The Devil's Assassin (Jack Lark)

by Paul Fraser Collard

  Captain Forbes reined in beside him. Jack looked across and saw the strain on the young commander’s face.

  ‘The regiment is doing well, sir.’ He offered the encouragement, watching Forbes carefully.

  ‘Thus far, perhaps.’ Forbes kept up his facade. ‘The day is not yet done.’

  ‘True.’ Jack wanted to somehow reassure the captain that he was leading his regiment on a day that would live long in its annals. But he did not know the man well enough and he could not find the words that would break down the barrier of unfamiliarity.

  The squadron was re-forming. It was slow, the men’s tiredness obvious, their lathered horses close to exhaustion. Yet Forbes was correct. The day was not yet over. The left and centre of the Persian line might have been in full retreat, but its largely untouched right flank was still formed and ready to fight.

  Forbes looked Jack hard in the eyes. ‘We have more work to do, Captain Fenris. The Poona Horse are to pursue the enemy infantry. I want us to harry their right flank.’

  Jack said nothing. He turned and looked back at his squadron, the ranks now standing silent and ready for orders. They had fought all night and had charged twice that day, but they would not be allowed to rest.

  He faced Forbes. ‘We’re ready, sir.’

  ‘Good.’ The commander of the 3rd Bombay Light Cavalry offered a tight-lipped smile. ‘We are going to attack over there.’

  He turned and pointed to the massed ranks of infantry battalions on the enemy’s flank. The Bombay Lights had fought cavalry and artillery. Now they would face a horseman’s worse fear. They would charge the bayonets of the Persian infantry.

  The squadron moved quickly and with purpose. They trotted down the hillock and turned to face the enemy’s flank. The two lines of red-coated infantry were close now. Yet they were still too far away to join the fight, the distance too great even for the power of the 64th’s Enfield rifles.

  ‘Trot!’

  The cavalry wheeled to the left as Forbes led them towards the Persians’ surviving flank. Their line was ragged and the files were forced to work hard to maintain their spacings as they realigned the ranks so that they could sweep on to the Persian infantry. The formation lacked the regimental precision with which it had started the day, the effects of the two vicious engagements showing in the bloodstained uniforms that had been slashed and battered by the enemy. Yet they still displayed a purpose that was chilling.

  The Persian infantry saw them coming. With the rest of their army in disarray and the steady lines of British infantry moving ever closer, the enemy foot soldiers had been forced to begin a long and lonely retreat. Unlike their comrades, the three Sabriz battalions moved in good order, marching in tight columns. They had witnessed the destruction of their artillery and seen their cavalry driven from the field. Yet they were determined to fight on, to show that not all of the Persian force was so easily defeated.

  As the British cavalry trotted towards them, the Persian infantry saw only one course of action. The closest battalion, the 1st Khusgai Regiment of Fars, stopped and immediately began to re-form, leaving the rest of their comrades to carry on the retreat. To the hoarse screams of their vekils, the side of the battalion closest to the British cavalry turned to face outwards, the men shuffling into three deep ranks. Around them, the rest of the troops marched to form the other three sides of the square. Calmly and without fuss, the battalion moved into the defensive formation that would keep it safe from the advancing British cavalry.

  Jack watched the manoeuvre as the Bombay Lights headed straight for the enemy infantry. He was impressed by the steadiness in the Persian ranks. The infantry battalion had seen its comrades routed, yet still it stood its ground, determined to see off the small band of cavalry that had already caused so much destruction that day.

  It was an easy decision for the Persian commander to make. The single squadron of horsemen numbered just over one hundred riders. The square was made up of more than five hundred infantrymen each armed with a musket and a bayonet. The odds were so heavily in the Persians’ favour that not even the sight of so many of their fellows retreating had deterred him from halting and preparing to fight off the remains of the British cavalry.

