Jack did his best not to wince at the bloodthirsty call to battle. He sat quietly at his commander’s side, holding his reins easily in his left hand whilst his right ran over his sword, revolver, uniform and horse’s tackle, a final reassuring check that everything was in place, that each buckle was tight and his weapons were ready for use.
The British infantry deployed into two columns, with one brigade to either side of the road. The artillery advanced in the centre, the batteries rushing forward so that they could engage the rebels’ guns before the infantry launched their attack.
‘Here we go, action at last.’ Hodson greeted the advance with delight. ‘Time to show the damn pandies who is the master.’ He flashed Jack a wide smile. ‘It is a pity we cannot advance with the infantry. I fear they will see all the glory this day.’
Jack squinted hard against the glare of the morning sun. The mutineer gunners were swarming around their own cannon. The battle would open with a duel of artillery. He paid little attention to his master’s worry that they would be denied the opportunity to fight until Hodson leant across and rapped his arm with his fist.
‘Are you listening to me, Jack?’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘You had bally well better.’ Hodson’s face had creased into a petulant scowl. ‘Did you not hear my desire to join the infantry?’
Jack was concentrating on the enemy artillerymen. They had stopped bustling around their cannon and now appeared to be ready to open fire. The British guns were still labouring forward, the gunners making heavy work of the deployment. The road surface was poor and the bullock teams dragging the guns were struggling to cope with the rutted and pockmarked surface and the deep pools of standing water left by the torrential rain that had fallen a few days previously.
‘Hurry up, damn you.’ Jack growled the comment under his breath as he realised the mutineers would open fire long before the British gunners were in position.
‘What’s that you say?’ Hodson’s face coloured as he mistook Jack’s comment as being directed at him.
‘Nothing. Good grief.’ Jack flinched as all thirty rebel guns fired in unison. The crash of the opening volley roared out and startled an enormous flock of birds into flight. The roundshot seared across the plain before smashing into the ground behind the British guns, each impact throwing a huge fountain of sodden earth high into the sky.
Hodson had gone pale. ‘I’d say they fired early, would you agree?’ The attempt at sangfroid failed as his voice trembled.
Jack glanced at the British gunners, who were whipping their bullock teams furiously as they tried to bring their own guns into action. The rebel cannon were of a greater calibre than those of the British. Their heavy shot would work a dreadful destruction on any advancing column of infantry. If the pandies were left to bring down a barrage unmolested, the attack could be bludgeoned to a bloody halt before it had even had a chance to begin.
The cavalry trumpets blared, putting an end to the two officers’ time watching the start of the main assault. The trumpeters called the waiting cavalry to the walk; General Grant, their commander, was ordering an advance of his own.
‘That’s the spirit. Time to fight, eh, Jack!’ Hodson spoke with much greater volume than was needed before turning and beckoning his small command to advance.
Jack was beginning to have his doubts about his commander’s state of mind. The battle proper had yet to start, but already Hodson sounded like a cocky boy boasting of his strength but secretly terrified.
Another rebel volley hammered across the plain. Jack twisted in the saddle to watch its effect, and cursed. The enemy gunners knew their business. Already they were firing to good effect, finding the range with just their second shot. He watched the mutineers’ gun line as they reloaded. The sun had risen behind their right flank to cast long shadows across the ground. It glinted off the iron barrels of the cannon that were already being wheeled back into position and prepared for the next devastating volley.
The British gunners had finally advanced close enough to the enemy line for their own lighter cannon to finally be in range. With their officers and sergeants bellowing the orders, the artillerymen raced to get their guns into action, desperate to end the one-sided battle.
The third rebel volley fired before the British gunners could finish unlimbering their own weapons. It thundered around them, shot after shot smashing down amidst the cannon that were still being readied. One hit an artillery limber packed full with ammunition. It blew up in spectacular fashion, the sudden roar and flash of exploding powder sending a shudder through the attacking army. Four gunners were flung to the ground, their bodies shredded by the splinters and vicious shards of metal that spewed out of the explosion. If the battle was to be decided by the opening exchange of artillery, it was becoming horribly clear that the rebels were more than capable of delivering the Mughal emperor Bahadur Shah his first taste of victory.
