For Jack, battle was a place he both feared and desired. He was no fool. He knew the reality of war. He had fought enough to understand the sheer horror of the battlefield. He was drawn to it nonetheless, the bitter talent he possessed revealed in the sordid squalor of the fight. Only in battle could he show his true self. Amidst the bloodshed and the death, the shackles would fall away to reveal the steel hidden beneath. In battle, Jack could show he was the leader of men that he knew he could be.
‘Good luck, Jack.’ Ballard tapped him on the shoulder and offered his hand. Jack could see a mix of conflicting emotions on the major’s face. Disappointment at not being involved in the assault combined with relief at not having to face the danger. He shook the hand, feeling the clammy sheen of sweat on Ballard’s fingers.
‘I shan’t need luck. I won’t be fighting, remember.’ Jack forced a grin as he replied. Ballard had ordered him to stay out of the assault, but he knew that anything was possible once a battle had begun. He had loaded his revolver and paid a visit to the 3rd Bombay Light Cavalry to have an edge put on his talwar. He had learnt never to go near a fight without being fully prepared, and he had an inkling that somehow he would need his weapons before the day was done.
He stood and waited until the first ranks of redcoats had cleared his position before forcing his body into a trot, heading for the colour party of the 64th. The twin colours were huge, the gaudy, vibrant silk drawing him closer. One was the 64th’s own regimental colour, a huge square of black silk surmounted with the red cross of St George. The other was the battalion’s Queen’s colour, a bright Union Jack with a laurel wreath in the centre, the regiment’s number picked out in golden Roman numerals. Two young ensigns had been given the honour of carrying the colours into action, and they now unfurled their burdens, stirring the thick ash shafts so the silk caught the breeze.
There was grandeur in the spectacle. The two long lines moved forward, the men silent, their faces betraying none of the emotion that stirred inside every one of them. This was how the British army went to war. There was little fanfare, no martial tones used to inspire the troops other than the brazen call of the bugle and the hypnotic rhythm of the drums. The men advanced with calm precision, their eyes focused on their targets, their faces impassive as the assault of Reshire began.
‘Forward the 64th!’
Jack was close enough to hear the commander of the 64th urge his men on. The man was mounted on a light bay horse that pranced and skittered as it caught the infectious excitement that gripped the battalion. Jack supposed this was Major Sterling, the officer who had replaced Colonel Draper and who would now lead the men into battle.
The young ensigns carrying the flags marched forward with purpose, their arms straining to control the enormous squares of silk as they caught the wind to billow and flutter around their heads. They were guarded by the battalion’s colour sergeants, each armed with a fearsome halberd, a relic of times long gone. The veteran sergeants were charged with the safety of the two flags, for to lose the colours was unthinkable and they would die to protect their battalion’s pride.
Jack scanned the ranks for Knightly and caught a glimpse of the lieutenant marching in his station as the junior subaltern behind his company. He had not had a chance to find his friend in the hiatus of the landings or the swift departure that had followed. It was something he now regretted and he felt a sudden fear for Knightly, as if his inaction had somehow endangered the young officer.
The bombardment stopped.
The silence wrapped around the marching battalions. It was an unearthly quiet, and the faces of the redcoats turned pale as they imagined what was to come. The nine hundred redcoats of the 64th advanced two ranks deep, with a single company thrown out in front in a skirmish line. Behind the line, the sergeants prowled, their harsh voices snapping out to dress the ranks, keeping the advance steady, presenting an unbroken front towards the enemy.
The sandy ground passed swiftly under the heavy tread of the redcoats’ boots. No enemy fire contested their advance. The trenches were ahead, a thick band of powder smoke enveloping them like a London particular. Had they still been manned, the redcoats would now be advancing into a maelstrom of fire. But the navy and the artillery had done their work, and instead the British marched into an eerie silence.
The skirmishers reached the trenches first. Jack saw the light company from the 64th scramble down, disappearing from sight for no more than a heartbeat before they reappeared on the far side, the dispersed ranks flowing across the obstacle with barely a pause. He could hear the officers’ whistles as they led their companies on, the men moving with urgency now that the enemy fortifications had been reached.
