‘I will be back.’
Aamira nodded. ‘I will wait here.’
She flashed him a smile. One he could not return. He felt a sense of disaster pressing down on him. There was a futility about the fight that was to come. He could see no way out and little chance of survival. He knew that this time the enemy would come in greater numbers. The sepoys were no fools. Even without their officers there was enough experience in their ranks to know not to risk another wild assault like the first. This second attack would be more ordered, impetuosity now replaced with discipline. The magazine’s defenders were surely doomed.
‘Jack.’ Aamira’s hand plucked at his sleeve, asking for attention.
He looked at her and saw the understanding in her eyes.
‘You have done all you could.’ Her voice was soft. There was no trace of recrimination. No hint of blame.
Jack was finding talking hard. ‘Are you sure you won’t leave?’ He tried one last time.
Aamira smiled. ‘No.’
He looked down. He had argued long and hard for her to make a bid to escape whilst she still could. She had refused.
She saw his distress. ‘This is not of your making. It is our fate.’
‘Fate.’ Jack spat the word out. It mocked him. ‘Stay here. I will come for you.’
He felt the fear settle. He tugged his revolver from its holster and hefted the weight. If Aamira was right, he could not escape his fate. But that did not mean he would have to go to it meekly.
The thump of ladders hitting the outside wall came clearly to Jack as he stood half a dozen paces from where he had left Aamira. Before he had sat down with the three officers he had fashioned a simple redoubt, piling up empty ammunition crates to form a crude defensive wall to protect the gunpowder trail that led into the magazine.
It had not taken long to prepare the rudimentary fortress. Willoughby had left two coils of slow match there, ensuring that he had the means to light the fuse when he judged the cause to be lost. Jack had selected two dozen new Enfield rifles and loaded each one with care before stacking them in his redoubt so that he could fire at the enemy without the need to reload.
Now he placed his revolver on top of one of the crates, leaving it easily to hand for when the time came. He made sure his talwar was loose in its scabbard before picking up the first of the rifles.
‘Are you ready?’ Willoughby approached and joined Jack in his prepared position.
‘No.’ Jack managed to smile. ‘Are you?’
Willoughby sighed. He busied himself lighting the first coil of slow match. He took his time, lifting the glowing end carefully to his mouth so he could blow on it, making sure it was well alight. ‘No, Jack, I am not ready for this. I am an artillery officer. We are not meant to fight hand to hand. Look at me. Do I look like a warrior?’
‘Maybe not.’ Jack ran his hands over the Enfield. He could smell the oil that had protected the rifle in its crate during the long journey from the factory in England. ‘But now is your time. Like it or not, you will have to fight.’
Willoughby lit the second fuse. The sound of men scrabbling up the ladders was clearly audible, even over the thumping of their hearts.
Jack risked a glance at the wall. He saw the leading attackers appear, the turbaned heads bobbing as they moved fast.
‘Good luck, Jack.’ Willoughby’s voice rasped in his throat. ‘I never got the opportunity to thank you properly. For your assistance.’
Jack pulled the Enfield into his shoulder, settling the heavy wooden stock so that it fitted snugly against the muscle. ‘It’s a bit late for that.’ He spoke out of the side of his mouth, his eye peering through the rifle’s sight. The head of a mutinous sepoy hovered over the tip of the barrel. ‘But thank you.’
The words were lost in the crash of the rifle firing. Jack grunted as the recoil punched hard into his flesh. The head of the climbing sepoy snapped backwards, the spray of blood bright enough for Jack to see before the first waft of powder smoke obscured his view.
The second fight for the magazine had started. This time there would be no easy victory. Jack threw the empty rifle to one side and reached for another. They might be doomed but he would not stop fighting. It was all he could do.
‘Number one gun, fire!’
The left-most cannon in the gun line opened fire. The double load of canister exploded from the barrel, flames spewing as the shot roared away. It ripped through the lead ranks of sepoys, knocking men down, their bodies tumbling from the rampart.
