The enemy casualties were piled high, many of them from the same bullet which had passed through two or three of their comrades, so powerful was the Minié rifle. Others had been clubbed or stabbed by the men of Middlesex, whose own bodies then added to the mounting corpses across the Heights. A forest of arms and legs protruded from a wall of dead like a grotesque sculpture carved by an artist depicting the horror of war.
The 77th, under Colonel Egerton, had pressed forward, into the heaving multitude of Russian soldiers. They forced their way through the centre of the mass, piling them into the column behind, and spilling others into side gorges. Finally, the 77th were through and under Shell Hill.
There they remained for the time being, drawing needed breath, having fought there through a tide of blood. On the way they had gathered remnants of other regiments. They met up with the 41st Welch, who had also battled and carved a path to Shell Hill with bits and pieces of other regiments.
Among those bits and pieces was a small-statured soldier whose accurate firing had done great service. She was a sharpshooter, a lance-corporal who had been with Goodlake’s men, earlier in the battle. This soldier’s name was Peterson, of the 88th Connaught Rangers, and her final shot of the action took a magnificent-looking Russian officer out of his saddle, as that unlucky man was falling back with his defeated battalions.
Peterson did not know it, but the man she had killed was General Soimonoff, one of the three top Russian commanders.
25
Crossman and Johnson, striding along the post road, carried a message for General Pennefather. General Buller had sent them out as a pair so that, if they had to go into the thick of the battle, they could watch each other’s backs. Both men were now armed with Miniés and they were itching to use them.
Even the post road, behind the lines, was hazardous to negotiate. There was a storm of shell and shot falling from the enemy artillery, which whistled, blasted and thumped around them. Crossman could see allied guns that had been knocked out, lying like broken toys by the road on their backs or sides, some with their wheels spinning. There were bodies and parts of bodies too. A horse had been shot through the head by its rider after it had been broken in two by a round shot.
As the two men passed Home Ridge they saw a great grey tide of Russians flowing towards that very spot, ready to spill over and swamp it. Just then, a battery of three guns arrived. With little ceremony, the gunners proceeded to blast General Soimonoff’s oncoming troops with canister – metal containers filled with musket balls – which cut great swathes in their columns. The Russians went down like lanes of wheat in a hailstorm. This appeared to be the final blow to the now dead Soimonoff’s push to overrun the Guards Camp and the 2nd Division. His troops retreated from the Saddle in vast numbers.
The cartridgeless picquets were beginning to return now, passing Crossman and Johnson in their ones and twos.
‘How was it out there?’ asked Johnson, of a fellow who looked about to drop from exhaustion.
The soldier turned his bloodshot eyes on to Johnson.
‘It would be all right if the Miniés was not so wet that half of ’em didn’t work. It would be all right if we had some cartridges in our pouches. It would be all right if there was any reserve ammunition to be had.’
With this little speech the fellow stumbled off, and Crossman pulled Johnson’s sleeve.
‘Come on, man, we have to deliver this message.’
The death of Soimonoff had made the Russians pause for breath. The dead general’s advance from the direction of Shell Hill had failed, but there were still sixteen battalions of his troops as yet uncommitted to the battle. These were positioned on the West Jut, awaiting orders to move. It was now seven-thirty, an hour and a half since the first assault had taken place. So far sixteen thousand troops had been committed to the battle by Soimonoff and Pauloff, and these had been repulsed by less than three thousand five hundred British soldiers of the 2nd and Light Divisions.
General Dannenberg was at that moment considering his tactics. The mist was still wafting about the Heights. General Gorchakoff’s battalions were spreading across the uplands to engage the French. General Dannenberg had now taken command of Soimonoff’s and Pauloff’s troops and with nearly a hundred guns to back them up. Twelve battalions – Okhotsk, Selenghinsk and Iakoutsk – of fresh troops were now advancing on the British. Dannenberg decided the attack should begin on a disused gun emplacement called the ‘sandbag battery’ which stood on the Kitspur. This, he decided, would serve as a symbol of victory to Pauloff’s columns.
General Cathcart was now approaching the battle area with part of the 4th Division. General Sir George Brown, commander of the Light Division, met Cathcart on the road and they were discussing how best Cathcart’s troops should be deployed when the French General, Bosquet, came riding up to them and offered the assistance of two battalions of Zouaves.
Bosquet was a seasoned campaigner from the wars in Africa. Unlike many of the British generals, he knew what he was doing. His suspicions that the Russian attack on the French line was merely a feint to keep the French occupied, while the main purpose of the assault was to force a way through the British lines, had recently settled into conviction. He realised now that the Russians were not going to attack him in force and he could therefore release several battalions to assist the beleaguered 2nd Division of the British Army.
The two British generals, both veterans of wars with the French, haughtily refused any assistance. They were not like Lord Raglan, whose vagueness still caused him to call the enemy ‘the French’ instead of ‘the Russians’, thus frequently embarrassing his staff when French officers were present. They were, however, like schoolboys who would rather lose a house cricket match than use members of another house. Except that this was no cricket match, and they were playing with the lives of honest farm boys, who trusted their generals to do what was best to help win the battle, not sit on their hands out of pride.
