The Devil's Assassin (Jack Lark)

by Paul Fraser Collard

  The enemy swarmed around him. Jack beat aside a bayonet thrust at his ribs, flaying his talwar at his attacker’s face, driving him backwards. He saw the flash of fear in the man’s eyes before the redcoat at Jack’s side drove his bayonet deep into the Persian’s breast, an explosive grunt escaping from the soldier’s lips as he twisted the thick steel, recovering his stroke just as he had been taught in countless drills.

  More and more redcoats were piling into the Persian infantry, overwhelming the determined counterattack. Yet still the Persian soldiers fought on, refusing to be beaten.

  Jack flicked his talwar forward, driving the sharpened tip at another Persian. The man saw the blow coming and ducked underneath the fast-moving blade. His bayonet reached for Jack the moment he straightened, a quick, sharp jab that Jack only just managed to batter away with a desperate parry. The man roared with frustrated anger and came at him again. Jack saw the fury in his wild attack and parried the blow before stepping forward and punching the hilt of his sword into the man’s face.

  The Persian reeled away, his face bloodied. Before Jack could launch another blow, a soldier from the 64th attacked from the side, cutting the man down with a short, efficient stroke, punching his bayonet into the man’s chest.

  ‘Come now, sir. No need to fucking dance with the bastard.’ The redcoat cackled with delight before he pushed on.

  Jack made to go after him, but there was no longer any enemy to fight. The 64th had plunged into the melee without pause and fought with brutal efficiency. In the space of no more than a dozen heartbeats they had bludgeoned the counterattack to a standstill, the Persian soldiers’ courageous attempt to thrust the redcoats back over the wall bloodily repulsed by the merciless bayonets.

  ‘Forward the 64th!’

  A captain roared the order, his sword flung forward to emphasise the command. He turned to Jack, a smile stretched across his blood-splattered face. ‘Nice of you to join us, old boy.’ He reached forward and clapped Jack hard on the shoulder before following his men forward.

  Jack glanced once at the bodies that carpeted the ground before trotting after the captain. Around him the intermingled companies of the British battalion were surging forward once again, the redcoats stepping over the bodies of the dead as the assault stumbled back into life.

  He looked ahead and saw the mud walls of the Dutch fort. The navy had obliterated the trenches, and now the redcoats had cleared the ruined village. The enemy soldiers were retreating to the last of their defences, their final bastion. The redcoats had fought hard, but it would all be for naught if they could not force a way into the fort.

  Jack jumped down into the moat that surrounded the ancient Dutch fort. He landed hard and would have lost his footing if he hadn’t blundered into the back of a soldier from the 64th.

  ‘Mind your fucking feet.’ The man’s voice rasped in anger as Jack thumped into him.

  Jack ignored the curse and tried to make sense of the confusion. The redcoats had followed their officers into the deep ditch, but once down, there was nowhere for them to go. They were pressed together in the confined space, and for the first time a ripple of uncertainty ran through the ranks. Ahead, a steep sand and shale embankment led up to the wall of the fort, which was lined with enemy soldiers firing down into the compact mass of troops in the ditch. Each shot found a target, and the battered Persian soldiers poured on the fire, knocking redcoat after redcoat from their feet. The assault stalled, the heavy fire and the ancient defences forcing the attackers to seek shelter.

  Jack pushed his way forward, then pressed himself into the backs of the men lining the far side of the moat, where they were screened from the enemy fire. The redcoats had done well, covering the first hard yards quickly and clearing the first two lines of defence. Yet the final position was strong and they had baulked at the last hurdle, the impetus of the assault lost.

  ‘This is no damn good.’ Jack looked up at the enemy, searching for a gap in the defences. He saw none. He felt a body bump hard against his side and looked round to see the captain from the 64th who had passed him in the rush to the moat.

  ‘We have to get them moving!’ Jack bellowed to be heard over the cacophony of fire. He glanced at his fellow officer, noting the white wings on his uniform that told him the captain commanded the 64th’s grenadier company. It was one of the two elite companies in the battalion, and Jack was pleased to have found the man in the midst of the melee.

  ‘You have that right, old man.’ The captain fixed Jack with a wild grin. His face was blackened from powder smoke and there was blood streaked on the sabre that he held. ‘John Wood, grenadier company.’

  ‘Fenris, intelligence department.’

  Captain Wood whooped with delight. ‘I was wondering what a dandy from the hussars was doing down here in the mire. I had rather supposed you had got lost.’

  ‘I didn’t want to miss all the fun.’

  Both officers ducked as a Persian volley cracked out.

  ‘Where are the 2nd?’ Jack pressed his mouth close to Wood’s ear, bellowing the question. He had no sense of the rest of the assault. The 2nd Bombay Light Infantry had been on the 64th’s right flank. He had not seen them since the attack started and he had no idea if they had advanced or been beaten back.

  ‘They’re still with us.’ Wood shouted the reply. ‘But they are in the same bloody mess as we are. We have to get up that slope and drive the buggers back.’

  Jack knew he was right. If the assault were not to fail, the officers would have to get the men to leave their shelter and throw themselves up the slope. The redcoats would have to summon the courage to charge directly into the face of the heavy enemy fire.

