Windrush: Crimea (Jack Windrush Book 2)

by Malcolm Archibald

  'You keep your neb out of this, Lieutenant. That's not our flag, and we're not fighting for it.' Logan's grin was entirely without humour or mercy as the ragged privates lowered the flag. Jack heard the roar of triumph from the advancing Russians and felt despair chill him. Major Snodgrass had been correct all along. The 113th did not have the stomach for a fight; when things got tough, they ran or surrendered. Now the Russians would take the centre of the British line and roll up both flanks. His weakness had lost the battle.

  Jack glanced from the Russians to Logan and stepped forward. He felt, rather than saw, Coleman and Thorpe lower their bayonets.

  'What the devil are you men doing?'

  'Taking the flag down, sir' Riley answered calmly.

  'I never signed on for the 118th,' Logan said. He folded the Regimental Colour up with surprising neatness, 'I signed on for the 113th.'

  'We are in the 118th now,' Jack stared at him.

  'No, sir. We are the 113th,' Logan said stubbornly.

  There is was. There was that indefinable difference that was the essence of the British soldier; in that simple sentence resided the soul of the British Army. Other nations fought for the Emperor or national glory, for the Holy Soil as seemed to be the Russian way, or for the Motherland. The British soldiers did not. Oh, some might have notions of honour and glory, as the officers did, but most were pragmatic, tough-minded men who lived with a different code. First was friendship to their colleagues and second to their regiment. Among themselves, they would bicker and fight, argue and grouse, as was common in every family, but as soon as an outsider criticised the regiment all would rise in aggressive support. It was the regimental tradition that made the British Army the force it was, not some ephemeral invocation to a higher cause. God help the politician who ever tried to remove the regimental formations from the British Army: nothing would ever be the same again.

  As Jack watched, Riley reached inside his tunic and produced another rectangle of silk. The buff colours of the 113th came into view.

  'I heard that the Zouaves stole that,' Jack said dryly. 'Our Colonel Murphy and General Raglan himself both sent formal complaints to the French.'

  'No, it wasnae the French. It was our boy Riley here,' Logan sounded quite proud that his colleague was a skilled thief. 'He broke into the case while the colonel was sleeping.'

  'Well our boy Riley there had better keep that to himself,' Jack said, 'because if it ever got around he would be in serious trouble.'

  Logan snorted. 'We'll all be deid in a few minutes,' he said, 'so he winnae be in any trouble at all.'

  Jack looked across the Inkerman Ridge. For the first time that day the mist had cleared, and he had a view as far as the ravine. The Russians were in line rather than column, row after row of them filling his vision. The long grey coats flapped around marching legs, with flat caps on top of white, determined faces and the glint of thousands of wickedly sharp bayonets coming toward them. What did he have to stop them? Jack looked around the remnants of his position. The breastwork was flattened, with the rents blocked with British and Russian dead, the Fatal Redoubt nothing more than a name and a charnel house. He was the only officer left alive and unwounded. He had lost the day, and he was bickering with his men over a colourful square of cloth.

  'Here we go then; the last stand of the 118th.' He looked up at the Colours and felt his mouth twist into a smile. 'Or the first stand of the 113th.'

  As a child, he had dreamed of gaining military glory in situations such as this, where he stood beside the flag facing the enemy hordes. However, in his boyhood fantasies, the colours had been those of the Royal Malverns, and he had been a hero. There was no heroism in reality; only sordid agony, contorted death and the battered, sweat-and-smoke streaked faces of frightened yet savagely determined men. His men; men he was proud to fight beside and die beside.

  'Here they are, sir,' O'Neill sounded resigned to the inevitability of death. He hefted his rifle.

  'Let's send them back then,' Jack said. 'Take your positions, 113th.'

  Silently the men filed back to the breastwork in and around the remains of the Fatal Redoubt, with the flag of the 113th sullen above and the sound of Russian singing as a sombre backdrop.

  'Wait until they are at five hundred paces,' Jack said. 'We don't have much ammunition left.'

  He took a deep breath of mixed powder smoke and the shredded remnants of mist. Within ten minutes the Russians would have over-run this position, and there was nothing to stop them rolling up the British flank.