Unable to find General Pennefather up near the road, Crossman and Johnson went out on to the battlefield where they were told he would be. They ran past the Guards on their way to the front. The Scots Fusiliers, the Coldstream and the Grenadiers looked as magnificent as ever in their tall bearskins. They would have been the envy of all the other line regiments, if they were not so arrogant, but this last trait soured their image in the eyes of many of the ordinary foot soldiers.
The air was zipping and whining with musket balls. Crossman saw figures skirmishing in fog amongst stunted oaks. These were men in Rifle Green. Crossman was astonished to see that some of the Rifles had been reduced to throwing rocks at the enemy, their ammunition having been depleted. Crossman guessed this was happening over the whole battlefield, where men had run out of cartridges or whose firelocks were so wet they could not be used without a thorough cleaning and drying of the works.
A group of Russian soldiers suddenly appeared in front of him and Crossman automatically aimed his Minié and fired. Johnson, a little ahead of the sergeant, gave a shout as two Russians came charging at him. He ran his bayonet through the first one, who fell to the earth with a groan. The second suddenly threw his musket away and pleaded for mercy in broken English, saying he was a Romany gypsy who had been forced to fight for the Russians, but did not sympathise with them.
‘Please, sir, do not cut off my ears,’ cried the soldier. ‘I wish you would not cut off my ears.’
Johnson looked astonished. ‘Cut off your damn ears, you silly spud? What would I do that for?’
The gypsy explained that the Russian officers told their men it was better to die than to be captured by the British, who were barbarians and capable of the worst kind of torture imaginable.
‘They said you would cut off my ears and nose if I was captured. They tell everyone this.’
‘Do they, the lying beggars? Well, you have no need to worry, me old spud. Get off of them knees and get you back there behind our lines, with the other prisoners. I guarantee you won’t lose s
o much as a whisker in our hands.’
The grateful soldier then kissed Johnson’s hands, much to that pragmatic man’s embarrassment, then walked by Crossman, his hands in the air, calling into the mist, ‘Don’t shoot, please. I am a prisoner . . .’
‘Why do they tell ’em such lies, sergeant?’ asked Johnson.
‘It’s a good way to get reluctant men to fight. It’s probably quite effective, when you think about it. Better the devil you know than the one you don’t.
‘Now look, Johnson, we’ll never find General Pennefather out in this mist. We’d better go back to the road.’
At that moment the mist began to clear and Crossman found himself on Fore Ridge, immediately south-east of the Kitspur. To his right, the Guards Brigade was advancing on the sandbag battery. Round shot was bouncing all around, occasionally crushing a man or knocking an animal out of action. Already in the fight were the men of the 41st and 48th Foot, facing around four or five battalions of Okhotsk, scrambling up the slopes. Skirmisher lines were clashing and battling it out amongst the bushes.
The smell of powder and blood was in Crossman’s nostrils as he went down on one knee. It was his intention to add his fire to the companies of the 41st and 48th. These indomitable troops were firing volley after volley into the Russians coming up the Kitspur, but this time the visibility was good and the Okhotsk battalions could see there were but a few British soldiers in front of them and were determined to break them.
From Fore Ridge, Crossman and Johnson, along with men of the Rifle Brigade, were able to assist the beleaguered few men on the sandbag battery, by picking off their adversaries. It was a futile effort though, for the Russians were as numerous as termites, swarming up the hill. One man here or there made little difference to their massive drive to rid the hill of British uniforms and plant their standards.
Live Russian trampled on dead Russian, clambering over the bodies, to get to the British. Time and again the regimental colours fell on that prominent place, their bearers dead, and time and again they were quickly raised, a new hand on the staff. Guns boomed from behind the two battling armies, shells and cannonballs arced over the struggling masses, forming a moving arch of iron under which the scene played.
Crossman was witnessing a great slaughter, on both sides. It seemed that here was the unstoppable force confronted by the immoveable object. Neither would, or even could, give way. The superior numbers of the Russians came on, while the stubborn British fought with steel and lead. Young officers were battling with their swords, sometimes both opponents spitting each other on the steaming blades, with no positive gain for either side. Infantrymen from both armies were discharging their hot, smoking firelocks, then charging in with bayonets flashing and throats letting out bloodcurdling cries.
Crossman wanted to deliver his message, but he could not see General Pennefather anywhere and he was trapped and locked into the battle now. Reading the scrap of paper he saw that it was a note informing the general that the Light Division had now been supplied with ammunition and could hold their position. It was not a desperate cry for help, nor an offer to give some. It was merely keeping General Pennefather informed of the situation to the left of his 2nd Division’s activities.
Down to the south-east of Crossman’s position, the 4th Division was coming in: the 21st, the 63rd, the 1st Rifles. The 85th Derbyshire regiment, from the 2nd Division, was also in that area. The most beleaguered regiment in that region seemed to be the 30th, who were desperately trying to stem the flood of Russians at the Barrier.