Jack fired another Enfield, the echo of the cannon blast ringing in his ears. He missed, the bullet cracking against the stone parapet behind the crouching sepoy he had been aiming at. He tossed the rifle away, his left hand already reaching for the next. He did not curse as he failed to hit his target. He felt nothing but an eerie calm. Even as he fought for the last time, he kept his feelings at bay, his only thought the next target, the next shot.
‘Number two gun, ready! Fire!’ Willoughby stood to the right of the line of cannon, his thin sabre lifted high before he cut it down through the heavy air as he roared the command.
The sepoys were spreading out fast. Rather than galloping for the turrets and the stairs that led down into the courtyard, they were fanning out, filling the rampart. Already more than twenty men had made it safely into position, their muskets trained on the handful of defenders.
The second cannon fired, its charge blasting out in a fresh spew of violence. Another file of sepoys fell, their bodies shredded by the dreadful storm of canister. The corpses tripped the men behind them, blocking their path. But it did not take long for the ruined bodies to be kicked heartlessly to one side, the flow of reinforcements quick to clear a path through the carnage.
Jack fired again. His shot was good and true, and his target bent double over the hole torn in his stomach. The man fell, his body pushed unceremoniously over the edge of the rampart by the callous boots of other rebel sepoys.
Another wave flowed up the ladders and over the wall. They rushed forward, filling the gaps in the line of men who knelt down, peering over the sights on their percussion cap muskets as they aimed at the stubborn group of firangi still fighting, even though their cause was surely lost.
Jack snatched up his next weapon. He could see a man directing the sepoys, his bellowed commands retaining order even as the defenders blasted huge holes in the attackers’ ranks. He pulled the rifle into position, aiming at the enemy leader, bringing the man’s face into his sight.
The sepoys fired first.
The storm of musket balls cracked against Jack’s barricade. He flinched, ducking away as they tore huge splinters from the wooden cases behind which he sheltered. The cases were sturdy enough to keep him safe, and he stood and snapped off a shot, only ducking back into cover as he saw it go wide.
A cry to his left told him that the men manning the guns had not been so fortunate. He glanced across and saw Forrest on the ground, his left hand smothered with blood. Another of the gunners lay stretched out in the dust, his right arm twisted and useless.
‘Number three gun, ready!’
Willoughby snapped the order. He had lost his shako to the enemy fire but was otherwise whole. His voice wavered when he saw no one standing ready to obey the command. To his obvious relief, Lieutenant Raynor rushed across to snatch up the lanyard that had fallen from Forrest’s grip.
‘Fire!’
Canister belched from the maw of the cannon as Raynor pulled the lanyard. It cut down half a dozen attackers, but they were quickly replaced, the ramparts filling fast as more and more rebels piled over the wall.
‘Shit!’ Jack ducked out of sight as another musket volley blasted out. A thick splinter sliced through the soft flesh under his right eye and he felt the blood hot on his skin. He ignored the pain and got back to his feet, aiming the next rifle at the attacking horde.
He looked for the man bellowing commands and spotted him on the rampart, his arms gesticulating wildly as he ordered
men to fill the gaps the cannon’s shot had ripped in the sketchy formation. It took a single heartbeat to bring the man into the rifle’s sight. This time Jack paused, forcing his muscles to hold still. He saw the man’s mouth open wide as he bawled out another order to fire. He felt a desperate urge to hide away but forced himself to stay where he was. The enemy answered the command, the volley tearing huge rents in the ammunition crates, but Jack held still, keeping the target in his sights. The air stilled, and he pulled the trigger.
The Enfield fired a heavy bullet. It hit the sepoy’s leader in the neck, tearing through the thick gristle as if it were silk. It was a dreadful wound, half severing the man’s head. He fell away, his orders cut off.
Yet there were so many sepoys on the wall that they needed no more orders. Fresh men crowded into the melee, their muskets pulled hastily into their shoulders, their fire scouring the courtyard, aimed at the line of defenders no more than forty to fifty yards away.
‘Number four gun, ready!’ Willoughby refused to be cowed and stood tall, braving the muskets even as he shouted the order. ‘Fire!’