  Jack did not see who fired first; he only knew that the others followed the example in a ragged volley that dropped half a dozen Russians. 'Good shooting, men,' he approved quietly.

  Four hundred yards. The Russians increased their pace. He saw Kutuzov surrounded by his guard of Cossacks in the centre of the line and deliberately aimed at him.

  Whatever else happens, Kutuzov, or Stevensen or whatever you choose to call yourself, you will die here. He pressed the trigger.

  Fouled by a day of near constant use, the Minie rifle had a tremendous kick that bruised his shoulder. One of the Cossacks beside Kutuzov staggered.

  'Missed by God!'

  Reaching into his pocket, Jack fumbled for cartridges, counted only two and removed one. He loaded slowly, trying to ignore the Russian infantry who were now only three hundred yards from the breastwork, and aimed again.

  Kutuzov looked directly at him, the moustached face unsmiling, and the pale blue eyes unemotional as Jack lined up the muzzle of his Minie square between them. Taking a deep breath, he pressed the trigger, rode the kick and cursed as the powder smoke drifted into his eyes. The Russians continued to march with Kutuzov, unharmed, among them.

  'I have one bullet remaining,' Jack said. He was aware of the soldiers firing on either side of him, of their swearing and grunting, of the sweat and powder and fear, yet none of that mattered. This battle on Inkerman Ridge, this entire war, had contracted to a personal duel between him and Kutuzov. One of them, perhaps both of them, would die before the day ended.

  One hundred yards away, the first Russian line halted.

  'What are they doing?' Coleman asked.

  The Russians stood erect, before, in an impressive display of discipline, they crashed their musket butts to their shoulders. All at once, hundreds of Russian muskets aimed at the few remaining British within the Fatal Redoubt.

  'Get down!' Jack roared, pushing Logan and Riley beneath the battered breastwork. He heard the Russian volley crash out and saw splinters of stone scattering from the rocks, puffs of sand from the sandbags and half a dozen corpses in the breastwork twitching as musket ball smashed into them.

  'Anybody hurt?' No reply. 'Back up boys; here they come.'

  Immediately they fired the volley, the foremost Russian line had charged. Jack lifted his rifle and looked for Kutuzov, failed to see him and aimed at the nearest Russian. Seventy yards; fifty, thirty; there were perhaps four hundred Russians in the charge, and less than fifty defenders fit to fight. It would all be over in a few moments. Russian bayonets loomed up at the breastwork.

  Goodbye Helen.

  The volley came from the left flank, tearing into the Russians, scything scores of men to the ground. The Russian attack faltered, and Jack shouted. 'Stand fast!' He looked to the left as a second volley rang out; more Russians fell, and a familiar voice sounded.

  'Hold the barricade, 113th!'

  Major Snodgrass jumped down beside Jack. 'Good to see that you're still alive, Windrush. Colonel Maxwell told us you would need support.'

  Jack nodded, too dazed to understand. 'It's good to see you too, sir. And the 113th.'

  'We're the last regiment into the fight,' Snodgrass sounded remarkably calm. 'Pennefather trusts us no more than Raglan or anybody else does,' He glanced around, checking the line, working out what was happening in this section of the battle. The 113th volleys had shattered the foremost Russian line, which was now in retreat, colliding with the second in a co
nfusion of grey-coated infantrymen. Snodgrass did not hide his grin.

  'There's your target 113th! Fire!' The volley smashed into the milling Russians. 'And keep firing!' Snodgrass began a slow walk along the ranks.

  'Here, private,' Jack turned to the nearest man, 'pass me a handful of cartridges if you please.' He held out his hand.

  'Sorry sir, you've got a rifle, and we've still got the old Brown Bess.'

  Jack started as he recognised the soldier. The man was small with blonde hair and wide eyes. Jack lowered his voice. 'What the devil are you doing here?'

  Charlotte Riley met his gaze, unflinching. 'I came to make sure my husband is all right!'

  'He would be more all right knowing that you are safe!' Jack said. 'Now get out of the firing line and keep out of trouble.'

  'They're coming again!' That was O'Neill's voice.

  The Russians had reorganised, and the survivors of the first wave joined the second in attacking the redoubt. There were perhaps five hundred bayonets, five hundred men determined to fight for their Holy Soil.