The first shots rang out. Jack forced his pace, trotting forward so that he no longer wandered between the two lines of advancing redcoats. Ballard’s orders to keep out of the fight were fresh in his mind, but he had felt exposed advancing alone. He wanted the company of the redcoats, and the steady ranks of the 64th drew him in like a moth to a candle. He did not want to die alone.
The 64th’s skirmishers were taking cover as they left the network of trenches behind. Working in pairs, they opened fire on the enemy sheltering behind the ruined walls of the village that had once clutched to the skirts of the Dutch fort. The Persian ranks were beginning to re-form, the remnants of the men in the trenches regrouping behind the men stationed in the second defensive position, the wild terror of their flight eased now that they had escaped the horrific bombardment. The officers started to reassert their authority, bringing order out of the confusion and rebuilding the shattered ranks so that their men would once again be able to join the fight.
Fresh Persian fuadji crowded behind the broken houses and piles of rubble, hundreds of muskets now aimed at the thin line of skirmishers. The leading redcoats were horribly outnumbered, but the 64th’s light troops were not there to fight toe to toe with the packed defences. The skirmishers were trained to use cover and to fight independently. Their job was to pick at the defences, aiming their shots at the officers and sergeants who controlled the enemy soldiers, eroding the control and morale of the enemy before the thick ranks of the battalion arrived to deliver the shattering power of their massed volleys.
The Persian defenders opened fire, delivering a single huge volley as they sought to scour away the thin line of skirmishers. But the light troops knew their business. Their ranks were scattered, the extended formation leaving wide gaps between the pairs of redcoats, who ducked and twisted as they fought, using every bit of available cover to shelter from the enemy fire. Hundreds of musket balls flayed the air in a violent storm, but few skirmishers were hit, and they fought on, ramming and loading as they poured on their own fire, snatching men from all along the Persian line and exacting a dreadful toll on the enemy’s leaders.
Jack saw the Persians’ second defensive position disappear in the powder smoke of their opening volley before he came to the remains of the first trench. The parapet had been shattered, the sandbags used to line the top blasted apart by a well-aimed shell. The sand inside them had been scattered, dusting the ground, the soft yellow bright against the churned mud. He vaulted into the trench, knees bent to absorb the shock of the impact. As he thumped down on to the earthen floor, he reached for a handhold on the rear wall, his thoughts on nothing except the need to catch up with the fast-moving redcoats.
His foot slipped and he muttered a curse as he fell heavily against the side of the trench. He looked down in annoyance to see what had caused his boot to slide. The sight that greeted his eyes made him gag, and bile surged into his mouth, its acidic bite burning the back of his throat. A Persian soldier lay under his foot. The man had been hit by the naval bombardment. The same shell that had shattered the trench had eviscerated the unfortunate soul’s stomach, and his entrails lay blue and pulsating on the ground, swamped in a sea of blackened blood. Jack’s boot had landed on the gruesome mess,
his heavy tread crushing the twisted guts into the mud.
‘Dress the ranks!’ The 64th’s regimental sergeant major’s voice thundered out from the far side of the trench, bringing the redcoats to a halt.
Jack tore his eyes away from the ruined body and forced himself up the side of the trench, emerging to see the British line halted whilst the officers and sergeants realigned the formation after the disruption of crossing the trenches. It was an understandable thing to do, yet it delayed the assault and gifted the battered Persian soldiers time to regroup after their retreat from the punishing artillery bombardment.
‘Major Sterling!’ Jack scrambled through the second trench before breaking free to run along the stalled line, calling for the attention of the 64th’s commander. He saw the major turn as he heard his name, his face creased in concern as he saw a captain of hussars running towards him.
‘What the devil . . . ? Who the hell are you?’
Jack slowed as he realised he had the major’s attention. He could see the anxiety etched on the officer’s face. It was no small thing commanding a battalion in battle, and Jack had sympathy for the man. But to halt the attack was folly, and he would be damned if he would sit on the sidelines and watch idly as the success of the assault was threatened by excess caution.
