The Beast of Mysore (Wellington Undead Book 1)

by Richard Estep

  At thirty yards range, Captain O’Brien gave his face of the square the order to fire in a loud, clear voice.

  “Middle rank – fire!”

  The middle rank obeyed. Fifty-plus muskets roared in unison, blanketing the northern face in foul-smelling smoke. The effects upon the first few rows of the Sultan’s cavalry were devastating. Lead balls scythed through the flesh of man and horse alike. Riders were punched from their saddles, only to be trampled by the hooves of the mounts behind them. A mass of horses went down with that first volley, the wounded animals and their riders whimpering and squealing as the second wave tried to ride over them.

  “Rear rank – fire!”

  While the middle rank reloaded, it was the turn of those men standing tall at the back to unleash their fury upon the enemy. Whereas the first volley had gone low, the second blasted musket-balls into the horses’ heads and necks, and the bellies and chests of the cavalrymen riding them.

  Tamar Singh himself was down, trapped on his back beneath a desperately flailing mount. The poor beast had been shot in the chest. He could feel a warm, sticky wetness spreading across his right thigh and over his lower abdomen; of his left leg, he could feel nothing at all. His spear was gone, lost somewhere in the collapse of horse and rider, and he was becoming increasingly aware of a nagging pain that was beginning to gnaw at the pit of his stomach.

  Although he did not know it yet, one musket ball had entered his right leg just beneath the hip, ricocheted off the pelvic bone, and then had spalled upwards into his abdominal cavity; the second had been aimed slightly higher, and had entered his abdomen above the first, lacerating his liver as it passed and causing a significant internal hemorrhage. That was the ball which was fated to kill him.

  At least fifty riders were cut down in the first attack, creating a writhing, screaming carpet along the northern side of the 12th’s square. The redcoats held their muskets resolutely in place, standing firm against their onrushing foes. Shying away from the sharp triangular blades, the Sultan’s cavalry mounts instead broke, streaming to the left and right sides of the square like a fast-flowing river surging against a stubborn rock. The braver ones struck at the outstretched bayonets with the tips of their own blades, but none penetrated the hedgehog of steel and iron.

  “Steady, Twelfth!” roared Harris approvingly. “Steady, old Twelfth!”

  It was now the turn of the east and west faces to get their licks in. The officers commanding those two sides waited until the ground in front of them was completely filled with the galloping hooves of their enemies. Only then did they give the order to fire. The western face launched its volley just a few seconds sooner than the eastern face did, but the effects were equally devastating on both sides. Many more horsemen were punched from their saddles by the musketry of the superbly-drilled British troops. One luckless rider was thrown from his bucking mount onto the points of the outstretched bayonets, his gored and thrashing body threatening to collapse a portion of the square on the western side; but a quick-thinking sergeant simply ordered the men involved to drop their muskets, allowing the still-struggling cavalryman to fall to the ground outside their ranks. Three muskets were lost, but the integrity of the square remained intact.

  “They’re standing, Baird!” Harris clapped his subordinate on the shoulder gleefully. “They’re bally well standing, man!”

  “That they are, sir.” Baird grinned, fangs flashing. “And frankly, I’m no’ surprised!”

  Frustrated and leaderless, the surviving cavalrymen crested the low rise and surged away down the hill into the village. Baird suspected that they would lick their wounds for a while, but not for too long. The British guns were coming up, and the air in Mallavelly would soon be full of flying shot.

  Frowning suddenly as a thought struck him, Harris said, “The question is, where the devil are Floyd’s cavalry?”

  “I really have not the slightest bloody idea, sir. Would you like me to go and take a wee look?”

  “Obliged if you did, David. I’ll keep an eye on things here.”

