The Devil's Assassin (Jack Lark)

by Paul Fraser Collard

  The front rank was close behind him, and they brought their sabres down to the engage position as they thundered towards the rearguard. Jack could see enough to spot the tremor in the enemy cavalry’s ranks as they finally awoke to the sudden appearance of the squadron of charging horsemen they had been attempting to outflank. The confusion was immediate, the cohesion of their loose formation disappearing in a heartbeat as most of the terrified Persians immediately turned and raced away.

  Yet there was not enough time for them all to escape the charging Bombay Lights. Jack would have bellowed in delight if he had had the breath. His men had reacted fast and had snatched the initiative from the enemy. They were no longer the quarry but the hunter. His head whipped back and forth as he tried to judge time and distance, then he raked back his spurs and led his men into the charge.

  The Bombay Lights raced forward, letting their horses use their reserves of strength in a final, muscle-stretching burst of speed. They smashed into the Persian cavalry’s ranks, their greater momentum driving them into the enemy horsemen with a sickening thump.

  Jack was at the forefront of the melee. He slashed his talwar at a fast-moving figure to his left. The blade scythed through the air and he howled in disappointment, the speed of his horse taking him past the enemy before the blow could land. He wrenched at the reins, slowing his mount and searching out another target. A trooper from the Bombay Lights rushed past him, riding across his line. Jack could do nothing but watch in grim approval as the man spurred his horse hard, driving it at a Persian horseman slow to react to the counterattack. The trooper shouted once, a yell of frustration released, before he chopped his heavy sabre down on to the enemy’s head, bludgeoning him to the ground with a single vicious blow.

  Jack urged his horse on, looking for danger, though his desire to fight was overridden by the more urgent need to understand the chaotic melee. His men had broken the enemy ranks, the bulk of those left in the saddle in full flight to the rear. A dozen scraps were still going on, his troopers trading blows with the Persian riders who had been unable to escape the charge. It would soon be time to re-form, the wild dash to their rear having left the Bombay Lights’ own ranks badly disordered. Jack opened his mouth, preparing to issue the orders that would bring those men not engaged with the enemy back under control.

  The words died on his lips. Not all the enemy cavalry were in flight. The men on the flank furthest from the Bombay Lights’ charge had ridden on, their officers driving them past the British cavalry and towards the rearguard.

  Jack saw the danger. Any notion of success was lost. He twisted, desperately looking for his trumpeter, yet knowing it was already too late. There was no sign of the boy; the melee with the Persian cavalry had separated him from his commander. Jack cursed and forced his horse around, turning it to face the sudden threat to the British rear.

  He was not alone in spotting the danger. A small group of British officers were spurring hard as they saw the Persian horsemen racing towards the 4th Rifles’ undefended flank. They would be horribly outnumbered, but they rode at the attacking cavalry nonetheless, throwing themselves into their path in a courageous attempt to save the riflemen, who were still unaware of the danger, their thin defensive line dreadfully vulnerable to the marauding Persians.

  Jack’s heels worked vigorously to force his exhausted mount back into the gallop. He had no choice but to risk everything on a madcap dash back across the plain. If he was too late, the British officers would die and the Persian cavalry would have a clear path to the rearguard’s undefended flank.

  There was no time for the niceties of regular orders.

  Jack’s men swirled around him, some still fighting the enemy horsemen, others looking for their mates and their officers, ready for the next set of instructions. Their ordered ranks were broken, the violent contact with the Persian cavalry shattering the neat lines in which they had charged.

  ‘Follow me!’

  Jack screamed the command. It was one more suited to the chaos of an infantry assault than to the ordered world of the cavalry, but he did not have time to gather an organised group. He did not wait to see if anyone understood. He simply rammed his spurs into his horse’s flanks, cruel in his mastery, the need for speed doing away with any notion of gentility. The willing horse responded well, and Jack raced past his disordered troopers, catching fleeting glimpses of astonished faces as their new commander powered to the rear, exhorting his men to follow.

