‘In good time, Mr Vanneck,’ said Hervey calmly, returning the salute.
‘There are so many of them, sir. No sooner did we do our execution but those behind took their place. And they came on the while in double time.’
‘Very well. We shall see if hot iron and cold steel shall check their ardour.’
Hervey’s manner was so composed as to make his cornet look at him askance, as indeed was partly his intention.
‘Take post, please.’
Cornet Vanneck reined away, and with a sheepish look, for the little line of dragoons appeared so calm compared with his own agitation.
Not many minutes more, and they saw their adversary for the first time. But only for a moment. ‘Fire!’ bellowed Hervey, startling his own horse.
The galloper guns thundered, enveloping them all in black smoke, thicker than the grapeshot’s, for the two-pound ball needed more powder to see it the distance. Hervey trotted forward a little way to see the effect. The Burmans had checked. Another volley might see them withdraw — if only he could have it now.
The sowars worked methodically: swab to damp the barrel and make safe, powder charge rammed home, ball tamped with the other end of the swab; then the struggle to realign the pieces, and the gunner re-laying, then the prick of priming powder and slow match.
Both guns fired as one again.
More smoke billowed over them. Once more Hervey trotted forward to see the effect. There were even more Burmans now, but so many dead or dying, and the confusion looked the greater. He drew his sabre and pointed. ‘Charge!’
Out of the smoke galloped thirty dragoons, swords lowered. The Burmans had no time to deploy. They knew it and they turned for the forest. But Hervey’s men were on them before they could clear the line of their own dead.
It was easy. No need to guard, protect or parry. First the point and then the cut, and simple — Cut One, nearside, Cut Two, offside. Every sabre was bloodied, many of them several times over.
Ragged shots from the forest edge checked their ardour, and Hervey rallied them to a flank, thankful he could see no horse riderless.
As soon as Hervey’s men cleared their line, the guns fired again. It would surely make the Burmans fall back, he thought.
But no. Out they poured again, still in an ill-ordered fashion, for the debouch was too narrow to permit otherwise. Hervey formed his men into line as best he could, then charged again from the flank. With only fifty yards a bigger horse might have done greater damage, but the little country-breds were into their stride quickly, and sheer momentum broke up the Burman ranks with scarcely need for the sabre this time.
But the pressure did not slacken. Out of the forest poured more and more of the enemy. No matter that they were ill-ordered, force of numbers must soon tell.
Hervey turned to rally the line. He saw Private Spreadbury’s horse tumble fifty yards off, Spreadbury himself thrown clean from the saddle and dropping his reins. A dozen Burmans rushed him. Jobie Wainwright saw, and spurred at them at once. In seconds he was among them, turning in the saddle for each cut, just as Collins had taught him, swinging his sabre for all he was worth — Cut One nearside to the rear, Two offside to the rear, Three offside to the front, Four nearside to the front. Each time he felled one of the pal’s attackers, and each time he recovered the sabre from side to side above his shako in the manner prescribed. Collins, reordering the line, watched in admiration. But bayonets jabbed at Jobie and his mare — too many of them, so that soon he could only protect and parry. Corporal McCarthy, galloping back to the rally, saw the fight and turned. Hervey looked over at Collins and gave him the nod.
McCarthy got there first, leapt from the saddle and ran at the Burmans, grasping his sabre by handle and blade as if it were a musket and bayonet. Collins was there a second or so later and made three cuts so fast that it scarce seemed possible. Those untouched began to run.
‘Paddy, you dumb, cursed Irish bastard! What the hell d’you think you’re doing?’ yelled Collins.
‘It’s just a bit easier to me still, serjeant,’ replied McCarthy equably, picking up his trooper’s reins and making for Private Spreadbury.
‘Christ alive, Paddy. Never again!’
‘No, Serjeant. Will ye help me up with Private Spreadbury please, Jobie?’
Meanwhile Hervey had rallied the rest of the troop, taking them back at the trot to where the sowars were calmly serving the guns, and forming line to the rear.
‘Ready, daffadar?’
‘Ji, sahib!’
How long they could keep this up he had no idea. If the Burmans came out each time the same way they ought to be good for another dozen goes. But they would surely not keep hurling themselves on guns and steel so willingly?