  Moving quickly northward through the night sky, Baird soon disappeared beyond sight. Harris glanced over towards his left wing. Wellesley’s men appeared to be doing rather well. True, they were locked in hand-to-hand combat, but the native sepoys were doing a magnificent job of supporting the 33rd as the British regiment pushed forwards through all opposition. There were remarkably few red-coated bodies lying on the ground, especially when compared to those of the Sultan’s men, which numbered in the hundreds already.

  Baird suddenly blinked into existence at his side again. The man was in a state of considerable agitation.

  “What is it, Baird – you were only gone for a moment. Have you found our cavalry?”

  “No, General.” Two glowing red eyes flashed in his direction, then looked away towards the north-west. “No, I have not. Quickly, there is no time to lose - we must warn Wellesley and his men that they are in the most terrible danger…”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Arthur was doing a much better job of keeping himself out of the melee this time. He maintained a consistent height of perhaps thirty feet, high enough that he had a decent field of view, but not so high that the orders he issued to the men under his command could not be heard above the roar of battle.

  “Wheel to the right, there!” he instructed the sepoy company which was directly supporting the 33rd’s right flank. Their officers took up the call, swinging the battle line about and interposing them between their British allies and a fast-approaching column of the Sultan’s men. The two rival units faced off and began to exchange volleys of musket fire, whittling one another’s numbers down with every bloody exchange.

  He and Major Shee had spoken with the captains who were in command of each company, forewarning them of the existence of the Sultan’s infantry reserve, which he knew was lurking at the base of those low hills. The 33rd pushed on, with two of its leading companies marching up and over the crest of the hill and beginning to drop downward towards the natural basin below. Wellesley kept pace with them, and began to implement the battle plan that he had taken such pains to construct during the march towards Mallavelly.

  The horde of tiger-soldiers was within plain sight now that the redcoats had crested the rise, marching their way uphill towards the encroaching British line. The 33rd were outnumbered by five to one, but rather than take panicked flight as the Tipu had counted on them doing in the face of such overwhelming numbers, the redcoats instead eschewed the odds and made their stand then and there.

  Although their battle line had gotten a little ragged over the past few minutes, there were still two distinct ranks of men formed up and spoiling for the fight. Wellesley gave orders for the two leading companies to stand fast just below the far crest of the hill. They would form the center of his line. Prompted by their officers, sergeants and corporals hastily dressed the line until both ranks and files were as neatly aligned as the circumstances allowed.

  My right flank is now secure, Wellesley thought quickly. We hold the high ground, and thus the advantage. Now it simply remains to reinforce that success.

  While Major Shee swiftly directed the following companies of the 33rd into place on either side of the two which were holding the center, Wellesley flew several hundred feet to the rear and began to drive the supporting sepoy regiments forward to join their comrades on the ridge ahead. The Indian troops moved smartly, keeping their formation tight and marching in lines of echelon left and right. The sepoys lacked the noise discipline of Wellesley’s redcoats, whooping and hollering despite the remonstrations of their officers, but what they lacked in quietness was more than made up for in fighting spirit.

  Arthur cast a critical eye across his entire division and found himself to be extremely pleased with what he found. The 33rd was now fully formed into line, two long ranks that stretched across the entire western end of the hilltop, just below the reverse crest. He saw that they had taken remarkably few casualties, no mor
e than forty by his rapid count. The Tipu’s men were climbing the slope slowly, and Arthur could tell that even the vaunted tiger-soldiers of Mysore were apprehensive when they looked up and saw the battle-hardened redcoats staring triumphantly down upon them.

  Even better, Shee had made the men reload, which they had done with a laconic, one might even say insolent ease. Excepting the officers and members of the color party, each man now held the barrel of a loaded musket in his grip, the butt resting lightly on the ground.

  Major Shee had posted himself at ground level, off to the left of the 33rd’s line. “Ready,” he called out, as casually as if this was a cricket pitch rather than a battlefield. “Take aim.” The muskets all swept up smoothly into the mens’ shoulders. “Wait for it…”

  The tiger-soldiers advanced with relative slowness, hampered by the grade of the hill. Despite his being gifted with preternatural vision, Wellesley could only see the shapes and outlines of the Sultan’s men, could not yet see the expressions upon their faces; but based upon the language spoken by each man’s body, he could tell that hesitation and doubt was already beginning to plague some of them.

