A Call To Arms

by Allan Mallinson

  The axe was brought a minute or two later. By then, Farrier Brennan had cut away the mane just behind the poll to expose the occipital depression, where the axe’s spear-point could most easily penetrate and sever the cervical cord. Shepherd Stent gave his mare a handful of oats, and pulled one of her ears fondly.

  ‘Hold ’er ’ead steady,’ said Brennan, raising the axe.

  Stent crouched with his knees either side of her muzzle as she ground the oats in her mouth. Brennan swung the axe down – powerful, confident. The mare squealed then grunted, lashing out with her legs, though the shepherd held on. Brennan put his foot to her neck to get enough purchase to pull out the axe. There was remarkably little blood.

  ‘Again?’ said Hervey, anxious.

  The mare’s eyes were wide and her legs were still kicking.

  ‘No, sir,’ replied Brennan.

  Stent would not let her go. ‘Mick?’

  ‘No,’ said Brennan simply.

  And in a few seconds more she was motionless.

  Stent closed the mare’s eyes and got up. ‘Thanks, Mick.’

  Hervey saw the look, too – the first sign of emotion he had detected in the shepherd.

  ‘I’ve butchered a good many sheep, Mick, but I couldn’t have done that.’

  Brennan looked satisfied rather than pleased with his skill. ‘I’ve not had to do that since Corunna. But you didn’t flinch when I swung the axe, mind, Shep.’

  ‘Well done, Farrier,’ said Hervey. ‘We could not have afforded the noise otherwise. Right, Private Stent, take one of the led horses.’

  ‘And look sharp, bonny lad,’ added Armstrong, with just enough of a bark to put an end to the condoling. ‘I’ve stood-to the front section, sir,’ he added.

  Hervey nodded. ‘We’ll just have to wait, then. Perhaps one more beast calling in the jungle won’t raise the alarm. But a gun at the point would be prudent. I think I’ll go forward to the pickets to see how strong it carried to them.’

  ‘I’ll do that, sir,’ said Armstrong. ‘You have something to eat and then give them orders out.’

  ‘Yes, Geordie, you’re right. Thank you.’

  After stand-down, when it was dark, Hervey went round the troop and spoke to every man, the sowars too. Not of things of any moment, just a few words – whatever seemed appropriate, if only whether they knew the password. Sometimes it was a thought about home, sometimes about India. It did not matter, just as long as he spoke to each man and thereby assured them of his own peace of mind about the morning; as Seton Canning put it to Cornet Vanneck, ‘a little touch of Hervey in the night’. Every man knew that their captain had found the Burmans without the aid of the Chakma guides, and most of them knew in their hearts that they themselves would have given up long before. They liked their captain’s determination; it made it so much the harder to do anything but follow him.

  When he was done, Hervey found his way to the place where his groom had laid his blanket, and sat down tired yet content.

  ‘I’ve kept thi snap warm, Cap’n ’Ervey, sir, but it’ll be nowt like it were.’

  ‘Johnson, I could eat …’ He almost said ‘a horse’, but it was not the thing. ‘I could eat that wretched bird I saw Spreadbury plucking last night!’

  Johnson sensed rather than saw Hervey’s frown. ‘They didn’t eat it in the end. They chucked it away.’

  ‘It tasted so bad?’

  ‘They found a length o’ snake in its gizzard.’

  Hervey could have retched. ‘I’ve just discovered I’m not hungry.’

  ‘Tha’ll be all right, sir. It’s ’taties and beef. But it’s a bit of a squash. I’ll make a fresh mashin’ o’ tea.’

  That was what Hervey would prize above all, now. More so even than the whisky in his spare canteen.

  He slept well. Checking the picket he left to Seton Canning and the serjeant-major. That was their job. His now was to rest, to find the sleep that had eluded him these past three days.

  Just before four o’clock Johnson’s hand shook his shoulder, as it had more times than had Henrietta’s. But as Hervey took the enamelled cup – he could see the steam rising even in the darkness – he thought of her. And it was the first time since Chittagong that the thought had been more than momentary. What made him hold it now he did not know, but he puzzled over her absence from his mind for so many days. And he did not know whether to be discouraged or the very opposite.