  He could see at least two dozen enemy horsemen swarming around the handful of red-coated officers. Even from a distance he could make out the flash of a sabre as the heavily outnumbered officers fought desperately to stop the enemy attack. With such odds the result was a foregone conclusion. Even as Jack raced towards them, he saw one of the red-coated figures topple from the saddle. The man hit the ground hard, the impact jarring his sword from his grasp.

  The fallen rider’s horse twisted on the spot, its dark pelt matted with blood from a dozen wounds. It bravely lifted its head, trying to obey the training that was buried deep in its instincts, but the valiant animal was too badly wounded and its legs buckled beneath it. It screamed as it fell, an animal shriek of mortal agony, then toppled on to its master, crushing the man to the ground.

  Jack watched in horror as the closest Persians slashed at the fallen rider, trying to finish him off, whilst their fellows traded blows with the other red-coated officers still in the saddle. Swords thrust downwards, but the body of the dying horse frustrated them, its flesh absorbing the vicious attacks meant for its master.

  Jack screamed as his mount closed the last of the distance. He caught a glimpse of one of the Persian cavalrymen turning in surprise as he became aware of the lone rider charging towards them.

  He slashed his sword from right to left, slicing the sharpened edge across the closest face. He felt the blade catch as it drove through flesh, the bright spray of blood telling him his aim had been true. He tugged on the reins, turning his horse’s head round, avoiding the body that tumbled from the saddle, his first victim falling without a sound. He saw a second rider come into range and he drove his sword forward, thrusting the tip into the man’s stomach. The blade slid into the Persian’s guts and Jack twisted it, releasing the talwar from the inevitable suction, tugging it free as he rode past.

  He thought of nothing as he fought. He saw not other men but merely targets for his sword. The first attacks had slowed his horse, and now he spurred it on, making it lurch into motion once again. It bounded forward, pushing past enemy riders, its forelegs scrabbling as they fought for purchase on the friable ground. He felt a tug on his uniform and glanced down to see the tip of a lance score through the side of his jacket before it was ripped free by the sudden movement of his horse.

  He felt the madness build. He let his horse run, rushing past the body of the fallen British officer, narrowly missing the hooves of the man’s horse, which thrashed in pitiful agony as the animal writhed in its death throes.

  He roared as he attacked a crowd of Persian cavalrymen surrounding one of the officers. He flashed past the mob, slashing his talwar into one man’s side and only just missing a second as he backhanded the blade.

  He turned fast, riding back at the enemy, the anger driving out the last of his control. He could hear his own war cry, but it sounded as if it came from far away. He crashed into the melee, his bloodied sword whispering through the air as he battered it at the closest enemy. His arm jarred as his target blocked the blow with a fast parry. He bludgeoned the sword forward again, hacking at the man who had defied him, avoiding the Persian’s own desperate lunge before driving the blade into the man’s breast. His opponent fell with a scream, his hands clawing at the steel, his face twisted into an awful grimace of horror as he realised his death was upon him.

  The surviving Persian horsemen turned to escape. Jack’s lone attack had been fast and brutally effective. Fo
ur of their number had been slain in minutes, and the rest had no stomach for the fight now that their easy victory had been snatched away by a single blue-coated hussar. They threw their mounts round, giving the animals their heads as they tried to flee.

  The slowest to turn howled in frustration as his tired horse staggered, its balance thrown by the desperate manoeuvre. Jack was on him in a flash. It took barely a heartbeat for him to catch the Persian and bury his sword in his spine. The man reared in the saddle, his body arching against the sudden agony, his hand flapping at the talwar embedded in his back. Jack pulled the blade away and the man fell, his horse galloping free.

  Jack let the broken enemy go. He felt the madness of the desperate melee begin to slip away, rational thought once again taking control of his mind. He rammed his bloody talwar back into its leather scabbard with a grimace, his right hand cramped and sore from having held the weapon so tightly as he fought. Only then did he turn and face the officers he had saved. He recognised one man at once and called across in greeting.