His words were followed by nothing but silence. There was no one left to answer their commander’s order. Willoughby stood quite alone, the men under his command now sprawled and bleeding in the dust.
More muskets fired. The volley was drawn out, each man pouring on the fire as soon as he was able. The musket balls smacked into the courtyard, kicking up puffs of dust that leapt high into the air so that it looked as though the soil was under attack from a deadly hail.
Willoughby fell.
The sepoys cheered as the defenders’ commander hit the ground, their roar of victory echoing around the courtyard. They made for the towers that would give them access to the blood-strewn magazine, elbowing each other in their haste, the madness infectious. Each man fought to lead. The quickest amongst them would be able to be the first to drive their bayonets into the bodies of the men who had killed so many of their comrades.
The sepoys hollered with the joy of their victory.
But one defender still lived.
Jack moved fast. He had seen Willoughby fall, his face turned into a mask of blood. He snatched up his revolver as he left his shelter, thrusting it clumsily into its holster, and raced across to the line of silent guns, his eyes focused on the lanyard that would fire the last cannon in the line.
The sepoys roared in anger as the lone defender broke from cover. Jack paid the sound no heed. He slid to a halt beside the gun, his boots skidding in the dust, his hands reaching for the fallen lanyard.
The cannon was aimed at the ramparts. Even with dozens of the sepoys racing down the hidden stairways, the gantry behind the wall was still packed with men.
Jack felt the coarse rope under his fingers. He did not hesitate.
The cannon leapt into the air as it fired, the recoil driving it backwards. The double load of canister belched forth, the tightly packed musket balls in the casing creating a fan-shaped wedge of death amongst the ranks of sepoys on the wall. Many were scythed down, bodies flayed by the wicked storm, a wide, gory channel cut in the crowd.
It would not be enough to stem the tide. Even as the cannon’s fire knocked a dozen men from their feet, the fastest attackers were reaching the courtyard. This time there were far too many for Jack to fight alone.
He scrambled to his knees and saw the faces of the men rushing to kill him. They ran hard, their bayonets held out and ready to rip into the flesh of the fallen.
Jack’s hand fell to his revolver. He had five bullets. He would take as many of the mutinous sepoys with him as he could, a final tally to blacken his soul in the moments before it was judged.
‘Jack!’
He heard his name called but ignored it, his thoughts on the enemy that was now no more than twenty yards away. He raised the revolver. It took a single heartbeat to squint down the barrel, filling the simple sight with the twisted face of the closest sepoy.
He fired, the gun moving to cover the next target before he even saw the first man fall, the bullet catching the sepoy in the dead centre of his forehead.
‘Jack! The charge!’ Willoughby was scrabbling on the ground, trying to get to his feet. Yet the wound to his head had left him dazed and he could do nothing but claw at the dust, his strength gone. ‘Light the damn fuse!’
He was urging Jack to commit one last act of defiance. One that would deny the enemy the precious magazine and the vital supplies it contained. A final throw of the dice that would surely kill them all.
Jack dropped his revolver and ran, his arms pumping hard as he forced himself into a wild dash for the temporary redoubt that had sheltered him from the storm of enemy musket fire.
The sepoys were closing. With no fire coming from the defenders, the men sent to attack the magazine pushed themselves to run faster, knowing that the glory and the rewards of victory would fall to those with the courage to lead the assault.
Jack grimaced as he forced the pace. He had no breath left in his lungs and his throat burnt with the effort.
‘Come on, Jack!’
A new voice urged him on. Aamira stood behind the redoubt. She had come forward and now she reached for one of the loaded Enfields. Even as Jack ran, she lifted the heavy rifle and aimed it at the sepoys tearing after him.
The crash of the rifle firing reached Jack as he neared the redoubt. He saw Aamira knocked half a pace backwards by the recoil, her slight frame battered by the power of the discharge. But he heard the scream behind him as the nearest sepoy was hit. Aamira’s stubborn bravery was buying him time.