  ‘I’ll be glad to be gone from this place right enough,’ grumbled Johnson. ‘I were bitten alive by mesquitoes last night.’

  Now that Johnson mentioned it, Hervey too found himself scratching at bites about his hands and face. ‘Because we’re nearer the river, I imagine.’

  ‘Bastard things, they is. I wonder ’ow French’s gooin’ on wi’ them bee stings?’

  ‘Say your prayers that we see him later today,’ replied Hervey in a supplicatory tone.

  At five o’clock the troop stepped off, Hervey with the pointmen, and no scouts (he knew what lay ahead). The men had put rotting leaves from the forest floor in the backs of their shakos, the curious phosphorescence, as on the hands of his watch, a useful beacon in the pitch dark of the jungle pre-dawn. Stand-to and breaking camp had been a model. How quickly these men had mastered the game, he mused. Would older dogs have been so quick to learn new tricks? Perhaps. After all, the NCOs had done the teaching as well as the jungle. And this morning they had all eaten hot – a rare achievement indeed in a bivouac.

  By six they were close enough to the forest’s edge to see fires burning in the Burman camp. Hervey felt the thrill that at last their progress was over. From now on it was battle, and the fortunes of battle, and the price of battle. He did not doubt the outcome, for he did not think of it. ‘Pass the word: ball cartridge, load. Guns make ready.’

  He heard the ramming-home of charges in carbines behind him, but no louder than it need have been, and he peered towards the east for the signs of lightening in the sky. The dawn came quickly on them in these parts, and five minutes made a difference. He wanted a sign before they broke cover. He took out his watch. How practical a contribution to killing the King’s enemies had Daniel Coates’s presents been! The old soldier would revel in its telling when he received Hervey’s letter after this was all over. It was so accurate a watch, too. It told him there were but ten minutes to the first rays of the sun, and thereafter he knew he would have six more before there was sufficient light to see a white horse at a furlong. ‘Pass the word: mount!’

  He heard the jingle of bits, the creaking of leather, the whickering of horses keen for the off. The thrill of it never palled.

  ‘Draw swords!’

  The chilling chafing of steel on steel – it sent a shiver down his spine as if he had touched rubbed amber.

  ‘Troop will advance!’

  Out they came, at the walk so as to make no more noise than they need. He could feel their eagerness somehow, though, and wanted as much as they to lower his sword and gallop at once on the Burman lines.

  He waved the sabre to left and right above his head. Those immediately behind him would see it and repeat it, and begin the movement into line, just as he had told them last night.

  The first wisps of sunlight broke the line of the forest canopy to their right, almost to the minute of his calculation – auguries of success, dared he hope? The nearest campfires were only fifty more yards. Would this spell the end of their stealth?

  On they walked. The fires were dying, untended. There was no one afoot, just a huddle of sleeping figures by the first of them. Collins and two others jumped from the saddle and made sure they would never rise again – swift, silent execution. Hervey was proud of them.

  The line had scarcely slowed, but Collins and the other sabrists were back in the saddle and in their places before another twenty yards. The next would be easy – no sentries, no alarm. They might go through the Burman lines and sabre every one of them in their sleep. Except that no luck ever held so long. Hervey knew he
must stick with his plan, even if it meant surrendering some of the surprise that was his for the reaping.

  The light was now enough to make out the whole of the camp, the white tents standing like snowcaps. ‘See your opportunity, Sar’nt-Major?’ Hervey’s voice was hushed, but his exhilaration evident.

  Armstrong beckoned his guns. ‘All in lines – like regulars on Chobham Common. A shame we’re loaded with grape!’

  Nevertheless they could wring havoc in minutes. And the Skinner’s sowars knew it, wheeling full about and unhitching the guns with the fervour of hounds on to a fox.

  There were no orders. Portfires went to touch-holes just as soon as the gunners dropped their hands to signal ‘On!’ The guns belched flame and a thousand pieces of iron at the first tents not a dozen yards away, their reports becoming as one roar in that forest arena, all the louder for the enforced silence of the past days.

  The nearest tents, and the ones just beyond, blew down like corn stooks in a sudden squall. Then came the screaming, a terrible, devilish noise that unnerved many a dragoon as he sat contemplating the gallopers’ work. For Hervey it meant nothing more than his prevailing over the enemy; it was what he wanted to hear. The sowars almost bayed as they reloaded, urged on by Armstrong waving his sword and shrieking every kind of profanity. Hervey urged them just as fervently, but below his breath.