‘Fenris. Stalker’s staff.’ He gave the lie easily. His lungs ached from the exertion of running and he was shocked at how out of condition he was.
‘Quick, man, what is it?’ Sterling leaned closer. He was young for his rank, his thick beard and moustache devoid of any trace of grey.
‘You are to attack without delay.’ Jack straightened up and looked Sterling in the eye. ‘Don’t waste time.’
‘Damnation!’ Sterling cursed, and a fleeting look of anger flashed across his face, but to his credit he controlled it quickly. ‘You come from Stalker?’ He snapped the question, waspish in the face of his commander’s criticism.
‘Yes!’ Jack felt his own anger rise. ‘Get a bloody move on!’ This was not the time to dally. Decisions had to be made quickly now that the battle had started. Delay meant endangering the lives of the men. To Jack, that was inexcusable.
‘Damn it all to hell!’ Sterling snarled the words before turning away. ‘Bugler, sound the advance! Come on, boys! Let’s get at them!’
The rising call rang out and was quickly repeated by the company buglers. The sergeants and officers raced back to their places as the line jolted into movement.
Jack forced his temper down and trotted after the colour party. He felt nothing at having assumed a rank far above his own. In battle, there was no place for niceties, or polite suggestion.
It was time to fight.
The second enemy volley crashed out. The air was suddenly alive with the whip-crack of passing bullets, a storm of musket balls slashing through the advancing redcoats. Jack flinched as a missile whispered past his ear, his body reacting to the fear that surged through him. Along the length of the advancing line redcoats were hit, their bodies thrown to the ground by the force of the impact, the whole battalion shuddering as it absorbed the enemy fire.
‘Close the ranks!’ The sergeants and corporals started the litany of battle. The line marched on, deaf to the screams of the men hit by the enemy fire. The pace of advance was relentless, the men callous now that the assault had begun.
‘Forward the 64th!’ Major Sterling exhorted his men onwards. A bullet had knocked his shako from his head and his dark hair stirred in the stiff breeze that billowed across the battlefield.
The 64th marched on. The Persians fired again, and more redcoats fell, their blood staining the foreign soil. This time the men seemed to surge forward after the fire swept along the line, their mood changing now they were close to the enemy. They tensed like a hound straining at its leash, ready for the order they expected at any moment.
‘Now, my boys! Charge!’ Sterling bellowed the command, waving his sword high above his head as he released his men.
The redcoats cheered as they stormed forward. The assault snarled into life, the tight line breaking up, and the wall of bayonets thundered towards the Persian line. The faces of the redcoats were twisted into dreadful grimaces as they were sent to do what they had been trained for: to close and kill the enemy.
The Persians saw the men charging towards them. Their frantic efforts to reload were forgotten as they watched the hundreds of bayonets coming for them. The redcoats were a dreadful sight. The terrified defenders had witnessed a dreadful bombardment, watching as hundreds of their comrades were slain by the remorseless barrage. Many of their officers and sergeants lay dead and bleeding, the work of the 64th’s skirmishers taking away the voices that would have kept the defenders at their posts. Without firm leadership, their will to stand and fight evaporated in a heartbeat.
The Persian sarbaz ran. Many threw away their weapons in their haste, the urge to escape overwhelming. As they turned and fled, abandoning the second line of defences to the onrushing redcoats, they careered into the re-formed ranks of men who had been stationed in the trenches. The chaos was infectious, and it was too much for the shattered remnants of those who had endured the British barrage. The survivors joined the rout, any thought of rejoining the fight forgotten in the melee.
‘Charge!’ Jack added his voice to those of the 64th’s officers. This was the time for madness, for the wild assault to race onwards. He knew they could not delay and risk losing the initiative. The officers had to keep the men moving fast, fanning the flames of the attack and giving the retreating enemy no respite. The redcoats had their foot on the throat of the Persian defenders. It was up to the officers to make sure they stamped down, crushing the last resistance without thought of mercy.