  At any moment Jack expected Forbes to sound the halt, to bring the squadron to an impotent stop, far out of the range of the enemy’s muskets. Yet for a reason Jack could not fathom, the commander of the 3rd Bombay Light Cavalry showed no sign of even pausing. The younger Moore rode at his shoulder, the adjutant belatedly drawing a sabre unblemished with blood. The two officers advanced a little way in front of the squadron, their attention focused on the force of Persian infantry that stood resolutely in their path.

  The Bombay Lights were at least five hundred yards away when the front rank of infantry squatted to the ground, the butts of their muskets rammed hard into the soft, sandy soil, the bayonets held ready to rip out the guts of any horse foolish enough to venture close. Behind them, the two standing ranks presented their muskets, the tips of the bayonets reaching past the heads of the front rank. Still the Bombay Lights rode on. If Forbes ordered the charge, they faced a long gallop right into a volley from the Persians’ muskets. When the horses swerved away from the wall of bayonets, as they surely must, they would be forced to ride past the other sides of the square, giving the rest of the Persian infantrymen the chance to open fire. It would be a massacre. If Forbes ordered the charge, he was committing one hundred men and their horses to certain death.

  Still they pressed on. The line flowed swiftly across the plain, the steady trot closing the distance with surprising speed. Forbes stayed silent, never once looking away from the square. He sat his horse easily, his sabre held almost casually in his right hand, as if on an afternoon’s hunt rather than heading directly into a Persian volley.

  Jack felt the fear churn in his stomach. He had once taken his place in a square, standing shaking as a force of enemy cavalry rushed towards his company. It was a memory that still haunted his dreams. His men had stood firm, defiant in the face of the enemy horsemen. The square had not broken and they had blasted the cavalry from their saddles as they swirled around them, the horses unable to close on the wall of bayonets. Now he was riding towards a similar formation. He knew what would happen, yet he was powerless to stop it.

  He saw Forbes lift his sabre and point it at the sky, preparing to give the command to begin the gallop that would soon give way to the madness of the charge.

  Jack fought off the fear. He went to draw his talwar, but the blood on the blade had congealed in his scabbard and it would not come free. He tugged harder, breaking it loose before he raised it high, mirroring his commander’s gesture.

  ‘Bombay Lights!’ Forbes’s voice cracked as he shouted for attention. ‘Bombay Lights!’ The voice hardened, the words coming clear above the noise of the moving horsemen.

  Jack’s exhaustion slipped away as he prepared for the final charge. He had come so far. He had stolen a place in society far above his own and proved that an unwanted child from the foulest rookeries of London could achieve so much more than his station in life allowed. Now he would likely die on a foreign field in the service of his Queen. He glanced round quickly. He saw the look of stony determination on the face of Lieutenant Moore, and the grim expressions of the troopers, who were following their officers into almost certain oblivion.

  He turned to face the front, focusing his attention on the tightly packed ranks of Sabriz infantry, who watched in astonishment as the fragile line of blue-coated cavalry advanced to attack.

  Forbes slashed his sword forward, pointing it at the square.

  Jack repeated the gesture, opening his mouth to echo the order that was about to follow.

  He was leading his men into battle. There was nowhere else on earth he would rather be.

  ‘Gallop!’

  Forbes bellowed the command.
The squadron picked up speed. The horses moved willingly, carrying their masters to the slaughter without hesitation.

  Jack never once took his eyes off the Persian square. Even as his horse powered forward, he watched the barrels of the muskets that pointed towards him. He was pulling away from his men, his charger faster than the mounts issued to his troopers, but he did not care. Nothing mattered save the need to reach the enemy and try to force a way into the wall of bayonets.

  The distance closed with terrifying speed.

  He could see the muskets wavering as the infantrymen struggled to hold them still, the heavy bayonets at the tip making the weapons unwieldy. A Persian officer stood with the second rank. Jack watched the fear etched on the man’s face as he stared aghast at the racing cavalry. He saw too the determination as the enemy officer waited for the British horsemen to come into range.