  And who could blame them? They are staring up into the muzzles and bayonets of over six hundred muskets, wielded by the world’s finest soldiers.

  “Wait for it…”

  Shee is letting them get close, Arthur realized. He approved of the tactic. That first volley would be the only one that the redcoats got to fire, so it would be wise to make it count. Then it would be boots and bayonets once more, but this time it would be the Sultan’s men fighting at a disadvantage, the British who held the high ground, and with more sepoy battalions marching up from the rear to reinforce them.

  “Wait for it…” Even the most disciplined of the redcoats must be getting itchy trigger fingers now, but still they held their fire, waiting on the major’s word of command with bated breath.

  Surprisingly, what came next was not a command to fire. It was, rather, a strange sort of trumpeting sound, and was answered an instant later by several others. All of them came from the dark plains to the north. At first seeing nothing in that general direction, Arthur allowed himself to levitate higher into the air, nearly doubling his altitude in order to gain a better perspective.

  Harris and Baird were suddenly beside him, and he instantly picked up on their concern. Before either general could speak, he saw precisely why that should be the case.

  Looming out of the distant northern darkness, the six monstrous war elephants were a truly impressive sight to behold. Perhaps fifteen feet high, each of the creatures possessed a pair of wicked-looking tusks which curved elegantly towards sharpened a point. Four-poster roofed platforms were strapped and belted onto the backs of each elephant, from which the creatures’ handlers were able to steer them in the direction of the British line. Two of the Sultan’s soldiers accompanied each handler, and all were loading and priming muskets in preparation for a few sporting rounds of picking off redcoats from their elevated firing positions.

  The closest column of tiger-soldiers had closed the gap between themselves and the 33rd to just fifty yards now. The war elephants lumbered up behind them. There came a crackle of musketry from the front ranks of the Sultan’s men, perhaps eighty muskets discharging at the hated British. Redcoats dropped to the ground, but no more than ten of them. The Tipu’s men were firing uphill while on the move, two notoriously difficult complicating factors when trying to hit one’s intended target. Being in column of march meant that only the men in the first few ranks and some of those at the sides were able to bring their weapons to bear. The British sergeants quickly closed the files, and soon it was as though the dead and wounded men had never existed in the first place.

  A second braying trumpet-call came from within the formation of war elephants. They were still several hundred feet away, but were rapidly gaining ground on the British line. Simply by looking at them, Wellesley knew that these leviathans would break that line like a hammer smashing through a glass window pane.

  “Jesus Christ,” came a voice from somewhere in the British line, effectively summing up what the men were all feeling. Only the vampire officers could actually see them yet, but that would soon change as they were rapidly gaining ground. The mens’ imagination was already painting a picture straight out of nightmare.

  “Sergeant,” Major Shee drawled icily. “Take that man’s name for punishment, if you please.” He did not even deign to look into the ranks, his face a study in tranquility for the benefit of his men.

  “Name taken for punishment, sir!”

  The tiger-soldiers were close, so close. Forty yards. Wellesley found himself thinking: here it comes…

  “Very good.”

  Thirty-five yards.

  Thirty.

  “Fire!”

  The release of tension which accompanied the opening volley came as a blessed relief to the redcoats, all of whom had been waiting with increasingly nervous anticipation. Just moments ago they had been cocksure of themselves, but the sudden appearance of the war elephants had robbed them of that. Now, they just wanted it to be over.

  Hundreds of muskets bucked in the hands of Arthur’s men, gouting flame towards the men from Mysore, and filling the ridgeline with new clouds of drifting smoke. At just thirty yards, the results of the massed and concentrated fire were nothing less than cruel. Tipu’s front rank practically disappeared in a hail of blood and viscera, the wall of musket-balls blowing most of the unfortunate foot-soldiers off their feet, and propelling them violently backwards into the men who marched directly behind them. The projectiles tore ragged holes in the bodies of their victims, most of who went down in a thrashing tangle of arms and legs, never to rise again.

