The Burmese were firing hard, with cannon balls howling overhead or raising tall fountains of water. White smoke hazed the stockade and smothered the surface of the river.
'They've got bottom,' Wells had to shout above the noise of battle. He blinked as Rattler fired another broadside. Soldiers and sailors alike coughed in the acrid smoke, wiped the sweat from foreheads and endured the rivulets that ran down their bodies. Jack watched with envy as the seamen stripped off their jumpers and worked bare chested.
'Permission to take off my tunic, sir,' a thin faced soldier named Leigh asked.
'Denied; look to your front,' Jack barked. Soldiers of the Queen did not act in such a casual manner as seamen; discipline must be maintained.
A Burmese round shot skipped off the surface of the river and bounced right across the deck without touching anybody or doing any damage. Jack gasped as the wind of its passage temporarily sucked the wind from his lungs.
'Are you all right, sir?' Wells looked concerned.
Jack nodded, unable to speak.
A few cables' lengths astern, Fox fired her complete broadside. The massive discharge filled the hot air with noise so loud that men clapped hands to their ears. Nobody said that battle was this noisy! Jack watched the closest of the Burmese stockades as the volley smashed home. The stout logs shuddered under the impact; one entire length of teak flew high in the air, spun and arrowed back down. Rattler fired again, and everybody in the ship flinched as there was a huge explosion within the stockade. An orange fireball ripped the logs apart, with yellow flames on the side, slowly subsiding as fragments of timber and people rose and fell, to patter onto the mud and splash on the river, burning dangerously close to the wooden British ships.
There was an instant's silence as men watched the terrible sight.
Wells was first to recover. He spoke to Jack and pointed toward the stockade.
Jack nodded; he could see Well's mouth move, but the tremendous noise had robbed him of his hearing. Splintered remnants of great logs were scattered over a wide area, some burning, others mere shreds of wood and all mingled with the remains of the Burmese defenders. Hearing returned slowly, gradually as partial sounds penetrated the enforced hush.
'Burn in hell, you bastards,' Leigh croaked until Wells jabbed a hard hand under his ribs.
'Keep your mouth shut you useless bugger!'
A lone cannon fired from a second stockade, with the shot falling short.
'They're game, these Burmese;' there was respect in Coleman's voice.
Half a dozen stockades defended Rangoon, each one with its quota of cannon and men. Rattler's captain stood on the bridge, nodding as his ship fired broadside after broadside at the Burmese. Occasionally he gave a brisk command to the other officers on deck. In turn, they ran to the gun captains and pointed out the next target.
Leigh tugged at the leather stock at his neck. 'I feel a bit queer, Sergeant,' he stepped back from the rail. 'It's the heat.'
'Face your front!' Wells pushed him back to his position. 'You're a soldier; act like one.'
The Burmese shot was still coming and mostly still missing, falling short of the line of British ships. The occasional ball skipped over the water nearby as Rattler concentrated on the next stockade. The crewmen altered the angle of their guns, laughing, joking and sweating in the punishing heat of the mid-morning sun.
Greasy white smoke coiled around the cannon, swirled up the masts and lay waist deep along the spar deck as Rattler continued to fire. The sun hammered the deck, setting the tar bubbling between the planking and making every move a torment. Jack wiped perspiration from his forehead and glanced at a lieutenant of the Madras European Infantry, one of the Company regiments that had a contingent of men on board. Where the Queen's officers wore nearly the same uniform in the East as they did back in Britain, the Company officers wore a much looser helmet, adorned with yards of cloth to make a sensible turban and baggy jackets of cotton drill rather than tight shell jackets.
Jack was unsure whether to sneer at their lack of manliness or be jealous of their cooler appearance. He looked away, feeling the sweat prickle inside his white buckskin gloves and thought he was baking within the stifling confines of his uniform.
Leigh tugged once more at his stock, looked appealingly at Sergeant Wells and then slid to the deck. His musket clattered into the scuppers.
'Get up you idle bastard,' Wells stirred him with his boot. When Leigh did not respond, he kicked him sharply in the ribs. 'I said get up, damn you!' He knelt beside him, unscrewed the cap of his water bottle and poured some of the contents on the man's face and neck. 'Come on Leigh,' the tone of his voice had changed from a brusque bark to concern. 'Come on, son…' he forced open Leigh's mouth and upended the bottle. Water dribbled down the side of Leigh's face to form a small pool on the deck.