  The right-hand gun beat the left by barely a second. Another two angry explosions, louder than before with increased charges for the double shot, sent four two-pound balls bowling down the tent lines, doing untold slaughter within. Out from those still standing tumbled half-naked Burmans, dazed, not even able to take up their muskets from the arm-piles. With the sun rising above the forest, it was time to test the age-old business of cavalry. ‘And we shall shock them!’ said Hervey aloud.

  ‘Bible again, Cap’n ’Ervey?’ came the voice at his left.

  ‘No, Johnson. Only Shakespeare. Trumpeter, sound “Charge”!’

  He would never have done it against formed troops – not put untried dragoons into a charge from the halt. But he didn’t need weight, only the noise of hoofs and the sight of sabres lowered. The Burmans ran this way and that, like rabbits scattering before greyhounds. One or two ran into swords, but for the most part the dragoons had not the skill to despatch their prey. It did not matter. The Burmans were broken.

  ‘Go to it, Harry,’ called Hervey to Seton Canning, then looked about for his trumpeter. ‘Storrs!’ he bellowed.

  ‘Sir!’ called Storrs, struggling to remount the other side of a tent.

  ‘What in God’s name—?’

  ‘Didn’t see the guy-rope, sir.’

  Corporal Ashbolt and Johnson closed to help him.

  ‘Look sharp, Storrs! I hope that bugle of yours is whole. Sound “Rally”!’

  Storrs, back in the saddle, blew it well – octave intervals, by no means easy when winded. ‘Good man,’ cheered Hervey. ‘Mr Vanneck!’

  The cornet was close by. There was blood on his sabre. ‘Well done, Myles. Take your picket off. Drive well up the road to begin with. I’ll send the guns up when I can.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’ He turned and started gathering his half-dozen. Hervey rode back to the guns, which the sowars had already hitched up. ‘Shabash, sipahi! Shabash!’

  Armstrong looked impressed.

  ‘Very good shooting indeed!’

  The quartermaster had not been idle during the skirmish. Hervey saw him and his men already piling oil and kindling into the barges. The sooner they could get the canvas in, the better. Hervey told Seton Canning to have the Burmans begin the work for them.

  The surgeon had difficulty bringing his horse to a halt. He had work to do and was keen to be about it. ‘Have a care, Ledley!’ called Hervey, and then turned to Johnson. ‘Go and help the surgeon dismount,’ he said despairingly.

  Ledley made straight for the stricken tents. From the shrieks and groans he knew that his skill was sorely needed, though he feared he would not be able to do much but staunching and binding. He was the only man in the troop who wished the Burman battalions would come soon, for they would be the only hope for their fallen comrades. Hervey watched as the surgeon set about the carnage with his assistants, coolly assessing the scale and priorities of his task.

  After days of moving at a snail’s pace through the forest, the sudden liberation made everything seem as if in double time. And the exhilaration of the assault, and the utter rout, gave each man an ardour that the duke himself would have been proud to see. But Hervey knew this might change at any moment with the arrival of the Burman battalions. He looked at his watch: it was half an hour since they had crept out of the forest, and not much less since the first gun had fired. If the Burmans were encamped anywhere within five miles he could expect some of them here within an hour, for the noise of the galloper guns had surely carried that distance, even through the forest. He surmised the Burmans would not have made camp closer than that, for would they not have pressed on the extra hour or so to where canvas awaited them? If they had cavalry, they would be so much the quicker, but Somervile had not spoken of it. Why, indeed, would they have cavalry if they could not embark them?

  Hervey took his compass from the carrying case on the saddle. The needle swung to where he expected, but he wanted to make sure beyond the influence of the iron and steel about him. Out of the saddle he climbed, unfastened his swordbelt and handed it and the reins to Johnson, then walked ten paces before he was satisfied that the compass reading was a true one.

  ‘Is it all right, Cap’n ’Ervey, sir?’ enquired Johnson, confident equally in his officer and in officers’ apparatuses.

  ‘Yes, it’s all right, Johnson. Yon other road into the forest goes just as it should. I’d be powerfully tempted to take it homewards were it not for French and the others.’