  The Persian officer opened his mouth. Jack was close enough to see the muskets steady, the infantry stiffening their muscles as they braced for the brutal kick that would follow a heartbeat after they pulled their triggers.

  Forbes turned and glanced at his command. He caught Jack’s eye. Jack tried to read the emotion in the man’s gaze, but the stare was too intense. Forbes was still looking at him when the Persians fired.

  The storm of musket balls tore through the air. Jack flinched uncontrollably, his body reacting to the sound of the missiles scorching past.

  The volley smashed into the line of galloping troopers.

  Men were snatched from the saddle as the musket balls tore into their flesh. Horses were struck down, their bodies crashing to the ground, their riders thrown to the dusty soil. The sound of the dozen or more impacts was dreadful, like the meaty slap of a butcher slamming a fresh carcass on to the chopping block.

  The screaming began.

  Horses shrieked, their bellows of agony tearing at the hearts of the troopers who rode past the carnage unscathed. Men screamed, their bodies shattered by enemy bullets or by a violent connection with the ground.

  The Bombay Lights did not falter.

  Even as they galloped forward, they closed the ranks, callously ignoring the fallen, thinking of nothing but reaching the enemy. They raced on, their bloodied sabres held ready for the Persians who stood in their path.

  Forbes still led them. His breeches ran with red from a bullet wound to his leg, but he charged onwards nonetheless, throwing his head back as he bellowed the final order that would send his precious regiment against the enemy that had killed so many of the men under his command.

  ‘Charge!’

  The men responded. They roared as they went, their terror released, and the regiment surged forward.

  Jack let the madness take him. He screamed as he raced forward, the certainty of his imminent death releasing a soul-searing shriek that came from the very core of his being.

  The Persian soldiers held their ground. The smoke of their volley billowed around them. The closest flank of the square stood firm, the vicious weapons bristling outwards, creating an obstacle that no horse could penetrate.

  Adjutant Moore was in the van. Forbes fell behind, his tiring horse slowing his progress. The younger of the two brothers would have seen the wall of bayonets ahead of him, the hundreds of faces standing behind the seventeen inches of steel bayonet.

  He did not turn away. He held his line, spurring his horse hard. The willing animal tore towards the wall as if it were nothing more than a hedgerow on a day’s hunt.

  Moore set his horse at the square. He released his sabre, letting it fall, trusting to the thick cord around his wrist to keep it at his side, both hands needed to control his mount. With a final desperate yell, he urged the animal to jump.

  It soared up, its hooves scrabbling at the air as it tried to vault the wall of bayonets. They came for it the moment it left the ground. Dozens of sharpened steel blades tore at its flesh, the vicious points ripping through its soft underbelly. The Persian officer who had controlled the volley lifted his pistol and fired at the madman who had tried to break the square. The bullet took the animal in the side of the head, smashing through skull and brain, killing it in an instant.

  The stricken beast crashed into the Persian soldiers, crushing the nearest men, whole files smashed by the impact. It kicked out as it died, knocking more men to the ground, its iron-shod hooves breaking bones as they lashed out. Moore was thrown, his final roar of anger turned into a scream of terror as he went down with his horse.

  Captain Forbes watched in horror, yet still he did not pause. He shortened his reins, bunching them tightly into his left hand before spurring his own horse forward and leaping at the square, following Moore’s line so that he jumped over the chaos the adjutant’s dying horse had created.

  He was lucky. With so many Persians struck down by the falling horse, there were few bayonets left in position. He surged over the wall, landing on the far side without coming to harm.

  He turned hard, slashing his sabre at the rear rank. He fought in silence, jaw clenched, teeth bared, attacking the files that had been crushed by Moore’s wild charge, thrusting his horse at the last men left standing. His sword took a man in the face, and a visceral roar escaped his gritted teeth before he struck another Persian infantryman to the ground. He urged his horse forward, riding it over the bodies of the men he had killed, forcing an opening in what remained of the square’s flank. His bloodied sabre hacked at a musket, battering it to one side before he thrust the point into the man’s neck.