The redcoats reached the first wall and threw themselves over the top. A few stopped to discharge their rifles at the backs of the fleeing enemy but the bellows of their officers stopped them, ordering them to keep moving. Urged on by the officers, the men pressed forward, the last cohesion of the line disappearing as they thought of nothing but reaching the enemy.
Jack scrambled over the wall, ignoring the stab of pain in the palm of his hand as the coarse surface cut his skin. As soon as he was over, he pushed through the slowest redcoats, using his elbows freely to force a passage to the front. All thoughts of Ballard’s orders to stay away from the fighting were forgotten. He drew his sword, the blade rasping from the leather scabbard as he released it.
‘Come on!’ He roared his challenge aloud, tasting the madness of battle. It was just as he remembered, the soul-searing joy of the fight filling his very being. He did not stop to see if the redcoats followed his lead. He ran forward, his left hand deftly unbuckling the flap of his holster as he moved and taking out the revolver.
‘Follow me, 64th! Follow me!’
He felt broken tiles and bits of masonry crunch under his feet. He ran hard, forcing his tired legs to carry him onwards. Ahead he saw the press of enemy soldiers milling around the next barricade, their fear driving them away from the attacking redcoats. A few brave souls stopped to fire at the onrushing British troops, and the air was alive once again with the snap of bullets. Such courage was rare, though, and most thought of nothing but escape, fighting their own fellows to get over the wall and away from the steel bayonets rushing towards them.
Jack reached the next wall. He heard the thump of boots and the jangle of equipment behind him as the 64th rushed after him. He heard the shouts of the other officers as they urged their commands to greater haste, the fire of battle well alight in their bellies. Clumsy now that both hands carried weapons, he bundled himself over the wall, landing on the balls of his feet just in time to see the rush of soldiers charging towards him.
The men wore red jackets. For a single heartbeat, Jack had a terrible doubt that somehow another British battalion was attacking from the wrong direction, the similarity of the uni
form making him pause. It only took a quick glance at the odd headgear of the leading ranks to recognise the enemy’s counterattack.
He raised his gun, taking aim at the first figure rushing towards him. The face that appeared over the revolver’s simple sight was twisted with rage, the hatred of a man fighting an invader of his homeland. He could see that the enemy soldier had dyed his eyebrows and eyelashes with henna, the oddness of the fashion registering in his mind as he opened fire.
The revolver’s heavy bullet took the man in the face, snapping his head backwards. Jack switched his point of aim, firing for a second and then a third time, knocking two more of the red-jacketed enemy to the ground.
‘Get the bastards!’
Voices screamed as the men of the 64th rushed past, their bayonets reaching for the enemy soldiers’ flesh. They blocked Jack’s aim, so he joined the charge, buffeted by the impact as the fast-moving redcoats surged forward. The opposing groups came together in a rush, the men from the two armies throwing themselves at each other with wild abandon, the violence sudden, sharp and brutal. The first men died in a heartbeat, the bayonets of both sides used with vicious precision. The bodies of the dead and the dying fell beneath the boots of the living, their bloodied flesh ground into the sandy soil without mercy.
Jack thrust himself into a gap and lunged at his first target. His enemy’s red jacket had the three thick yellow chevrons of a vekil on the sleeve, the same badge of rank worn by British sergeants. The man was no naïve conscript, and he beat Jack’s rushed blow to one side before thrusting his bayonet hard at Jack’s guts, his lips bared as he tried to kill the hussar officer with a disciplined attack.
Jack let the blade come. He knew the man would stamp forward as he lunged, the drill no different from the one Jack himself had learnt as a redcoat. The bayonet came at him fast, but he twisted away from the sharpened steel, letting it slide past no more than a single inch from his body. He slashed once with his talwar, a short, controlled attack aimed at the junction of neck and shoulder. The enemy vekil had no chance to recover, and Jack’s blade thumped into his flesh, cutting deep into the man’s body, bludgeoning him to the ground. Jack felt nothing as his opponent fell away, already seeking his next victim and deaf to the shrill scream of agony as the man he had struck down writhed once on the ground before lying still.
The Devil's Assassin (Jack Lark) Page 12