  This was the responsibility that Jack had half forgotten: making the decision that would see men die at his command. Yet it had to be done. If they stayed where they were, the men would be cut down where they stood, the relentless enemy fire still finding targets no matter how hard the men pressed themselves into the dirt of the moat’s wall. If they fell back, the blood the red-coated battalions had already shed would be wasted.

  ‘Let’s get this done!’ Jack had to shout the words as the Persians’ rate of fire increased. The enemy had sensed that the fight was balanced on a knife edge and had doubled their efforts to turn back the British assault.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Wood flinched as a bullet punched past no more than an inch above his head. He took a step backwards, showing himself to the men huddling in fear against the wall of the moat. ‘Advance, 64th! 64th will advance!’

  Jack’s heart thumped in his chest as he searched for the courage he would need. He looked back and saw the strain on Captain Wood’s face. He risked a glance upwards and saw the Persians leaning forward trying to shoot directly at the redcoats who were partially hidden from view. There was little shelter in the moat. If they stayed where they were, they would die.

  ‘Fucking hell.’ He swore once under his breath and then pushed himself forward. This was the other responsibility of an officer in battle. The one Jack feared more than any other. Officers could shout and scream and give as many orders as they liked, but there were times when there was nothing for it but to show the men what was expected of them.

  ‘Piss off!’ The redcoat to his front cursed Jack as he elbowed his way into the press of bodies. Behind him he could hear Wood bellowing at his company to go forward. The redcoats were stubbornly clinging to the side of the moat, not one man willing to brave the dreadful barrage of musket fire.

  ‘Shut your mouth.’ Jack slammed his elbow forward, forcing his way through, ignoring the bellows of protest. He reached the wall of the moat. The side was not sheer, but it sloped up steeply away from him. Above it was a wide ledge that wrapped around the base of the fort’s wall. If Jack managed to clamber up, he would be forced to stand in the exposed space where every Persian infantryman could see him.

&
nbsp; He thrust his revolver back into his holster and pulled himself up as far as his arms could reach, the action made clumsy by the talwar he kept gripped tight in his right hand. His boots slipped on the sandy slope and he was forced to use his one free hand to pull himself forward, his progress reduced to little more than an undignified crawl. He screwed his courage tight and scrabbled his way up the side of the slope, then kicked hard and clambered on to the ledge. He flinched as bullets scorched past, but forced himself to his feet before turning to face the men of the 64th. He could see the fear in the whites of their eyes, the strain of enduring the enemy fire clear on every smoke-streaked face.

  ‘64th!’ His voice was huge. He saw men who had buried their heads in the sand lift their faces as he demanded their attention. ‘You will advance!’

  He recoiled as a musket ball smacked into the sand next to his feet, kicking up a puff of dust that splattered against his shaking legs. The terror was dreadful, but he fought against its embrace and stalked along the narrow ledge, showing himself to the frightened redcoats, demonstrating what it was he asked of them, flaunting the very courage they would have to find.

  ‘64th! Follow me!’

  It felt as if every Persian soldier was aiming at him personally. The sand around him was punched repeatedly, shot after shot coming perilously close to tearing his flesh. Somehow he survived and roared his orders, setting the example that the redcoats so badly needed.

  ‘Follow that officer!’ Wood screamed at his men, battering them with his fists, exhorting them to match the insane bravery of the hussar officer who had arrived in their midst. ‘Move, move!’

  Jack could not believe what he was doing. He had no place being in the fight, yet once he had seen what had to be done, he felt he had no choice. He was an officer. He was there to lead.

  A dreadful roar erupted from the packed crowd of redcoats. It was a feral sound, a release of pent-up terror as they finally pushed aside their fears. As one they stormed forward, swarming up the treacherous slope and into the face of the enemy fire.

  The Persian barrage faltered as the red-coated horde emerged from the cramped confines of the moat like a monster released from the depths of hell.

  A ragged volley rang out. At such close range the Persian soldiers could not miss, and each bullet knocked a redcoat from his feet, the men falling like skittles at the fair.

  The redcoats roared in defiance, hurling themselves out of the moat, the bodies of the fallen tumbling back to lie ignored and forgotten in the bottom of the ditch.

  The Persian defenders wavered. Some turned and ran, abandoning their fellows to face the redcoats alone. Others looked down in horror at the horde that swarmed around the base of the wall, their muskets forgotten as terror took hold. A brave few cursed and reloaded, skinning their knuckles on their bayonets as they raced to be ready to fire again.

  Jack reached forward and took a firm handhold on the wall in front of him. Decades of wear had left wide gaps and channels in its muddy facade. With his talwar still held in his right hand, he heaved himself up and started to scale the wall, terrified that he would drop his sword and reach the top without a weapon to fight with.

  All around him the redcoats followed his example. They worked together, some bending double so they could be used as steps, others taking a firm hold of their fellows’ cross belts before thrusting them up the wall to grasp the parapet. Jack could hear the bellows of a sergeant as he called men out of the assault, organising a firing party to scour the wall ahead of the climbing attackers. He flinched as their first volley cracked past him, driving the Persian defenders away from the edge of the rampart and clearing a space for the fastest redcoats to clamber up on to the top of the wall.