  ‘Captain Hunter!’

  Hunter looked at him without any sign of recognition. Jack’s face was flecked with blood flung from his talwar. He looked like a grotesque spectre that had escaped from a charnel house.

  ‘Fenris!’ The name emerged from the shocked captain’s mouth as he belatedly recognised the bloodied rider who had come to his aid. ‘Help me. It’s the general.’ He immediately slipped from his saddle and raced to the fallen officer.

  Jack heard the panic in the aide’s voice. He jumped down and ran to help Hunter, who was doing his best to drag the general from underneath his fallen steed. Jack thrust his shoulder against the dead animal’s flank, ignoring the slick sheen of blood that covered its hide. He shoved with all his strength and managed to create enough of a gap for Hunter to haul Outram free.

  ‘Is he alive?’ he asked as Hunter leant forward and laid his cheek against the general’s nose.

  Hunter nodded quickly before bending down and lifting Outram into a sitting position.

  Jack squatted down. He looked into the general’s eyes and saw them open.

  ‘Sir. You are safe.’ He spoke reassuringly.

  Outram’s eyes failed to focus. He had been knocked insensible by the fall. His head lolled forward and Hunter was forced to cradle him like a mother holding her newborn child for the first time.

  ‘I’ll get help.’ Jack leapt to his feet and turned, looking for his horse. Like all well-trained cavalry mounts, it had stayed in place when he had left the saddle, and now he vaulted on to its back.

  As he mounted, the first of his troopers arrived at the scene. He saw the look of approval on the dark faces as they rode around him, their horses picking carefully over the bloody remains of the men he had killed.

  ‘Dekho, sahib.’ The closest rider, a kot-daffadar, nodded with satisfaction at the slaughter he found scattered around his new officer. The man’s drawn sabre was smeared with blood, his white uniform belts bespattered all over. ‘You gave those bastards a jewab for killing Malet Sahib Bahadur, and no mistake.’

  The other troopers roared their approval. They raised their bloodied sabres, brandishing them to the sky, and cheered their new commander, celebrating his exploits.

  Jack felt his heart constrict as he listened to their loud approval. It meant more than any medal. It was a vibrant recognition of his ability to lead men in battle, and he had never known such pride.

  He turned to the kot-daffadar and began issuing the orders that would bring the command to order, before sending Cornet Spens on his way to summon a litter for Outram.

  Daylight was beginning to creep into the sky. The long night was coming to an end. The new day was just beginning.

  The thin morning light crept across the British ranks. The redcoats looked at one another and shared grim, thin-lipped smiles at their deliverance. The night had passed with infinite cruelty, the men forced to stand staring out into the darkness for hours, waiting for a sudden attack or the dreadful explosion of a well-directed enemy roundshot. Their nerves had been stretched thin.

  Thanks to the efforts of the rearguard, the enemy had been unable to reach the main ranks of the column whilst they were still dangerously exposed in a marching formation. The cavalry and the 4th Rifles had remained steady, no matter what the enemy threw at them, and they had bought enough time for the unwieldy battalions to form the defensive formation that had seen them safe through the night.

  Thus far, they had been fortunate. The Persian gunners could have caused much destruction, the tightly packed formation the perfect target for artillery. The redcoats had been saved by the darkness, the black of night denying the enemy the chance to see what they were firing at. Barely a handful of rounds had hit the expeditionary force, but as the early-morning light pushed back the gloom, the four guns deployed against the British were finally able to see the huge target ahead of them.

  Lieutenant Knightly stood in his allotted station behind the line of redcoats, doing his best to look calm and unconcerned now that his men could see his face once more. His captain was on the right flank of the company, with the senior lieutenant on the left, leaving Knightly alone with his covering sergeant to prowl behind the line. His main task was to keep the ranks tight, making sure that the files closed together if the company took casualties. The need to keep the line steady and unbroken was paramount.

