With staff officers racing around the manoeuvring troops, the redcoats and their native infantry formed into two long lines facing back the way they had come. In the front rank, the 4th Bombay Rifles took the left flank, with the 2nd European Light Infantry, the 26th Native Infantry and the 78th Highlanders stretching away to their right. Behind them, in the second line, the Belooch battalion marched on the left, with the 20th Native Infantry on their right and the 64th on the far flank.
The early-morning air resounded to the call of the bugles and the rhythm of the drum, as the British expeditionary force came to life. Officers galloped between the battalions, ferrying orders from the senior officers and collecting reports from the battalion commanders. The beautiful regimental colours were unfurled and the gaudy silk squares billowed in the stiff breeze that flowed across the plain.
‘Battalion. Battalion, load!’
The huge voice of the 64th’s regimental sergeant major bellowed out. To his command, the battalion began the process of loading their Enfield rifles. The weapons were new, the battalion only having been issued with them in the weeks before their hurried departure to join the campaign. The native infantry battalions were still armed with smoothbore percussion-capped muskets, weapons that were little changed since the days of Wellington and Waterloo.
There had been rumours circulating through the division that the native soldiers had concerns about accepting the new weapons. The Enfield rifles came with a cartridge that was greased to allow it to glide over the rifling in the gun’s barrel, the twisted grooves that spun the bullet and made it so much more accurate than the outdated smoothbore muskets. It was said that the cartridges were waxed in pig fat, something that was totally abhorrent to both the high-caste Hindus and the Muslims who made up the bulk of the native infantry’s ranks. Yet the concerns had been pushed to one side in the rush to embark on the campaign, and for now the native infantry would fight with their trusted, if less effective, muskets. The dispute over the cartridges would have to wait.
‘Battalion, prepare to advance.’
The words dispelled any last doubts. It was the final command they would be given before the order to attack.
The battalion fell silent and the men stood with their weapons ready for the fight. It was the time to wrestle with the fear that was stirring in their guts, the presence of death haunting many. This was this moment for silent prayer, for the men to seek forgiveness or to beg for protection in the battle that was now inevitable.
All along the line the redcoats fidgeted with their equipment, going through the superstitious rituals that they believed would keep them safe in the fight. Each man was surrounded by thousands of fellow soldiers, yet each was alone.
The sudden strident call of the bugle cut through every man’s thoughts. The drummer boys rattled their sticks against the taut skins of their instruments, summoning the men to action.
‘Battalion, battalion will advance. Advance!’
As one, the long lines strode forward. The men forced away their fears. The brilliantly hued silks of the battalion colours stirred in the freshening breeze so that the huge squares spread to their fullest extent, the pride of the regiments on display. To the beat of the drums, the redcoats marched to take the fight to the enemy.
They advanced as only the British advanced, the ranks stoic and steady. There was no pomp, no cheers or wild yells. The line walked forward in silence, the grave, stony faces of the redcoats betraying none of the emotion that seared through their veins. No matter how heavy the fire, no matter how many men were struck from the ranks, they would march on, ignoring their fallen comrades, the line moving forward with resolute purpose, unrelenting and unstoppable.
The enemy had belatedly chosen to give battle. The British redcoats would not shirk from the fight.
With the drums and bugle calls muffled by a damp morning mist, the army marched back along the path it had taken the day before. The night attack had revealed the Persians’ intention to fight, but if they expected to see a tired, half-beaten enemy, they were to be disappointed. The redcoats’ advance was slow and steady, their boots thumping hard against the dusty ground as they retraced their steps. It would be a short march. The enemy’s attack had stopped the British column before it had gone more than a few miles towards Bushire, and the red-coated army marched with purpose, the men looking ahead with anticipation, waiting for the enemy to be revealed. This time they advanced knowing they faced battle.
A sharp, cold wind blew over the redcoats as they advanced. It soon dispelled the morning mist, stirring the battalion colours and revealing the enemy army drawn up and ready for battle. Whilst the Persian cavalry had been harassing the British column, the bulk of their infantry had marched down from the safety of the high ground and taken up position between the column and the village of Khoosh-Ab. They formed one long continuous line, their left flank tethered on the walled village itself, their right secured by a thick grove of date trees.
There were two hillocks in the centre of the line, and the Persian commander had wisely chosen these as the best position to site his artillery. The raised ground gave them a clear line of sight towards the British force, which would be forced to advance across the open plain if they chose to assault the Persian line. The two hillocks would become the bastions of the enemy line, natural redoubts that would shore up the centre of the formation. With two strongpoints in the centre and both flanks secure, it was a powerful defensive position.
The redcoats looked ahead and wondered what it would be like to attack the Persians’ position. Their fears built as they saw what they must endure, the British command certain to order an attack now that the enemy had finally obliged and offered them the battle they sought. The Persian general had chosen to fight. He had picked his ground and his army now waited to see if the British commanders would take the bait and attack.
With Outram still shaking off the effects of his fall, command of the army had reverted to General Stalker. He would not disappoint the enemy. The British infantry advanced and took up position opposite the Persian line. As they waited, the men sucked on their canteens of precious water while the rest of the British expeditionary force manoeuvred into position.