The field went silent now. It ought to have been welcome, the sign that they had done their work well, but not knowing what would follow was unsettling. Hervey considered dismounting and having them make ready with the carbines, but the range was too great to guarantee the effect. He looked back at the river. There was smoke and fire the length of it, but he could still see boats unburned. He looked at his little command. ‘Well done, E Troop!’ he called. ‘Smart work. We may yet have more of it!’
Not many minutes later, E Troop saw the work to be had. Out from the forest burst as one a dozen horsemen. The guns fired, the shot arched and plunged beautifully into the defile, but by the time it fell there was no target. Seconds later more horsemen began pouring out. The Burmans had the measure of the time to reload. The collective inrush of breath behind him left Hervey in no doubt of what chance the troop believed it had.
‘Jesus!’ muttered Collins to himself.
Hervey counted quickly — fifty of them. Had they stopped coming? The guns fired again. No more appeared. ‘Daffadar, grape, load!’
‘Ji, sahib,’ came the reply, as cool as ever.
The Burman horse took their time. They were so regular that Hervey reckoned it would take the same number, at least, to prevail over them.
‘Now remember,’ began Collins, trotting forward, his voice as matter-of-fact as the daffadar’s. ‘Guard;’ he thrust his arm straight and front, sabre across his chest parallel with the ground. ‘Left Protect;’ he flexed his wrist upright and to his left, the sabre perpendicular. ‘Right Protect;’ he swung it back across his chest and out to his side. ‘St George;’ and up went the sabre to protect his head. ‘Those are the ones you’ll want. Then make your cuts!’
Hervey knew the guns were useless, for the Burmans would not ride at them. He could stay close and be safe, therefore — indeed, if he didn’t the Burmans would ride the guns down from a flank — but that would leave the field open for them to take the bridge. There was only one thing he could do. ‘Daffadar, guns to the bridge! Troop advance!’
E Troop marched forward a dozen paces to mask the guns, then halted. Hervey could only pray the Burmans were not as quick as an English cornet was expected to be.
It took the sowars less than a minute to hitch up the guns, but it seemed more. As they made to gallop back, Hervey knew he had at least saved them. A minute more and he could retire too.
But the Burman horse began to advance, at the trot. Hervey looked back at the galloper guns: it was still too close. ‘Troop will advance, walk-march!’
He did not want them to cover too much ground: every yard they advanced was another painful one to withdraw. He had to judge the speed of collision, though. A fair gallop was what they’d need.
‘Trot!’
Some of the horses broke into three-time instead. Collins’s curses took their riders’ minds off the enemy for the moment.
Hervey raised his sword above his head. ‘Gallop!’
Every sabre went up.
‘Arms straight, curse you!’ bellowed Collins. ‘Close up! Close up!’
‘Charge!’
The ragged line of sabres dropped to the guard. An instant later they crashed into the Burman horse, flesh on flesh, steel on steel, steel on flesh. Her
vey parried an artless cut from a tulwar and sliced its sword arm with a Cut Two as he swept past. He looked behind as he reined about, and saw two dragoons unhorsed by the violence of the collision. He saw Mole brought to a halt and bend his elbow in the instinct to protect his face. The tulwar sliced his forearm, Mole dropped his sabre, then the tulwar sliced his neck. He fell sideways from the saddle, his face contorted with terror. Hervey, raging, made straight for his executioner and took him between the shoulder blades with the point. He cut left and right at Burmans who had not yet turned. He saw Collins duelling and McCarthy hacking artlessly but bloodily. He saw Seton Canning in a desperate fight with two Burmans at once, and then Lingard and Vanneck coming to his aid. He saw Armstrong. Then the Burmans were wheeling and trying to fight back the way they had come.
‘Rally! Rally!’ he shouted.
Storrs, breathless and his own sword red, just kept sounding the G and the C. Somehow the troop, battered and very bloody, formed line and fronted, Armstrong and Collins chivvying them straight and cursing those who had not sloped swords properly. One or two of them could barely stay upright; Corporal Mossop’s sword arm hung limp like a rag doll’s, Needham had lost an ear. But every horse was on its feet, one way or another.
