to splinter as men turned away, unwilling or unable to face that storm of shot.
'Fire!' Jack ordered as the Russians
wavered.
He watched as the column disintegrated, with the men, so brave only seconds before, finally losing their nerve as they saw so many of their colleagues falling around them.
'Fire!' Goodlake and Maxwell shouted together. Guardsmen and soldiers of the line fired into the retreating mass, bringing down more men, killing and wounding sons, brothers, husbands, brave Russian soldiers defending their Holy soil. White powder smoke merged with the clammy greyness of the mist, reducing visibility once again. Unable to face the fire of an unknown number of men, the Russians broke and fled; only the dead and wounded remained.
Jack sat on the far side of the trench, feeling himself shaking with reaction.
'That was a smart little action.' Goodlake sounded as calm as if he was calling for a cab in Oxford Street. 'I'll take my merry little band and be on my way now. We have a roving commission you see, lending support where it is needed and moving off when it is not.' He flipped a finger to his hat by way of salute. 'My respects to you, Colonel.'
'And mine to you, Captain,' Maxwell returned the salute with one just as perfunctory.
'You came at a good time, sir,' Jack said.
'Thank the general,' Maxwell sounded cheerful. 'General De Lacy Evans is lying injured on a ship in Balaklava harbour, as you may know.'
Jack nodded. 'So I heard, sir.'
'We have that crazy Irishman, Pennefather in charge now. Do you know of him, Windrush?'
'Not much, sir.'
'Not much, sir,' Maxwell repeated. 'Well Windrush, he has one maxim in war: whenever you see a head, hit it.'
'I see, sir.' Jack controlled his trembling sufficiently to smile. 'That seems apt, sir.'
'De Lacy would have the pickets withdrawn to a line of defence at Home Ridge,' Maxwell looked around him as he spoke, gauging his men, watching for any movement by the enemy. 'Pennefather has other ideas. He has ordered us to sit tight here, at our most advanced post, and hold the Russians. We are to shoot as soon as we see them and he will send us reinforcements if they become available.'
'If, sir?'
'If, Windrush.' There was no expression on Maxwell's face.
'And if they do not become available?'
'Then we hold on anyway.' Maxwell raised his eyebrows. 'Any questions?'
'No, sir.'
'Good man.' Maxwell moved along the redoubt, giving orders, positioning the men where they would do the most good, encouraging the shaken, congratulating the young. 'Keep your muzzles downward,' Maxwell said, 'and don't waste ammunition; there is little more where that came from.' He had them adding rocks to the breastwork and using bayonets to deepen the shallow trench, bringing in dead wood as cover and clearing as much of the scrub and brushwood in front of the redoubt as they could.
'We need to deny them cover,' he explained, 'and create a killing area where we can see them clearly and shoot them flat.'
Jack saw the ranks of the 118th extend in either direction, like a line of blood coloured ants. They moved with as much purpose as the Russian column had done as they strengthened the defences. In the centre of the Fatal Redoubt, Maxwell ordered that the Regimental Colour be raised, with the Union Flag in the corner and the fly buff and clean, with the number 118 and the battle honours prominent.
'Here we are then,' Maxwell said, 'and here we stay.' He jerked a thumb to the rear, 'and we have friends.'
Jack looked over his shoulder, squinting into the fog. He had been too occupied with his own affairs to notice that two nine-pounders of the Royal Artillery had taken up position there, complete with limbers, horses and their crews of stalwart looking gunners. One man sat astride the barrel of the left-hand gun, calmly smoking a clay pipe.
'Pity help the Russians,' the Bishop said, 'we have nearly five hundred rifles now and half the artillery. We'll massacre them.'
'Five hundred rifles and two guns,' Coleman said, 'and they only have forty thousand men and a hundred guns.' He whistled. 'The poor Ruskies have not got a chance.' He laughed, 'anyway Bishop, I thought you were on their side! When they came up singing their hymns, I thought you were going to go up and join them.'
The noise of battle had drowned the tolling of the church bells inside Sebastopol, but now a drift of wind brought the sound to them, adding to the surreal atmosphere of a battle fought in shifting mist.
'You don't understand, Coley,' the Bishop said quietly. 'The Russians call this land Holy Russia. They are calling on the land, their Holy Land, as well as the Lord to help them.'
'How can the land help them?' Coleman jabbed his toe against the side of the trench. 'It's just mud and rocks!'
'The same way the Russian winter helped them defeat Napoleon,' the Bishop said. 'Now we are not just facing guns and bayonets but something else.'
Jack heard the words, remembered what Helen had said about the Russian attachment to their country and shivered. It was with some relief that he heard Colonel Maxwell talking.