'Is he all right?' Jack knelt at Well's side.
'No, sir,' Wells looked up. 'I think he's dead.'
'It's the heat,' Knight pulled at his stock. 'He was always grousing about the heat.'
Jack shuddered. That's the first death under my command; the first of my men dead. He knew there would be more, but he would always remember Leigh. He fought his shock: he was a Queen's officer, he could not submit to emotion. 'Unfasten your stocks boys and undo the top buttons of your tunic.'
'That's against Queen's Regulations, sir,' Wells shook his head.
Jack pointed to Leigh. 'I want no more deaths from the heat.' He knew he was asking the impossible. Soldiers died of heat or disease; they always had and they always would. That was a soldier's lot.
'But it's against Queen's Regulations, sir.' Wells repeated. 'The stocks protect our necks from the sun.'
'Do as I order.,' Jack injected authority into his voice, and Wells reluctantly removed the leather stock from his neck. The privates were gleeful as they followed his example, with Coleman rubbing two fingers around his sweating throat.
'It's worth losing Leigh to get that bloody thing off,' Graham said.
'Coleman, you and O'Neill take Leigh below decks,' Jack watched as the two men dragged their comrade away. O'Neill was surprisingly gentle.
I wonder how many more of my men will die before we win this war. How do I feel? Numb; the reality had not hit me yet. I have chosen this life, and the Burmese have to be defeated.
Rattler fired another broadside, with the vessel heeling over in the river and the roundshot howling toward the defences of Rangoon. Within minutes a second stockade was destroyed as its powder magazine exploded and tall flames leapt skyward. The second explosion did not have the same power to shock as the first had done.
'Burn you bastards,' Coleman jeered. He looked toward Wells and patted the lock of his musket. 'Can we fire at them as well, Sergeant?'
'Any more talking from you and you'll feel the cat,' Wells took out his resentment at breaking Queen's Regulations on his men. 'Now keep quiet until you are ordered to talk, damn you.'
The captain gave another order, and the gunners raised their sights. 'Go for the Golden Pagoda, boys!'
With two of the outlying stockades in flames, the Burmese fire had slackened, but most of their heavy artillery was based around the Golden Pagoda. Rattler fired broadside after broadside at this tall target, with her 68 pounder swivel gun adding its fire to those of the spar deck 32-pounders. The smoke became so dense that Jack could not see Fox, yet alone the full line of British ships, but the constant noise and glare of orange muzzle flashes assured him they were still there.
'We're giving them a hell of a licking,' a grinning powder monkey screeched, his voice high pitched with excitement. He immersed his head in a bucket of water on the deck and came up dripping wet and still smiling. 'There's no need for you redcoats to be here; the Navy will do all the work!'
Jack said nothing. Rangoon is on fire, we've destroyed their outer defences, and only the Golden Pagoda is standing. This war may be over in one day.
'Can we at least fire at them, Sergeant?' Coleman ask
ed again. He tapped the butt of his musket. 'We are meant to be soldiers.'
'Stand firm,' Jack ordered. 'And do the 113th proud. We'll get our chance, never fear!'
We'll get our chance if the navy leaves us anything. How can I better the regiment's reputation by merely watching? More important, how can I distinguish myself and get into the Royals, where I belong?
Around two in the afternoon an order from the Commodore Lambert stopped the cannonade. A slight breeze shifted the smoke, pushing it away as if it was a sliding door. Visibility increased. Sunlight reflected from the pagoda and, faint on the wind, the musical tinkle of temple bells mocked the British fleet.
'They only have twelve pounders,' a naval lieutenant's voice sounded through a lull in the firing. 'They can see us, but they don't have the range.' He slapped a hand on the breech of his cannon, 'but neither have we. That temple will stand there until doomsday.'
'Over there, sir,' Wells nodded to the banks of the river. 'There's a group of men.'