  He had drawn his sword when the men had been ordered to fix bayonets. It had been a long time ago and he now felt rather foolish walking around with the naked steel in his hand. He had yet to even catch a glimpse of the Persian attackers. Even as the sun crept reluctantly into the sky it was hard to see anything beyond the ranks of tall redcoats to his front. He was beginning to believe he would go through the whole battle without once casting his eyes over the enemy.

  The Persian cannon fired again. Knightly looked up and saw the roundshot searing through the grey morning sky. He watched transfixed as they raced towards the British ranks, smashing into the ground to the side of the 64th with appalling violence, gouging thick crevices in the soil before bouncing back into the air and careering forward. He shivered as he realised the morning light would let the enemy gunners aim with greater precision.

  He looked up and saw Lieutenant Greentree leave his allotted station on the left of the line. The senior lieutenant flashed Knightly a friendly smile as he made his way over to talk to Captain Mackler, the company commander. For a moment Knightly considered joining the two officers, but the long night had worn him out and he couldn’t find the energy to move. Instead, he finally decided to sheathe his sword, hoping he wouldn’t be bawled out for doing so before the battalion had been ordered to unfix their bayonets.

  He barely registered the boom as the Persian guns fired again. His eyes felt as if they had been filled with grit, and now that he had both hands free, he balled them into fists and rubbed them, savouring the sensation of scrubbing them clear.

  He opened his eyes just in time to see the roundshot as it hurtled down, moving at a terrific rate before smashing into the right-hand file of his stationary company. The red-hot shot ripped into the tight files, sending a grotesque shower of blood and bone into the air and knocking men down like skittles before it sped away, its dreadful momentum barely altered by the vicious contact.

  Knightly felt the gorge rise in his throat as he saw the tumbled heap of men writhing on the ground. He ran forward, his body lurching into motion by itself, and reached the gory spectacle as the first victims were being dragged backwards, their shattered bodies belching so much blood that it had stained the pale sandy soil black.

  Captain Mackler, Lieutenant Greentree and four other redcoats had been hit, the single roundshot working a dreadful destruction on the company. Six men snatched from the fight in no more than a single heartbeat.

  Knightly shook his head to clear the gruesome sight
from his eyes. He turned away from the horror and met the uncompromising stare of the company’s colour sergeant, who had arrived to sort out the bloody mess.

  ‘Mr Knightly. You’re in charge now, sir.’

  The words cut Knightly’s soul like a knife. It had taken one roundshot to thrust him into command of a company of redcoats, just fewer than one hundred souls now his responsibility and his alone.

  ‘Form line.’

  The regimental sergeant major bellowed the order. Knightly forced away the tears that had sprung unbidden to his eyes. There was no time for self-pity. He stood back and watched as the battalion musicians came forward and removed the casualties from the line of march. All the victims of the enemy roundshot were alive, despite appalling wounds to their flesh. Greentree had lost a foot, and Knightly had to tear his eyes from the gory stump that pulsed blood with every beat of the lieutenant’s heart.

  ‘Come along now, sir.’ The colour sergeant reached forward and placed a surprisingly gentle hand on Knightly’s shoulder, steering him away from the carnage. Behind them the battalion drummers were already beating out the pace of the manoeuvre. The first light of day signalled an end to the long, nerve-shredding night. It was time to re-form, to bring the redcoats out of the defensive square and into an attacking formation so they could take the fight to the enemy.

  Knightly trotted forward, obedient to his sergeant’s instruction.

  ‘On the right, if you please, sir.’

  He blushed and altered his route. He had been heading to his regular station behind the line, but now that he was in charge, he would have to take Captain Mackler’s place on the right. The position of command was now his.

  ‘Form line!’

  The redcoats responded to the order with a will. They shook away the effects of having been under fire for so long, their heads lifting now that they could finally see their surroundings. As they manoeuvred, the enemy artillery fire finally stopped. It was time for both sides to re-form, the two armies bracing themselves for the real battle that had yet to begin.