On the right of the advance, the British cavalry were increasing their speed. Brigadier Grant was leading his men on their flanking mission and he clearly saw no need to hesitate. Jack felt the satisfaction of having delivered the news that the flank was not as secure as it had first appeared. He just hoped that the land was solid all the way round. If he had been wrong, then the cavalry’s advance would be thrown into confusion, the bulk of the horsemen at Barnard’s disposal left isolated and far away from the main battle. It could well be the difference between victory and defeat, and Jack fretted as the cavalry trotted onwards, his eyes scanning the ground ahead, his lips moving in a silent prayer that the going would remain firm.
The three squadrons of the 9th Lancers led the way, followed by Hodson and his irregular cavalry. Behind them came the six guns from 3rd Troop, 3rd Battalion Horse Artillery and four guns from 2nd Troop, 1st Battalion Horse Artillery. It was a sizeable force and not one the enemy could miss as they trotted towards the canal. Yet for a reason Jack could not fathom, they were allowed to advance in peace, the rebel gunners concentrating their fire on the compact columns that were deploying into line directly to the front of the mutineers’ defensive position.
The cavalry brigade crossed the bridge over the canal and headed south. Grant ordered them to increase to the canter, keen to close on the enemy before they were able to redeploy to counter the threat coming at them from the west. To Jack’s relief, the going remained firm and the British riders were able to make good time as they headed for the rebels’ undefended flank.
His heartbeat began to race as the brigade moved at the faster pace. The rising notes of the trumpets resonated in his soul, just as they had when the 3rd Bombay Lights had charged the Persian infantry in their fully formed square at Khoosh-ab. By rights, the British cavalrymen should never have succeeded that day, the tight-packed ranks of the square a solid defence against even the bravest attack. By some miracle, and thanks to the reckless courage of the Bombay Light’s officers, the British horsemen had fought their way into the Persian square. They had butchered nearly an entire battalion of infantry, the slaughter like nothing Jack had ever seen.
A loud roar to their left announced the first British artillery volley. The gunners had worked hard to get their guns into action, and now, at last, they began to batter away at the enemy’s defences. As if shamed into action, the rebel gunners fired their fourth volley, the louder crash of their heavier guns drowning out the noise of the British fire. Even far out on the flank, Jack could hear the voices of the British infantry officers as they bellowed at their men to lie down. The mutineers’ guns were taking a dreadful toll on the two brigades of infantry, and dozens of British soldiers had already fallen.
‘Halt!’
The cavalry officers ordered their men to stand. They had ridden fast and were now far behind the rebels’ left flank. Grant had paused the advance, giving his horse artillery time to deploy so that they could open fire on the unsuspecting enemy.
It gave his men a grandstand view of the battle. As they watched, they saw on
e of the British infantry battalions scramble to their feet. The infantrymen were surrounded by a number of mounted field officers, and Jack heard loud orders being shouted as Barnard changed the planned attack.
‘There go the 75th!’ Hodson slapped his thigh in excitement as the single British battalion re-formed its line. The 75th were a Highland regiment, and even from a distance, the watching cavalry could see the bright flash of the Scotsmen’s green tartan. In their buff jackets with bright white cross belts, the Highlanders were a fine sight. ‘Oh, how I wish I were with them!’
Urgent bugle calls called the advance on, the loud voices of the British sergeants ordering the ranks to close, the litany of battle that would continue until the line of infantry was released to the charge. The 75th marched directly into the enemy fire, advancing with iron determination even as the rebel guns fired on, the roundshot striking the line again and again, each one leaving more crumpled bodies in the dirt.