Jack nodded. 'So I see.' At this point, the river was no wider than the Thames, muddy and green and turgid, with dismal rice fields or ugly green jungle on either side of Rangoon. There were a few dozen small Burmese boats along the bank, with a larger war-boat peeping out of a sheltered bend. Warriors in light clothes and carrying long muskets and the ubiquitous Burmese dha – the long, viciously sharp knife - clustered around the boats, gesticulating toward the British ships and firing the occasional shot.
'Load your muskets, men.' That was the first time Jack had ever given that order in the face of the enemy. He felt a thrill of mingled excitement and apprehension. Are these Burmese going to try and board us? Will this end up hand to hand, bayonet against these terrible dhas?
That is it. I am a real soldier now; we are under fire and preparing to fight back.
'Get ready to defend the ship if the Burmese attack.'
Somebody swore softly as the eleven remaining men loaded their long Brown Bess muskets much as their forefathers had done at Waterloo and Albuera, Long Island and Quebec. The weapon was the same and the uniforms very similar. Jack realised he was witnessing the same scene as his father and grandfather had seen.
He watched the Burmese moving around the boats, some waving their dhas in anger or defiance or both. The sound of gongs joined the sweet tinkle of the bells. There were drums as well, insistent, martial, strangely unsettling. 'If they board,' Jack said, 'fix bayonets.' He nearly felt the shiver that ran through them, but whether of fear or anticipation, he could not tell.
'Message from the commodore,' a lieutenant called. 'Recommence firing at the pagoda.'
The next broadside sent the Burmese scurrying back to find whatever cover they could find.
By late afternoon orange flames licked through the dense smoke that rolled across Rangoon. Rattler continued to fire until the liquid notes of a bugle sounded, and the guns fell silent. Men looked across at the wreckage that had been a bustling, vibrant town only that morning, grinned at the relief that they were unharmed and wondered what the future would bring. A seaman commented on their smoke-blackened appearance, and others laughed nervously.
'That was easy enough,' Wells said. 'The Burmese hardly put up any resistance.'
Jack glanced along the spar deck of the ship. He could see no casualties on Rattler; for all the fire and fury of the Burmese defence, not a single shot had hit the ship.
Leigh is dead. He is lying below.
'At least the bloody smoke keeps the mosquitoes away,' Coleman said.
'Mr Windrush!' A midshipman ran up. He was about sixteen and looked like a mischievous schoolboy with black powder smoke around his eyes and dirtying his white uniform. 'The Captain sends his compliments and would you care to support our boats with your men?”
It was not the Navy's way to stand idly by while there was work to be done. Rattler's officers were already organising a landing party. A burly petty officer was handing out muskets to sailors who handled them with casual familiarity. Other seamen were sharpening their cutlasses on a circular whetstone while still more lowered three boats over the side into the river.
'Please inform the captain that I will be delighted,' Jack said. He raised his voice. 'Come on the 113th! Time to show these sailor men how to fight.'
A seaman stood in the bow of the small boat, holding a boathook to attach it to Rattler. 'Down you come lads,' he invited. 'Don't mind the rocking!' His grin was more amused than mocking as the soldiers dropped clumsily into the boat, tripping over the thwarts as they jostled for seats.
'Sit still,' Jack ordered. 'Keep your rifles upright between your knees and for God's sake keep your bayonets in the scabbard. I don't want anybody spitted.'
They look nervous. Thorpe is white faced, and Coleman looks sick. There is no bluster now.
He glanced at the river bank. The Burmese were waiting, waving their wicked looking dhas and loading their muskets in readiness for the landing. Despite the severe cannonade they had endured they did not appear cowed. With small turbans on their heads, dark quilted jackets and mostly bare legs they looked alien and somehow all the more dangerous for that.
Four more seamen boarded the boat, their nimbleness a contrast to the lumbering soldiers. They grabbed oars and even as the soldiers settled, began to pull toward the shore. The young midshipman sat in the stern giving crisp orders.
'These Burmese lads look right handy,' Thorpe sounded nervous. 'I don't like the look of their swords.'
'They're called dhas,' Wells said, 'and they don't like the look of our muskets either. Now stop grousing and earn your pay.'