  “Step high!” the Indian NCOs roared. “Step high!” But try as they might, many of the tiger-soldiers still found themselves tripping over the bodies of their dead comrades that were now forming a highly effective barrier to further advancement.

  If we retreat now, if we allow them to chase us from this ridge – our only position of real strength – then not only shall we fall prey to the elephants, but those infantrymen will smell weakness. No, better to end this now, Wellesley realized, better to go down fighting like British soldiers than to be taken in the back like bally Frenchmen.

  Leaving Generals Harris and Baird to command the entire field from their god-like position, Arthur floated down to take his place in the very center of the Shadow Company’s front rank, ten places down from CSM Nichols, who looked immensely relieved to have him join. Two startled private soldiers stared disbelievingly at their colonel as he gestured for them to make room, causing the right-hand side of the line to dress down three steps to accommodate him.

  “Thank you for making room for me, gentlemen,” Arthur called, injecting just enough supernatural enhancement into his voice that the entire regiment was able to hear him. “I must apologize for inconveniencing you, but then again, rank does have its privileges, does it not?”

  As humor went, it was a fairly poor effort, but the attempt was appreciated nonetheless. A nervous chuckle rippled along the British line, seeming strange when taken in comparison to the screams and sobs that were pouring up from the wounded tiger-soldiers who lay directly to their front.

  The tiger-soldiers were trampling over the bodies of their dead and wounded, stepping awkwardly up and over the crush of still-squirming, thrashing humanity. Wellesley swept his sword up from his side, holding it out until it was perpendicular to the rest of his body. Dead lungs filled with air. “33rd…charge!”

  There was no time for reloading; there was time only for the bayonet, with some solid British guts behind it. The men of the 33rd bellowed as one voice, screaming out a war cry in challenge to their approaching enemy. Their blood was up; Arthur could hear the collective pounding of over six hundred hearts, charged with fear and hatred of the foe, six hundred pairs of boots thudding rhythmically into the hillside.

  Those of the Sultan’s men wh
o had fired at the British had not had time to reload their own muskets either, but many of them were down and bleeding. The men in the next ranks of the column let loose with their own ragged volley, uncoordinated and much smaller than that of the 33rd. A few more redcoats fell, but the greater mass charged on.

  Those tiger-soldiers who had them had already fixed bayonets. Others simply slung their firearm over the shoulder by its leather strap and drew one of the curved swords which were popular among the men of Mysore.

  In absolute silence, Arthur kept pace with the men of the front rank. Sweeping the fast-approaching enemy line with the eye of a professional soldier, he focused upon what appeared to be an officer, if his bearing and demeanor was any true indicator. The man was in the front rank himself, and wore a scarlet turban which was fronted by a large ruby. The hilt and pommel of his scimitar were inset with precious stones of all varieties. This was not the Tipu himself, Arthur knew, for he had heard the Sultan described as being something of a short, fat man, whereas this fellow was tall and lean of stature; but his posture and garb told Arthur that he was a leader of some import nonetheless. That sword certainly did not come cheap, and neither did that ruby.

  Putting on a sudden burst of speed, Wellesley broke out ahead of the British ranks and angled sharply towards his right. The enemy officer saw him coming out of the corner of his eye, turned quickly to face this new opponent. It was only then that Arthur realized that he had missed something; the man held a sword in his right hand, but the left came up first as his adversary pivoted towards him. It was clutching a pistol. A scant ten feet separated the two men now, and Arthur could easily make out the tiger-themed design worked into the wood and metal of the pistol. The yawning black muzzle swung towards him, pointing directly at his face, and the Indian officer snatched the trigger triumphantly.