The 75th closed on the mutineers’ line. Their bayonets glinted in the morning sunlight, the seventeen inches of sharpened British steel held ready as the sergeants and corporals screamed themselves hoarse fighting to keep the ranks steady.
‘Come on the 75th!’ Hodson yelled in encouragement, his face flushed with passion.
It was as if he goaded the rebels into action. The two long lines of stationary sepoys fixed their own bayonets, the first purposeful action Jack had seen from the enemy infantry, and lurched into motion, advancing against the single British battalion that refused to turn, no matter how many men were cut down.
The British gunners saw the enemy advance and realigned their fire. It was the rebels’ turn to suffer, and the first well-directed British salvos crashed into the ranks of advancing sepoys, throwing dozens to the ground.
It was the final signal. With a great roar saved just for this moment, the 75th charged. Jack’s heart hammered in his chest as the line of British infantry surged forward. The men in the 75th had seen many of their number killed. Now the Scotsmen were released, their pent-up fear and their desire for revenge let loose as they ran at the enemy.
The rebel advance slowed. Some men still moved forward, stumbling on even as they stared at the white-faced infantrymen heading straight towards them. Elsewhere the line paused, the mutineers unwilling to take another step towards the huge Scotsmen, who cheered as they charged.
The first shots rang out. The sepoys’ muskets were loaded and some amongst them opened fire, a few without even bothering to raise their guns to their shoulders. The sound brought their fellows up short, and the entire line stopped as more men raised their muskets.
The 75th were running hard now. Their war cry filled the air, a dreadful, inhuman scream that stood in terrible contrast to the stoic silence with which they advanced.
It was too much for the mutineers. They wavered, the first fearful steps to the rear rippling along the undulating line.
The 75th were close now. They came on in a rush, their heavy boots thumping hard into the ground, their bayonets lifting as they prepared to tear into the enemy.
The rebels took one last look at the fearsome Scotsmen and any thought of resistance disappeared. The first tentative backward steps turned into an immediate rout, the whole line turning and running for their lives. All cohesion and discipline was lost in a single heartbeat, the line breaking up into nothing more than a mob of terrified men fleeing for the rear.
‘There they go. Now’s our moment.’ Jack spoke for the first time. He glanced at Hodson. The colour had fled from his commander’s face, the realisation that the cavalry would surely be unleashed enough to silence the man’s warlike commentary.
Brigadier Grant too had seen the enemy flee. Even as Jack looked at Hodson, the trumpets called for the cavalry to advance.
‘Walk!’
To their right, the commander of the 9th Lancers ordered his men forward. The regiment’s three squadrons were organised into two long lines, with two squadrons forming the first, and the third squadron held in the support line behind. As one they walked forward, the horses tossing their heads as they sensed their riders’ building excitement. Hodson’s men were positioned to the left of the 9th’s support line. It gave them a free path to the enemy’s rear, a route that was already filled with fleeing rebel soldiers as the broken ranks of infantry ran from the British advance. There was no need for Hodson to issue any orders of his own, and his small force moved off, keeping pace with the British regulars and obeying the commands of the 9th’s colonel.
‘Trot!’
The command to increase speed followed quickly on the heels of the first order. There was no sense in delay, but the cavalry had to be held in check, the correct sequence of commands necessary if the lines were to stay ordered. The horsemen needed to hit the enemy as one, the front rank riding in stirrup to stirrup, the line of man and horse a single, solid wall of death. Only then would the charge have the maximum effect.
‘Gallop!’
Jack spurred his horse to greater speed. His borrowed mount surged forward too quickly and he was forced to haul on the reins, forcing the bit hard into its mouth as it fought against his control, caught up in the excitement of the charge and desperate to be allowed to run free. Jack lost sight of Hodson. There was no time to see if his commander had fallen or if he was simply being outpaced.
‘Charge!’