  He turned, his war cry faltering as he found no one left close enough to fight.

  There was a gap in the square.

  Jack had seen the two officers jump the wall of bayonets. He had watched in mounting horror as Moore fell. The sight sickened him and he cursed the fool’s courage that had driven the young officer to the hopeless act. Then he saw Forbes land unharmed. He pulled at his own reins, realigning his horse so that he was heading for the place where the two officers had leapt, a sudden rush of hope surging through him.

  The wall ahead was blocked, the rear ranks still standing, their bayonets holding the line. Then Forbes struck. More men fell, and Jack saw the opening.

  He raced for the gap. He saw the look of terror on the Persian soldiers’ faces as they realised what had happened. A thin-faced officer stepped forward, blocking the hole in the ranks, trying to seal it off alone.

  Jack roared in anger. He spurred his horse hard, urging it to find a final surge of speed. More Persian infantrymen were rushing to close the gap, their muskets raised, bayonets pushing forward.

  With a valiant effort, his horse responded. Jack felt its body tense beneath him as it strained with the last of its strength. The final yards rushed past, then Jack was slashing his talwar downwards, beating away the bayonets that reached for him as he raced through the opening. He felt a blade slice through his left calf, the blinding flash of pain the last thing he noticed before he was through and into the centre of the square.

  He had been prepared to die, certain that the decision to charge the square would send the squadron to its doom. The sudden release and the hope of life surged through him, mixing with the horror and the fear to fuel the intoxicating madness of battle.

  He cut down the nearest man, his blade ripping away the Persian’s throat. He felt nothing as the man fell, his only thought to find more of the enemy to kill. The thin-faced officer who had tried to seal the gap came at him. His curved sabre slashed forward but Jack blocked the blade, knocking it to one side, then kicked out, driving the point of his boot into the officer’s face. The man reeled backwards and Jack spurred forward, standing tall in his stirrups before smashing his sword down on to the man’s skull, killing him with the single blow.

  He reined his mount away, turning it back into the gap that had been created. There were bodies everywhere. Some lay still, their bloody flesh a test
ament to the skill of the two British officers who had made it into the square. Others were staggering to their feet, rushing to recover after having been knocked to the ground by Moore’s falling horse.

  The gap was closing. Men from the opposite face were rushing forward, led by an experienced vekil who had grabbed a section from the third rank without waiting for orders, knowing that his battalion faced destruction if they let the British cavalry into the square.

  Forbes had been surrounded and forced into a desperate defence against half a dozen bayonets. More men were being summoned to the unequal fight, the Persian officers trying to end the resistance of the British cavalrymen who had found a way into the square.

  Adjutant Moore was pinned under his fallen horse. He fought on, slashing his broken sword against any who came close, his body twisting and writhing as he tried to keep open the channel he had created.

  Jack saw the fresh rush of infantrymen coming and drove his horse at them. He slashed his sabre hard, cutting at the leader of the group, but the man was ready for him and blocked the blow with his musket, then grabbed at Jack’s leg, trying to throw him from the saddle. Jack felt the man’s fingers digging into the flesh of his thigh like claws, and he roared in building frustration as he brought his talwar down, chopping the hilt on to the top of the man’s head. The vekil fell away and Jack threw his horse round, thinking to rush back in a final attempt to keep the opening free and give his troopers a way into the square.

  He was too late. The rest of the vekil’s squad had rushed past as their leader wrestled with the foreign horseman. Already they were reaching the opening. The gap was being sealed off. The British officers would soon be trapped. Cut off and alone, they would not stand a chance.

  Lieutenant Moore hit the square like a knight of old. The huge officer was mounted on the biggest charger in the battalion and he thundered into the Persian infantry’s re-forming ranks, using his horse as a living battering ram to force an opening. Men were knocked flying as the huge animal smashed through their files, their bodies broken by the force of the impact. Moore slashed at those left standing, cutting a bloody swathe through the Persian flank.