  'This fight is not won yet,' O'Neill said.

  'It will be,' Snodgrass had returned.

  'That's Major Kutuzov in the middle of the Cossacks,' Jack tried to point him out as the 113th settled in to fire at the now advancing Russians.

  'The fellow we captured and released.' Snodgrass said. 'Perhaps being gentlemen is not always the best idea.' He looked at his men. 'Our blackguards seem to behaving themselves so far.'

  'Chillianwalla was a long time ago,' Jack reminded. 'The regiment has changed a lot since then.'

  'We will see if it has learned how to fight.' Snodgrass said grimly.

  Jack noted that Riley was beside his wife, and then the Russians closed, the firing grew intense, and he had no time for anything except the situation directly in front of him.

  Jack noticed at once that the firing of the newly-arrived 113th was not as fast, as accurate or as effective as that of the 118th had been. The Brown Bess muskets lacked the range and power of the Minie rifles. With no ammunition, Jack could only watch and encourage.

  'Meet them, 113th!' Snodgrass shouted. 'Remember these are the men who bayonetted and murdered our wounded! Make Colonel Murphy proud of you!'

  As the Russians came within ten yards of the breastwork, most of the 113th rose out of the trenches with the bayonet. Jack estimated that half a dozen men cowered away; the nerve of one man broke, and he turned and fled. Jack saw Charlotte Riley mount the parapet with the rest until Riley took hold of her arm and pushed her back.

  'Keep out of danger you silly muffin!'

  Should I help? No: this is between Riley and Charlotte; I have my duty to do.

  After so many years of being ostracised and treated like third class citizens even by the other regiments in the army, the 113th, at last, had the opportunity to prove themselves. They unleashed their pent-up frustration on the advancing Russians, although the oaths they shouted were directed at their previous humiliation as much as at the Russians.

  With his Cossacks surrounding him, Kutuzov was in the centre of the Russian line. Perhaps sensing that the British had thrown in the last of their reserves, he came fast with a shasqua in one hand and a pistol in the other. Jack saw a pair of British soldiers lower their bayonets and rush toward him, only for the Cossacks to cut both down before they got near Kutuzov.

  With no ammunition and his sword lost, Jack hefted his bayonetted Minie, climbed over the parapet and walked toward Kutuzov. He ignored the odd musket-ball that still whizzed around; he knew that this was between him and the Russian major. Fate had decided that. He watched as four Cossacks closed defensively around Kutuzov.

  'Fight me Kutuzov,' Jack shouted calmly, 'fight me fair you cowardly Russian blackguard!'

  Shasquas drawn, the Cossacks closed on him, until Riley and Logan leapt to block them, with others of the 113th close behind. Only two of the Cossacks remained to rush at Jack as Kutuzov watched.

  'Call them off and fight me fair!' Jack parried the first slash of the shasqua, shacked at the force of the blade as it crashed against the barrel of his rifle.

  'Leave him to me, Windrush,' Snodgrass stepped forward, drawing his sword. 'It has been years since I last participated in an action.'

  Hard pressed by the Cossacks; Jack did not reply. It was all he could do to defend himself, yet alone attack. The Cossacks were skilled and brave, fighting to protect their officer as Jack lunged and parried with the bayonetted rifle. As one stumbled, Jack slashed at him, saw the quick flow of blood from the man's neck and spared a second to see Kutuzov face Snodgrass, saw their blades cross, and then both Cossacks launched a concerted attack on him. Jack was forced backwards, slashing with his bayonet in a figure of eight formation in a desperate attempt to defend himself. He glanced aside and saw Riley on his back with a Cossack poised above him, shasqua ready to plunge into his chest. He heard the report of the Brown Bess and saw the Cossack stagger. Riley saw his chance and wriggled free, allowing Logan a brief opening to finish the Cossack off.

  An unknown soldier of the 113th came to Jack's aid, thrusting his bayonet into the wounded Cossack, grunting with effort. 'That's done for you, you Russian bastard!'

  In the brief respite, Jack glanced backwards at the redoubt. Charlotte stood on the parapet, smoking musket in hand. She waved to her husband and slowly began to reload.