  Johnson handed him back his swordbelt and reins. ‘I’ll ’ave a prog around, if tha doesn’t mind. I’ll peg this’n, an’ let ’im ’ave a bit o’ grass.’

  Hervey had no objection; his second charger had its head down already. He climbed back into the saddle. ‘Search those bigger tents first – maps, letters, anything. I’ll take a look myself when I’ve had the guns moved.’

  The quartermaster and Armstrong had got all but five of the barges on their bank ablaze. Another quarter of an hour and all would be done this side. Some of the Burmans were already taking canvas across the bridge, their double time prompted more by the sabres of Seton Canning’s men than natural ardour. Hervey wondered if their spirit would return once the troop were gone, if they would try to follow and harry them. That was another reason to have them all on the far side of the river – and the bridge burned – when the time came.

  He glanced over to where the surgeon was working. He would not go to him, though. He would not trouble himself with the sight of dead and dying men when there might be more yet to add to the butcher’s bill. He had never been qualmish of such things – well, rarely – but he had never been indifferent to what the ball and the cutting edge did to a man’s flesh.

  ‘Guns ready, sahib!’ reported the daffadar, his yellow kurta begrimed with black powder smoke.

  ‘Very good, daffadar; follow me if you please.’ Hervey reined right towards the white elephant road, but before he led them away he would speak with his lieutenant. ‘Mr Seton Canning!’

  The lieutenant spurred at once from the bridge.

  ‘See to it sharp, Harry. Every minute makes me keen for the off.’

  ‘Of course, Hervey,’ he replied. ‘Half the trouble’s that bridge. It creaks and sways in a crazy fashion with only half a dozen on it.’

  Hervey nodded. ‘Well, at least it won’t take much chopping at when the time comes. I’ll leave Storrs with you. He can sound recall when you’re ready.’

  Seton Canning saluted as Hervey dug his spurs into the Marwari’s flanks.

  Johnson lifted the pot from the fire and poured boiling water into an enamel cup. Hervey meanwhile studied th
e papers and map in the leather-bound portfolio.

  ‘What’s tha think, sir?’

  Hervey furrowed his brow. ‘I can’t make out a word. I don’t know if the guides could. But the map’s suggestive, I’d say. It seems to have Chittagong and the river, at least.’

  Johnson lifted the muslin bag from the cup and laid it to one side. He poured in sugar and arrack, and stirred the liquid with a twig.

  Hervey took it without looking up. ‘And there seems to be a list of some sorts.’

  ‘What’s tha think o’ t’flag?’

  Hervey sipped his tea and smiled. ‘I shall send it to Mr Somervile just as soon as we have fired the last barge. It and these papers.’

  ‘Pity there were nowt else.’

  ‘Shiny things, you mean? I suspect they thought they’d be garnering plenty enough of that in Chittagong.’

  ‘Is tha gooin’ to ’ave a look for thisen?’

  Hervey looked to where he had posted the galloper guns by the debouch from the forest, three hundred yards off, and then to the other side of the river. He saw Armstrong torching the first of the barges there. ‘No, I think I’ll stay here. It can’t be many more minutes before—’

  A sudden fusillade in the forest beyond the guns made him spring up. Johnson rushed to unpeg the horses. Hervey leapt into the saddle and galloped towards the guns without once looking back, Stent, his coverman, and Johnson hard behind him. Vanneck’s picket was half a mile up the white elephant road: Hervey reckoned there would be scarcely a minute before the contact-man galloped out. He reined the Marwari to an abrupt halt by the guns. ‘No firing, mind, daffadar. First out shall be Vanneck-sahib’s men.’

  ‘Acha, sahib!’

  Hervey turned back to the river and took his telescope from its saddle case. He could just make out, through the smoke, Ashbolt corralling the Burmans on the far side, just as he’d ordered, lest the firing embolden them. But the smoke was too thick to see how many barges still awaited the torch. Seton Canning was assembling the remainder of the troop, perhaps two dozen men, no more, on Hervey’s side of the river. He saw them extend into line, at the halt, and draw swords. ‘Well done, Harry,’ he said to himself. ‘They’ll be the keener for coming up sabres drawn.’