‘I brought up all we could spare when I saw what was happening, sir,’ called Armstrong as he closed to Hervey’s side. ‘But only the half-dozen of us. Gutless bastards, them Burmans!’
Hervey looked at him askance.
‘Did you not see, sir? Half of ’em sat still on their arses back there when the others came on.’
Hervey took out his telescope. ‘There’s a very pretty flag there. That was their trouble. They wouldn’t leave whoever was bottom of it.’
‘Well, thank Christ for flags. Another dozen and we’d have lost it!’
Hervey looked at Mole’s lifeless body thirty yards or so in front of them. ‘Troop will advance!’
‘Jesus, Jobie, not again!’ gasped Needham.
‘I reckon we’ve got to, Sammy.’
‘Ha-a-alt!’
They stopped just short of where Private Mole lay.
‘If you please, Corporal McCarthy,’ said Hervey simply.
‘Thank you, sor,’ replied McCarthy, as if it were a favour to him. ‘Give me a hand, boys,’ he said, nodding to Harkness and Rudd.
Hervey watched as they lifted their fellow dragoon across McCarthy’s saddle. ‘Troop will retire, at the trot!’
They about-faced three times in the first furlong to the river. Each time Hervey expected to see the Burmans pressing them, but each time he saw the distance between them only lengthening. Were they really gutless, or merely artless? The third time he decided it was probably the latter, for now he saw them extending, and a far longer line than his. The Burman horse could not outrun him now — not take his flanks — but if he judged it badly they might give him another mauling. He tried to calculate if it was worth standing long enough to give them a round from the carbines to check their zeal. He would lose men to theirs if he did, and it would do little to slow their advance. He could now see Corporal Ashbolt at the bridge with half a dozen men, dismounted, the led horses trotting along the river’s edge behind the line of burning barges. Ashbolt could hardly have had the best view of the field, but he had judged at once that their withdrawal could no longer be by the way they had come. Hervey was relieved. He had feared he might have his force divided.
Two more fronts and they were close on the bridge, but Hervey saw to his dismay that the second gun was still not across. The sowars struggled desperately to remove the pin that held fast the barrel to the trail. Seton Canning looked hard at him. ‘What do we do, Hervey?’
Hervey was only certain of what he would not do. ‘I could never abandon a gun, Harry.’
He saw Corporal Ashbolt mount and gallop towards him.
‘That bridge won’t take any more horses, sir,’ called Ashbolt from a dozen yards. ‘The decking’s broken away and the supports are gone. The farrier’s breaking the pin on that gun now and we’ll have it across in a minute. The other can fire grape. I’d like to put my Burmans in the river if it’s all right with you, sir.’
Hervey looked back to where Ashbolt’s prisoners sat — more than a hundred of them, for the moment, quiet.
‘You would only be able to drive them in with the point, and there are too many for that. Are they bound?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then cover them with the other gun. And give no quarter if any try to break free!’
Ashbolt raced back to the bridge to drive the sweating sowars and dragoons across before setting to with the charges he had made — enough, he hoped, to destroy the centre of the span at least.
In two more minutes Hervey saw the Burman flanks turning to pen him up against the river, and behind the centre of the line a column of infantry coming on at the double. He glanced over his shoulder again. The second gun had made the far bank: it was time for them to do the same. But how would he then check the Burmans, for they could surely swim the Karnaphuli as well as the troop could?
He glanced back again. Ashbolt had a dozen men along the bank, carbines ready, and the second gun would be in action soon. He wondered if one more sabre charge might demoralize the Burmans. It was not unknown in India. Indeed, it had been the sole tactic of many a campaign. He looked at the Burman line and then at his own. ‘Troop will retire!’ he called, as calmly as he might. He thanked God they had swum the Karnaphuli once before. At least he was asking nothing new of them now.