The light cavalry were sent to guard Stalker’s right flank. He had far too few sabres to cover all his options, so he massed his cavalry opposite the bulk of the Persian general’s horsemen. The two regiments were under strength and horribly outnumbered, but he could not risk letting the Persian general unleash his own troopers without opposition. The 3rd Bombay Lights and the men of the Poona Horse would have to protect the infantry’s flank no matter what the cost. The success of any assault, indeed the success of the entire campaign, relied on their willingness to hold back the horde of enemy horsemen.
The infantry would not be left to advance alone. The expeditionary force had two batteries of foot artillery and one of horse, a total of eighteen guns. The three batteries had been sited along the length of the line. The gunners’ job that day would be simple: they would fire as the infantry advanced, their roundshot and shell certain to work a dreadful destruction on the tightly packed ranks of the Persian defensive line. But to succeed, the artillery officers would have to be unerringly accurate and demonstrate the very highest level of skill, with not a single shot wasted. Stalker was relying on his artillery to batter the Persians into submission before the infantry arrived to launch their assault. If they failed and the enemy line was left intact, the Persian infantry would be able to deliver volleys of such power that the redcoats would be butchered no matter how courageously they advanced.
The plan was simple, but it relied on each of the three branches of the army working together. If one should fail, the whole expeditionary force would be hard pressed to avoid being destroyed. Stalker and his officers had done all they could; it was now down to the rank and file to achieve the victory they so desperately desired.
> The enemy cannon opened fire.
Even from far out on the right flank, Jack could see the pencil-thin trace the roundshot left as they seared through the pale blue morning sky, racing towards the two red lines that advanced towards the Persian position. They smashed into the ground in front of the first rank before flying high into the air and over the heads of the rearmost. The redcoats marched on in silence, ignoring the temptation to jeer at the enemy’s failure.
The British artillery replied. Their guns were of a smaller calibre than those of the Persian army, the roundshot they fired lighter and less powerful. The British gunners had waited to be called into action. They had sweated as they hauled their beloved cannon across country, their trial so much greater than that of the marching infantry. They had endured the same bitter night as the infantry, forced to suffer the enemy barrage without being able to reply. Finally they had been given the order they had waited so long for, and they served their weapons with a will as they opened fire on the strongly positioned Persian army.
The British gunners had not been given long to study the distances. They had been forced to rush the guns into the line as the expeditionary force moved on to the attack, the hasty advance denying them the opportunity to plot their barrage with their usual mathematical precision. Still their first volley smashed into the Persian ranks with dreadful effect, every roundshot working a terrible slaughter on the packed ranks of the enemy.
‘Bloody good shooting, what?’
Jack turned and saw that Lieutenant Arthur Moore, the Bombay Lights’ adjutant, had ridden across to join him. Jack had been given little chance to converse with any of his fellow officers. He had given Captain Forbes a terse summary of the night’s activity when he had finally brought his squadron back to join the rest of the regiment. If his new commander approved of his efforts during the long, wearing night, he made no mention of it. He said little before leaving Jack in command of his squadron and riding to take his place at the head of the regiment as it formed on the right flank of the advancing infantrymen. Now the regiment’s adjutant had found a moment to ride across and spend a moment with their new captain, and Jack was pleased to be able to share his thoughts with another officer.
‘It’s about time the damn gunners made themselves useful. It would have been a waste to have hauled their sorry backsides all this way for nothing.’ Jack welcomed the adjutant with a wry observation.
Moore guffawed at the forthright sentiment. ‘You have that right, old man. Still, let’s hope they save some for us. We don’t want the enemy skedaddling before we have the chance to be about them.’
Jack had to bite his tongue at the naïve words. ‘Let’s hope.’ He tried to sound enthusiastic. He did not think he succeeded.
Moore nodded in approval anyway. He sat at Jack’s side gnawing the ends of his moustache, and Jack saw the tension in the younger officer’s body. Moore held the reins so hard that his hands quivered with the effort, and there was the faintest sheen of perspiration on his forehead.
The lieutenant might have been the product of a privileged upbringing, but that would not save him when the lead started to fly. Jack had known many such officers. Some were brave souls who readily shared their men’s danger and demonstrated the true qualities of a leader. Others were callow fools who shirked the fight once the battle had started and deserved nothing more than scorn and derision. Jack had learnt not to make a judgement simply on the basis of a man’s accent or manner. Battle would reveal his true character, and until then Jack did his best to keep an open mind.
‘The men did well last night. You must be proud of them.’ He offered the praise in an attempt to get the lieutenant talking. He could see the man’s fear.
‘They are good fellows,’ Moore answered, but his mind was clearly elsewhere. The young officer shook himself before fixing Jack with a cheery grin that went nowhere close to his pale eyes. ‘I think you did a pretty good job yourself. I heard Kot-daffadar Khan call you a devil. He said he had never seen a faster blade.’
Jack smiled tightly. He was not good at accepting praise. ‘I did what had to be done. Nothing more.’