  His lungs rasped with the strain of climbing. He glanced up and saw a Persian soldier lean over the wall and point a musket straight at him. He caught a glimpse of the clean-shaven face underneath the tall cone-shaped hat, and watched transfixed as the man aimed down the barrel of the musket, one eye screwed shut as he drew a bead on the officer who had inspired the attack. Jack braced himself, frozen in horror, his body tensing for the inevitable agony.

  The musket coughed as it fired and Jack nearly let go of the wall in his terror. He felt the bullet snap past his body and screamed as he waited for the pain to come. To his shock, he felt nothing. He looked up. The man who had seemed certain to kill him had gone.

  ‘Come on, old man.’ Captain Wood flew past him, the commander of the grenadier company scaling the wall with the agility of a mountain goat. ‘Forward the 64th!’

  Jack hauled himself upwards, racing the 64th’s captain up the wall, determined not to be second. Despite his best efforts, Wood reached the top first and Jack had to pause to avoid being caught by the scrabble of boots as his rival vaulted over and on to the parapet.

  The explosion of a close-range volley assaulted Jack’s eardrums, cutting through the air above his head, but there could be no turning back. With a final effort, he flung himself over the wall, a dreadful war cry blurting from his lips as he prepared to fight whatever waited for him on the other side of the parapet.

  He stumbled forward, tripping over the corpse of the man who had aimed the musket at him just a few moments before. The man had taken a rifle bullet directly between the eyes, and Jack knew he owed his life to the quick-thinking sergeant who had dragged enough men from the assault to cover those climbing the wall.

  There was no time to dwell on his deliverance. A blue-coated Persian soldier thrust a bayonet at his ribs, trying to strike him down while he was still recovering from his wild scramble on to the wall’s summit. Jack could do nothing but watch in horror as the blade slid across his chest. He felt the edge score his flesh, but the inexperienced Persian soldier had thrust too soon and the bayonet went wide. Jack screamed in relief and with savage joy hacked his talwar forward, smashing the blade into the Persian’s face. The man fell, his scream ringing out as Jack stamped forward, already searching for his next target.

  He felt the madness of battle and let it take him, throwing himself at the press of Persian soldiers that milled in terrified uncertainty as the redcoats swarmed over the parapet. He slashed at the nearest enemy, the sharpened edge of his talwar tearing across his victim’s cheek. He roared as he fought, snarling his hatred into the faces of the men who sought to block his passage.

  He moved forward into the gap he had created, forced to step over the torn body of Captain Wood as he went. The man he had raced to the top of the wall had paid a dreadful price for having arrived first. The Persian volley had cut him down, but although his body was riddled with enemy bullets, somehow he had managed to fight on. A Persian infantryman lay across his legs, the officer’s thin sabre buried deep in the man’s stomach.

  ‘Forward the 64th!’

  Wood still lived. He shouted at his men to close with the enemy even as he lay in a pool of his own blood, fanning their desire for revenge.

  A Persian sarbaz wearing the twin stripes of a dakhbash lunged at Jack. There was little conviction in the attack, and Jack laughed aloud as he simply twisted past the blade before hammering the guard of his talwar into the man’s face. The Persian slumped to the ground and Jack stepped past, daring the other enemy soldiers to fight him.

  Not one stepped forward to meet his challenge. The ferocity of his attack had forced the Persians back, creating more space for the redcoats who were spilling over the wall all round him. Already they had claimed the bulk of the parapet and now they looked to attack the last enemy soldiers, their bloodlust reaching fever pitch after enduring for so long under the Persians’ relentless fire.

  The respite gave Jack a moment’s freedom, and he snatched his revolver from his holster. He still had two bullets left in its chambers and he emptied the weapon into the press of enemy bodies. The closest soldier crumpled as the bullets tore into his flesh, his body falling to lie at
the feet of his fellows. More bullets followed as the men from the 64th finally had a target for their Enfields. At such close range, the effect of the modern British rifles was terrible. The ragged volley gouged through the Persian soldiers, tearing their bodies apart, each bullet passing through more than one man in a dreadful demonstration of the weapons’ brutal power.

  The sarbaz could take no more, and they broke. Still the redcoats fired, mercilessly flensing the retreating infantry, dropping more bodies to the ground.

  ‘After them!’ Jack’s voice cracked as he roared at the redcoats. He led them forward, bounding down the ramp that led from the ramparts, his heavy boots thumping callously into ruined flesh as he ran across the bloody piles of torn bodies that smothered his path.

  The redcoats went forward with a will. The companies were hopelessly intermingled, the chaos of the assault breaking their formation. They charged after the unknown hussar officer who had appeared to lead them, their voices screaming their challenge at the gods, their wild faces terrifying any of the Persian sarbaz foolish enough to try to stand against them.

  The ground levelled under Jack’s boots and he slipped and slid to a halt on the courtyard at the centre of the fort. The redcoats surged past him like a mob, chasing after the fleeing Persian soldiers who had tried so hard to keep the invaders at bay. The fight was over. Now all that was left was revenge.