In they plunged, needing no urging. Ashbolt’s men began their covering fire, and then the gun thundered. Hervey heard the whistle of grape above his head, just like the night at Brighton, except that there it was so dark he had no idea how many or how close the enemy was. His mare jumped from the bank and struck out confidently. The current was stronger than the first time, but nothing to worry about. She swam freely, seeming to enjoy it. Not long now to the far bank, another ten yards at most. She gained a footing, lost it, then stumbled, almost throwing him. He looked right and left to see how the others were faring — well enough. Some were even ahead of him. He let her get her footing again — one more try and then he’d slip from the saddle. But she got all four feet firm and up the bank she struggled, until Hervey jumped off near the top to let her clamber up the overhang the easier. He turned about. Johnson was just behind him, almost out too, but his mare couldn’t get the measure of the overhang and Johnson was a fraction too slow in leaving the saddle. The mare fell on her side, pinning him under the water. She couldn’t shift, for all her flaying. And now shots were ringing out from the Burman bank, ragged at first, but close. Hervey scrambled back down the bank. The mare squealed as a musket ball struck her quarters, but still she lay thrashing. Shepherd Stent followed him down, and Storrs, and then Corporal McCarthy, last across the bridge with Private Mole’s body. The firing increased, though fortunately not its accuracy. Hervey would himself have put a bullet in the downed mare’s head had he not thought the dead weight would impede them greater. But somehow, slipping and sliding, with ball flying about them and the frantic mare’s legs liable at any second to propel them into the river, they pulled Johnson free and dragged him up the bank. And there he lay, like Parkin before him, reliant on the skill of the surgeon.
The firing slackened and then stopped altogether. Hervey couldn’t for the life of him think why, for the Burmans now had every advantage. Perhaps they were gutless as well as artless after all. Then came the cheering behind him, loud and hearty.
‘Himmat-I-Mardan!’
And the gun sowars, faint by comparison, but full-throated: ‘Madad-I-Khuda!’
‘Himmat-I-Mardan!’
‘Madad-I-Khuda!’
Hervey stood up. The sight astonished him. The Skinner’s men debouched from the forest as if trotting to exercise. He lost count at fifty — there must be half that number again. Lance pennants fluttered, then out came the carbines as the sowars slung their lances over the
shoulder. The line of yellow stretched the length of the bank. It was a sight he would never forget, like the solid walls of red at Waterloo. And all the time the cheering: ‘Himmat-IMardan! Madad-I-Khuda!’
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE. NEMESIS
Chittagong, two days later
Eyre Somervile stood by his desk in the lieutenant-governor’s new residency on the hill north and west of the Sadarghat. It was a fine building of white stone in the classical manner, the interior of which, though unfinished, spoke of the permanence of the Honourable East India Company’s investment in the country. Somervile wore a dark blue coat and a cream stock, and around his neck the order of Knight Companion of the Bath, a military honour of which he was at the same time both proud and abashed, for the circumstances of the honouring had been peculiar in the extreme. Nevertheless, for his coming encounter, to wear it this morning suited his purpose very well indeed.
As the clocks began striking eleven, his secretary entered and announced, ‘His Excellency Wundauk Maha Thilwa, envoy of the Viceroy of Arakan.’
Somervile turned to face the envoy and bowed. The Viceroy of Arakan was King Bagyidaw’s vassal; there was no doubting the reason for the envoy’s calling.
Wundauk Maha Thilwa bowed by return. He was an arresting figure, if shorter than Somervile, clean-shaven and with searching eyes. He wore a long green robe fastened about the waist with a wide cummerbund, and carried an ornately carved ivory staff. He came alone, having no need of an interpreter.
‘To what do we owe this honour, Your Excellency?’ asked Somervile gravely.
Wundauk Maha Thilwa lifted his head so that his eyes could look down at his interlocutor rather than up. ‘I bring you an ultimatum from His Highness the Viceroy,’ he began, making a small bow at the mention of the rank. ‘For many months, now, the domains of His Majesty the King,’ he made another, deeper bow, ‘have been violated by fugitive subjects of His Majesty here in Chittagong. On numerous occasions His Highness the Viceroy has asked for the expulsion of the fugitives, for their return to face justice, but this has been refused.’ He paused for an effect of greater portent. ‘I am therefore commanded to inform your excellency that unless by the going down of the sun today I on His Highness’s behalf receive word that the fugitives will be delivered up to His Majesty’s justice, an immediate attack shall be made upon Chittagong and the territory annexed.’
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