'We don't like the look of you, Thorpey,' Coleman added and looked over his shoulder at the rapidly approaching land. 'Oh, Thorpey there's thousands of them all waiting to cut your goolies off. Can you hear them? They're chanting: give us Thorpey, we want Thorpey.' Some of the other soldiers echoed his laugh, but most fidgeted uncomfortably on the wooden seats. Smoke drifted from the burning stockades, and the sounds of drums reached them, loud now, mingled with the wailing of women and the hoarse shouts of men. A gong clattered brassily from the wreckage of the nearest stockade.
'Jesus,' Thorpe said. 'They're going to massacre us.' He glanced back toward Rattler. 'Get back to the ship, boys, for God's sake.'
'Sit tight!' Jack yelled as Coleman began to rise. 'We have a job to do!'
Others of the 113th were looking nervous and following Thorpe's lead in staring at the Burmese soldiers that waited for them. The sound of drums increased, filling the air and making speech difficult.
It's going to be Chillianwalla all over again: another disgrace for the regiment.
'Sit back down!' Jack reached forward and pushed at the shoulders of Coleman, shoving him hard back onto his seat. 'You took the Queen's Shilling to be a soldier, and by God, you will act like one or I'll shoot you dead here and now!'
To their right, the second of Rattler's boats surged past with the seamen on board cheering as they neared the shore. Men from the Madras Fusiliers looked curiously at the upheaval among the 113th.
'Right lads!' Jack shouted above the noise of drums. 'Now is our chance to show the bluejackets what the 113th can do! Let's make our children proud of us!'
There was a scattering of musketry, and a ball thumped into the boat, raising chips of timber and leaving a raw scar on the wood. Thorpe screamed, and Coleman ducked, cowering beside the men around him for shelter.
'Sit to attention!' Jack ordered. 'Don't bob!' He looked astern. The young midshipman was standing by the tiller as he concentrated on steering the boat. Jack took a deep breath and stood up, balancing against the movement and hoping the Burmese did not use him as a target. They were within twenty yards of the river banks, and he could make out the facial features of the waiting enemy. He shivered; they were watching him out of expressionless eyes in flat faces, waiting.
'Ready lads!' Jack reached for the pistol at his belt. He had bought an Adams pepperpot revolver because of the firepower, and now he wa
s glad of the six chambers. He touched his sword hilt; it was the 1845 pattern Wilkinson sword, designed by John Latham, with a thirty-two and a half inches long, slightly curved blade and with a sharkskin grip, yet it seemed inadequate and fragile compared to the lethal dhas of the Burmese. Suddenly Jack's force of twelve British soldiers seemed very inadequate compared to the number of Burmese that was waiting for them. He heard the harsh breathing of his men, and then the bow of the boat slithered onto soft mud, and the bluejackets were leaping over the side, drawing their cutlasses and yelling at the enemy.
There is no fear in these seamen.
'Fire a volley!' Jack ordered, 'then charge!'
His doubts had all vanished. Instead, he felt a wild elation as he gave the order, fired his revolver at the gesticulating Burmese, rode the kick that jolted his forearm, and ran forward hoping his men were at his back. He remembered one of the few occasions that his father had spent time with him.
'There are two types of officers,' his father had said. 'Those that say: go on and those that say: come- on. In the Royals, we only have room for the come-ons.'
Now Jack was a come- on officer, leading his men from the front. This was not how he imagined his first action, jumping into muddy water against a bunch of turbaned men in some obscure eastern town; he had thought of leading the Royals against the French in some glorious European battle with a cast of tens of thousands.
Jack fired again, but the Burmese did not rush to meet him, as he thought all soldiers would do. Instead, they turned and fled before the two sides came within bayonet distance.
'They're running!' Wells did not sound surprised. 'We've sent them running!' He knelt and fired his musket at the retreating Burmese, 'come back and fight, you bastards!'
Belatedly, Jack checked his men. They were all with him, panting in the heat, white of face and more scared than war-like, but they had followed him. Twelve men of the 113th had proved they were not cowards. To that extent, the shadow of Chillianwalla was lightened. Even Coleman had kept up and now shouted abuse as the Burmese disappeared into the thick scrub that reached nearly to the walls of Rangoon.
Windrush (Jack Windrush Book 1) Page 8