He reached the bullet-scarred redoubt. There was no time for words. He snatched the first of the two coils of slow match and turned, his only thought to reach the precious fuse.
He was too late.
A sepoy ran round the edge of the ammunition crates, his bayonet thrusting at Jack, its tip reaching for the pit of his belly. An explosive grunt spat from the sepoy’s mouth as he put every ounce of his strength into the attack. Jack spun on his heel, his instincts saving him for a moment longer. He barely saw the sharp steel before it slipped past his stomach, missing him by no more than a quarter-inch. It gave him the time he needed. He saw the grimace on the sepoy’s face as the blow went wide, the anger that had driven it turned to panic. With the slow match in his left hand, Jack drew his talwar. It keened as it slipped from its leather scabbard, the dried blood in the writing etched into the blade a reminder of the men it had already slain that day. He slashed it forward, the action smooth and instinctive. The talwar ripped through the sepoy’s throat, the tip tearing away the man’s scream of horror.
Still more sepoys swarmed towards him, shrieking with anger and fear. He saw their snarls of hatred, the twisted faces of men closing for the kill.
And the madness returned.
He had controlled it for so long, fighting with the calm detachment he had been forced to learn if he was to lead a company of redcoats in battle. Now he felt the madness surge into him and he let it take him. He threw himself at the charging sepoys, careless of the risk. His talwar sliced through the first man’s stomach, felling the unfortunate soul before he even realised the last surviving firangi was launching an attack of his own.
Jack roared in anger as he stepped over the fallen man. He cut at another sepoy, slicing the talwar’s leading edge across the man’s face before bringing the fast-moving blade across his body, parrying a bayonet aimed at his chest.
‘Come on!’ The attacks flowed from him now, the speed of his sword cutting past the slower bayonets. He hacked down another sepoy, the heavy talwar bludgeoning the man to the ground. Then he spun and twisted away, letting the bayonets tear impotently at the air before he punched the sword forward again, driving the hilt into a man’s face before backhanding it and taking another high on the arm.
‘Jack!’ Aamira was screaming at him, yet his ears thundered with anger, the urge to fight overwhelming. He didn’t see her grab the spare coil of slow match. Nor did
he see her fire another Enfield or register her scream of horror as she stumbled away from the corpse that fell at her feet and ran for the powder charge.
More sepoys rushed forward, their courage bolstered by the presence of so many of their comrades. Jack laughed as he charged towards them, the manic cackle of a man driven to the brink of madness.
A bayonet gouged across his thigh, the pain sudden and bright. He ignored it and fought on, his face twisted in bitter anger as he cut at the man who had dared to attack him. The talwar gouged into the man’s breast and the sepoy fell away, dropping his musket as he clutched at the wound.
Jack roared as two more bayonets scored through his flesh. The pain flared across his vision, but it would not stop him, and he hacked down the talwar with the brutality of a butcher going about his bloody trade.
‘Jack!’
Aamira yelled his name one final time. It pierced through the red mist. He smashed his sword forward, punching the hilt into a man’s face. Then he turned. Time seemed to slow. He was still fighting, yet he saw Aamira bending over the powder charge before throwing the slow match to one side and running towards him, her eyes wide in terror.
She threw herself at him, her wild scream the last sound he heard. The collision sent him tumbling to the ground, his precious talwar knocked flying from his bloody grasp.
They hit the ground hard, their bodies intertwined. Then the whole world exploded and everything went black.
The explosion was immense. The ground shook with the force of the massive blast, the very fabric of the earth lurching and twisting. A powerful wave rushed outwards, scything men from their feet or throwing them high into the air as if they were nothing more substantial than fallen leaves picked up and blown by an autumn gale.
The shock wave raced on, smashing everything in its path. Walls tumbled, huge clouds of dust thrown into the sky as the heavy stones crashed down. The metal gates that had barred the entrances were flung far into the streets outside the magazine, the steel twisted and broken. The cannon that had killed so many were tossed to one side, the barrels torn from the carriages, the bodies of the men who had manned them with such courage hurled into the destruction.
The Lone Warrior Page 12