  With their own two Cossacks now disposed of, Logan and Riley came to help Jack. They swarmed over his remaining adversary in seconds, hacking him down and thrusting in their bayonets without thought or pity.

  Panting, drooping from exhaustion, Jack looked around. All along the line the 113th, the despised, unwanted 113th, were fighting and holding. Only here in the centre were the Russians pushing forward. Led by Kutuzov, they had created a bulge in the British defences and were teetering on the parapet of the Fatal Redoubt. If the Russians broke through, they could still win this battle. Nothing was decided; Snodgrass had said that 113th was the last regiment; there were no reserves. If the 113th did not hold there was nothing to stop the Russians.

  Jack raised his rifle as another swarm of Cossacks moved toward him. Exhausted, he hardly had the energy to stand yet along fight. He saw Snodgrass reel before an attack by Kutuzov; the commander of the final British regiment against the man who led the centre of the Russian line. Forget Dannenberg and Pauloff, Soimonoff, Raglan and Pennefather; on Inkerman Ridge; it was the man on the spot who mattered; the fate of the battle and perhaps the war hinged on that duel.

  Younger, fitter and skilful, Kutuzov was winning. He pressed back Snodgrass, forced him onto the defensive with a series of vicious cuts that had the British officer retreating. As Jack watched, Kutuzov feinted to Snodgrass's left, altered the angle of his blow and flicked the sword from the hand of the British officer.

  Jack saw Snodgrass flinch before the Russian. He saw Snodgrass lift his right hand in supplication as if to plead for his life, and then the single musket shot rang out. Jack distinctly saw the puff of white smoke jet from behind the sandbags. He saw the Russian stagger back and crumple to the ground with an expression of disbelief on his face. He saw Snodgrass recover his composure and glance around as if to see if anybody had witnessed his moment of fear. For one second Jack saw Snodgrass sneer, then lift his sabre, plunge it into the already prone body of Kutuzov and straddle the corpse, shouting in triumph.

  Jack looked over his shoulder; Charlotte held the musket that had fired the fatal shot. He met her eyes, saw her expression of disappointment and knew that she had missed her target. She had not been aiming for Kutuzov but for Snodgrass, the man who had mistreated her husband.

  And the situation changed.

  With the death of their leader, the Cossacks wavered, and the impetus disappeared from the Russian attack. They did not turn and flee; the battle was not over; the killing on both sides continued, but the dynamics altered. The advantage slid over to the men of the 113th. There must have been some unconscious instinct am
ong the men, for all would be too concerned with their individual corners of the fight to be aware of what had happened in the centre, but while the Russians began to flag, the men of the 113th found renewed strength.

  'On them, 113th!' Waving his blood-smeared sword, Major Snodgrass pressed them forward. Jack watched, too spent to move as Lieutenant Elliot grabbed the staff that held the colours of the 113th and carried it forward. The 113th surged into the oak-tangled ridge of Inkerman, following the retreating, still fighting Russians.

  'Well, sir; the 113th have played their part,' O'Neill was bleeding from a cut to his face.

  'They have,' Jack said. He watched as Charlotte ran forward to her husband and he knew that the story was not over yet. He suspected that in the morass of the battle, nobody else had seen that single musket shot or the expression on her face. Charlotte Riley had turned that battle, and nobody would ever thank her for it. When eventually the rewards were handed out, her part and her name would not be mentioned. No history book would laud her contribution; officially she was never there. She was only a woman, the wife of a ranker, less than a pawn in this bloody game of war and diplomacy and politics. Major Snodgrass was a lucky man; Jack thought he would be best advised to watch his back for he doubted that Charlotte Riley would give up after only one attempt.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Second Division Camp

  November 1854

  Heavily bandaged yet too stubborn to be shipped to the hospital at Scutari, Colonel Maxwell sat at his desk with Jack standing before him. A soldier servant stood at the side, quietly unobtrusive.

  'Well Windrush, things have changed. As you know both the 113th and the 118th suffered grievous losses in the battle on Inkerman Heights.'

  'Yes, sir,' Jack agreed.

  'General Raglan has decided to merge both units into one, and as the 113th is the senior, we shall retain that number. This is only a temporary measure of course; it will take an Act of Parliament to make such a decision permanent.'