It was at this point a great cheer went up from the Russians. The Okhotsk regiment and the Sappers had taken the sandbag battery and the elements of the 2nd Division who had been in possession of the battery had been overwhelmed by the sheer weight of enemy numbers. Through the fog of war, the gunsmoke, and the confusion of blasts and explosions, Crossman had difficulty in making out who was who below him. Both armies were in grey greatcoats and niceties such as helmets or forage caps were lost in the mist and smoke.
There was one brigade he could not mistake however, and this particular force of British soldiers was coming up to the front right at this moment. The Guards! First were the Grenadiers, half-a-thousand of them, marching in formed companies with determined step towards the sandbag battery. Round shot began falling amongst the ranks of their seven companies, knocking holes in the line. From where Crossman was standing it was easy to envisage these smart tall men in bearskins, not as live human beings, but as mannequins, automatons. They went down like skittles under a hail of musket and artillery fire, the ranks closing to fill the gaps, those left standing marching resolutely on with grim hard faces.
Behind the Grenadiers was a smaller force of nearly three hundred Scots Fusilier Guards and a similar number of Coldstream Guards. In all, there were less than one thousand five hundred men. There were nine Russian battalions facing them ten times their own number. Crossman watched as the Grenadiers fired a volley into the Okhotsk holding the sandbag battery, then, with a great yell, charged forwards with levelled bayonets.
The blades glinted in the swirling, fleeing mists, their points wicked and threatening. Crossman knew it was one of the hardest things to do in battle: to stand firm against a bayonet charge. A length of sharp steel – many lengths of sharp steel – coming fast and hard at a man makes his courage turn to water in his gut. The Russians fired back, but then retreated before this gritty, resolute attack. Once one man turns, many turn with him, scrambling to be out of the way of those ugly pig-stickers, which went into bodies gleaming silver – and came out smoking red.
The Russians became like children at the seashore’s edge, turning and running from the waves, catching each other with their elbows and legs, panic sweeping through them like a quick fever.
The panic did not last for long however. These Okhotsk men were no cowards. They turned and rallied, realising theirs were the greater numbers. The tall men in tall hats looked fearsome, but they were ten times their number. Once they had reformed they came back at the Guards, time and time again, the air full with the cries of the living and the dying.
Some men went down with a groan, a mere rattle in the throat, while others screamed like a factory whistle, or squealed like a farmyard animal in the slaughterhouse. The Guards were in a ragged line now, uneven and bunched in places due to the ground on which they had to fight. Some had wet cartridges and borrowed from others, loading, firing, reloading, firing, into the host of Russians who kept coming and coming, relentless and seemingly without number.
Crossman saw one particular big, bearded Scots Fusilier Guardsman standing on a boulder, his coat torn open and a bloody wound on the side of his face where he had been struck by flying metal. This man was yelling oaths at the enemy in Gaelic, firing into the mass when he could, bayoneting those Russians who tried to rush him and his comrades. He seemed to be made of granite himself, part of the boulder on which he stood, immoveable. Then finally an artillery shell burst above him, his body was flecked with red in a hundred places, and he fell backwards still cursing on to the earth, where he lay like a felled giant.
Crossman added his fire to that of the Guards, picking off men on the edge of the Russian columns. Johnson was doing the same. These two were drawing fire themselves, from Russian skirmishers who kept trying to take Fore Ridge from the 41st Welch, who refused point blank to give it up.
A musket ball clipped Crossman’s rifle stock, almost spinning the weapon from his hands. Johnson took a ball through his left calf, but he told Crossman it was nothing: he had suffered worse injuries on the farm.
‘. . . but will they ever stop coming?’ he said, as they fired yet again into the hordes of grey ghosts coming up over the ridge. ‘They be as numberless as ants. You shoot one and five more rush in to fill his place. We’ll be here until doomsday, I swear, still working this bloody carnage.’
26
While the battle raged on the Heights, the lieutenant who had locked Crossman up had discovered
the destroyed prison croft. He reported this fact to Major Paynte, the officer who had ordered the incarceration. Major Paynte was horrified. A murderer was loose somewhere near or on the battlefield. Not just a murderer, but the killer of one of Her Majesty’s commissioned officers.
After a good breakfast of quail’s eggs and toast, washed down with India tea, the portly major himself went forth on his mount to seek assistance in order to recover his most valuable prisoner. He saw himself in the role of the knight errant, seeking justice for the world. There was a war on around him, but this was not his personal business. Every man had his duty and if he stuck to that duty instead of interfering with the duty of others, the whole army machine would run more smoothly. That was the philosophy of Major Paynte, who had been given sole responsibility for imprisoning and bringing to trial criminals within the Army of the East.
He went first to Brigadier-General Codrington, commander of the 1st Brigade of the Light Division, who was directing his men from beyond the Lancaster Battery. Not taking note of the fact that the general was busy fighting a campaign, the major explained to the commander what was the matter, and asked for men to help in the search for the missing sergeant and the other prisoners.
‘This sergeant is of the 88th Connaught Rangers, a regiment in your own Light Division, sir.’
Codrington’s eyebrows shot up in exasperation.
‘Are you mad?’ cried Codrington, the shell and shot falling all around the pair of them. ‘There’s a battle going on!’
Soldiers in the Mist Page 20