‘If slaying half the bloody Persian army by yourself is doing what had to be done, then I am bloody glad you are on our side, old man.’ Moore held his reins a little easier as he spoke. ‘Here we go. I bet that’s for us.’
Both officers had spied the fast-moving galloper riding up to Captain Forbes. The arrival of one of Stalker’s staff meant that orders were being delivered.
‘Let’s see what his lordship has in store for us, shall we?’ Moore invited Jack to join him as he rode forward towards the small gaggle of officers surrounding Captain Forbes, waiting to find out what Stalker was asking them to do.
The 3rd Bombay Light Cavalry advanced in a line, its two squadrons riding side by side. Jack led the second squadron, comprising number five and six troop. He rode in the centre of the formation, with Lieutenant Moore at the head of one troop and Lieutenant Malcolmson on his left at the head of the other. The two troops advanced behind their officers in a line two men deep. Both were under strength; together they numbered just over one hundred and twenty sabres. Behind the line of troopers the trumpeters and the two cornets rode with their covering non-commissioned officers in the serrefile rank, their eyes roving over the men, the daffadars pouncing on any whose horse was even a fraction out of its spacing.
‘March!’
Forbes ordered the line forward, the command echoed by the troop leaders. The regiment eased forward, the horses moving gently, their slow, rolling gait needing to be controlled carefully as the roar of the cannons unsettled the mounts.
To the regiment’s left, the lines of infantry advanced steadily, the redcoats covering the ground rapidly. The enemy cannon fired without pause, their roundshot roaring towards the twin lines like express trains thundering at full speed down the line. Each drove into the ground, digging wide channels in the soft surface before bouncing high in the air, careering onwards before striking the ground again and again, their impetus driving them on with an unstoppable fury.
So far the first line was untouched, the enemy shot wasting its power on the ground around them. The second line was not so fortunate. Roundshot aimed at their colleagues in the front line might have missed their target, but the heavy shot skipped back into the air, their trajectory lowered by the violent contact with the ground. They smashed into the second line, the force of the impact barely diminished, knocking men down so that the passage of the redcoats’ advance was marked out with the crumpled bodies of the fallen.
Jack looked back over his shoulder, studying his own men. The lines were already ragged, the troopers’ exhaustion after the long night in the saddle taking its toll on their discipline.
‘Steady in the ranks.’
Jack was not the only one concerned about what he saw. Lieutenant Moore snapped a series of orders, his face a furious scowl, his displeasure at the disorder in the ranks obvious. The line steadied, the daffadars barking at any man who let his horse move out of the precise formation, the frontage once again as regular and ordered as it would have been on the parade ground. Jack caught Moore’s eye and acknowledged his subordinate’s action with a nod of approval.
‘Trot!’
Forbes ordered the increase in pace. Once again the command was repeated by the troop commanders and echoed by the trumpeters. The horses picked up speed, the noise of their advance increasing. Tackle chimed and clinked as men and mounts went into the trot, the noise of the hooves drumming into the ground getting louder as the speed built.
Jack looked ahead. The Persian line was covered in a thin cloud of powder smoke, the dense ranks of the waiting infantry wafting in and out of view as the brisk breeze blew the rolling smoke along the enemy ranks. The British gunners kept up their rate of fire, their barrage puncturing the smoke cloud as roundshot after roundshot poun
ded into the Persian infantry. Even from a distance Jack could see the damage they were inflicting. All along the enemy line, dozens of men were being hauled backwards, their bodies left in bloody heaps behind their fellows. The British artillery was exacting a dreadful toll on the huge blocks of men waiting for the red-coated line to arrive.
Jack’s horse threw its head, fighting the bit that he kept rammed hard in its mouth. The animal was caught in the passion of the advance. It could sense the tension in the air, its nostrils flaring as it caught the whiff of powder smoke being blown across the battlefield. It was as if the animal knew what lay ahead.
In front of the Bombay Lights, the enemy cavalry waited. They numbered in the thousands. Jack could see the pennants on their lances fluttering in the breeze, the dense ranks appearing to shimmer, the constant movement mesmerising to the eye. They stood watching the British cavalry advance, their ranks packed several men deep, their frontage much wider than that of the two squadrons of the Bombay Lights. If the enemy commander had known what he was about, his cavalry would already have been moving forward to counter the British advance. Meeting a cavalry charge from a stand was to invite disaster. But as yet the Persians gave no sign of moving.
Jack looked to the rear and saw the dark blue coats of the Poona Horse advancing behind his own regiment. They were a fine sight, the bright colour of their tightly woven pagdi adding a splash of gaudiness to the disciplined appearance of the ranks. The Poona Horse were the Bombay Lights’ support, and they held their own advance back, keeping a gap of around four hundred yards between the two regiments. The spacing was vital. If the Poona Horse were too close behind, they ran the risk of being disordered by the shock of the Bombay Lights’ charge. Too far behind and they would be unable to offer support if the enemy started to gain the upper hand. It took fine judgement to maintain the right gap, and Jack hoped the commander of the Poona Horse was up to the job.
The Devil's Assassin (Jack Lark) Page 26