'Off to our right,' Maxwell said, 'is the Sandbag battery, where we hold. To our left is the Barrier, which we also hold. In between is a space called the Gap and the 118th are smack in the middle. If we know this is the weakest point, then so do the Russians, and you can guarantee that they will come at us again and again with everything they have.' He looked up at the Regimental Colour hanging from its pole. 'We stay, and we fight for the Colours.'
Stepping in front of the Fatal Redoubt, Maxwell waited until all his men could see him. The talking and banter stopped. Sergeants called the men to attention and officers doused their cheroots.
'All right men, stand easy,' Maxwell said. 'Now you know I am not a man for ceremony, and I am not much given to prosing, but on this occasion, I think I should address you for a few moments while we are peaceful.' He closed his mouth as a battery opened up somewhere with an ear-shattering crash. 'Or nearly peaceful anyway. It seems that our friends the enemy do not wish me to speak, which is all the more reason to do so.'
The men laughed at that, a good sound in the middle of a contested field.
'We are in the position of honour. You have heard of the exploits of the Guards and the Highlanders at the Alma, of the cavalry and the 93rd at Balaklava. Now it is our turn. We are the 118th,' Maxwell pointed to the regimental colour in the centre of the line. 'That is the heart and soul of the regiment. I have planted that as a sign and warning to the Russians. Our Colours say: “you cannot go further.” If we lose the Colours, the Regiment loses its honour, and we all die in disgrace. I know I can count on you all to ensure that does not happen.'
There was a moment's silence as the men tried to digest the information and then one man shouted.
'Three cheers for the colonel!'
The men cheered, with the sound resounding across the Heights of Inkerman.
'And three more for the regiment!' Captain Dearden added, and then 'and now a tiger!'
No sooner had the echoes of the last cheer died away than they heard singing from behind the ridge in front.
'That's the Russians coming back,' Logan said.
'Stand to your arms!' Maxwell ordered. 'Here they come lads, hot as hell and thick as thieves. Make Great Britain proud of the 118th!'
Jack cheered with the rest. He could see behind the Colonel's stirring words to the other side of the coin. The 118th may well be at the post of honour, but that also meant that the Russians had to pass them to get through and roll up the British flank. The more stubborn the 118th was, the more they would suffer, and as no man in the regiment would wish to see the colours captured, they would die where they stood.
God help us all, but it is the Russians who have the church bells and who are singing the hymns.
After a temporary lull, the mist had thickened again, just as the Russians returned to the attack. The sombre hymns announced their advance and Maxwell did not wait for them to get close.
'Fire at the sounds, lads,' he said. 'Our rifles outrange their muskets, and we are in line while they are in column. We may stall them or even stop them before
they even get close!'
Not waiting for a second invitation, the 118th opened up, firing volleys at the command of their company commanders.
'All together now,' Dearden said. 'Don't waste bullets and aim at the shine; at the count of three … straighten that rifle Fletcher; you're not after wild duck … fire!'
Volley after volley with the recoil banging back into shoulders already tender and the gun-smoke acrid in their nostrils, and then the Russian skirmishers emerged from the smoke,
'Grenadier company, target the skirmishers with individual fire. The rest, continue to fire at the columns.'
The first shot of the artillery made Jack start; he had forgotten they were there. They opened with roundshot over the heads of the skirmishers toward the columns as they appeared from the mist, and two rounds later changed to case-shot, which scattered at close quarters, dangerously close to the 118th as the hundreds of small projectiles fanned across the ground in front and bowled over the skirmishers.
'We're massacring them,' Thorpe said.
'Here comes the reply,' Coleman did not share Thorpe's optimism as unseen Russian cannon opened in support of their men. The first salvo was well over. The next ploughed up the ground in front of the Redoubt and the third smashed into the newly constructed stone breastwork a few yards to the side, killing two of the 118th outright and severely wounding a third.
'They must have an observer out,' Dearden sounded quite calm. 'They are using the Colours as their marker.'
'Maybe we should take them down,' a nervous young ensign suggested. Jack did not reply to him. To haul down the colours was tantamount to surrender or an admission of defeat.
'You've got a lot to learn lad,' Dearden said. He glanced over his shoulder at the British artillery. 'I hope these boys have the Russians range.'
As he spoke, the British guns elevated their barrels and fired in what Jack hoped was the direction of the Russian artillery. The reply came a few moments later, half a dozen cannon balls that hammered onto the space between the Fatal Redoubt and the artillery.
'That's much heavier stuff than ours,' Dearden said. 'They are eighteen pounders at least.'
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