The trumpets sounded the call that released the cavalry. Jack loosened the bit and his horse raced away, every muscle straining. The madness was infectious, and he thrilled to the wild joy of the charge, bellowing his war cry, the tension released as he led Hodson’s horsemen forward.
The mutineers saw them coming. They turned, clawing at each other in their desperate haste to escape. But there was nowhere left for them to run to.
The lead rank of the 9th Lancers smashed into the broken enemy, tearing through the mutineers, cutting them down by the dozen. Not one offered any resistance. The brutal lancers were dreadfully effective, leaning forward as they drove their heavy lance points into the backs of the fleeing men.
Rebel sepoys ran in every direction, desperate to escape the vicious weapons. Many ran into the path of Hodson’s men. Jack spurred on, raising his sabre to the engage. He selected his first target, the skill instinctive, and picked his spot, aiming the point of his sword at the junction of neck and spine. The ground flashed past, the moment of impact surging forward with such a rush of speed that he gasped in shock. His sabre jarred his arm as it hit home, and the sepoy fell away, his head half severed, his body thrown down like a broken rag doll.
Jack’s horse rushed on and he slashed his blade at another sepoy, who twisted to one side in a desperate attempt to avoid the fast-moving blade. There was no mercy in the brutal blow, and the sabre sliced through the man’s face, tearing the flesh with ease. The rebel spun, his feet moving in an agonised dance before he fell face first, his body immediately trampled beneath the hooves of a Sikh horseman, who cackled with delight as he raced on without pause.
Jack slowed his horse and pulled it to one side, lining it up at the next target for his blade. It was almost too easy. It took but a single cut and the man fell, his face cut open by the merciless sabre.
He continued through the melee. His arm already ached, yet he fought on, butchering any who blundered into range of his notched blade. Again and again he killed, a never-ending procession of rebel soldiers crossing his path. His sword rose and fell in a perpetual motion as he cut downwards, always aiming at the neck and shoulders of the broken enemy. He was smothered in blood, his arm covered to the elbow, and still he fought on, deaf to the sobs and pleas of the men he struck down.
One of Hodson’s men barged into his horse as he raced after a sepoy who had dodged his way clear. Jack bellowed in anger, then reined his horse hard round, searching for anyone left standing. He looked across a field smothered with bodies. Many still moved, writhing in agony, the upper halves of their torsos torn and gashed by the riders’ swords. The field of ba
ttle looked like a slaughterhouse, the soil stained black with spilt blood. Not one British rider had fallen, the broken rebel ranks no threat to the pitiless horsemen, who had gone about their gruesome business with the professionalism of butchers. Amidst the bloody ruins, heaps of muskets and discarded packs littered the ground, evidence, as if any were needed, of the panic that had engulfed the mutineers once they had realised that the British cavalry were in their rear.
Jack heard a loud series of shouts and he kicked his exhausted horse into motion. A number of Hodson’s men were gathering together, their bloodied swords finally returned to their scabbards, the killing almost done. He let his mount pick its own way over the pathetic remains of men who just a half-hour before had been watching their artillery get the better of their former masters.
Through the gathering crowd he could just make out a single rebel soldier on foot, being circled by a mounted British officer. The mutineer was armed with a sword, but wore no other mark of rank; he had exchanged his uniform for a simple outfit of long white shirt and baggy dhoti. Yet the man’s proud bearing made him stand out as a former officer, a rissaldar, or perhaps a subadar, one of the men the British had trusted to help command the native battalions.
Jack recognised the British rider at once. Hodson had reappeared. Jack had not seen his commander once the order to charge had rung out. He had no notion of why that could be, but now Hodson was most certainly making his presence felt and noticed by all. It was his loud, hectoring voice that had attracted the crowd, the spectacle he was creating enough to bring the slaughter of the broken rebels to an end.
Jack forced his horse through the crowd of riders. The habit of obedience was deeply ingrained, and they parted ahead of him, letting their new officer see what was going on in their midst.
The Lone Warrior Page 17
