‘We attack immediately. The infantry will lead. We will cross the canal and form ranks on the far side.’
Jack glanced at the single-span bridge that crossed the canal to the north of the enemy position. ‘They have the bridge covered. We need to find another way to cross.’
‘We have it. Blane tells me the scouts have found a ford directly to our front.’ Nicholson leaned across in the saddle and took Jack’s forearm in a fierce grip. ‘We have them.’
Jack nodded. ‘Where do you want me?’
Nicholson pulled away. ‘Choose your own ground.’ His face hardened. ‘Show me what you can do.’
The cries of alarm reached Jack as he forced his horse through the ford. The enemy sentries had belatedly become aware of the threat to their encampment.
The water was cold on his legs as it splashed up, leaving dark patches on his filthy breeches. It was up to the waists of the infantry he followed, the tired foot soldiers cursing as they dug deep to find the strength they would need to force a passage in the fast-moving waters of the canal.
Jack could only wonder at the confusion in the caravanserai. The rebel sepoys had been resting, waiting for their comrades and thinking of an attack on a lumbering siege column. Instead, a British force had arrived from the wrong direction and was now mounting an assault on their temporary encampment.
‘Form line!’
The men were given no time to catch their breath. Their officers were bellowing the orders even as they lumbered out of the canal, the sandy banks turned into a slippery quagmire as the heavy boots of hundreds of infantrymen churned them into so much slurry.
Jack kicked his horse, refusing to let it dawdle. He made for the colour party of the 61st Foot, the twin great squares of silk drawing him in. The 61st were on the left of the line, with the 1st Bengal Fusiliers to their right. The 2nd Punjab Infantry formed a line of support along with a squadron of Guides cavalry. The rest of the cavalry, a single squadron from the 9th Lancers, went out to the right flank with four guns from the horse artillery, whilst the other eight guns formed a battery to the left of the 61st.
The enemy had hastily turned as many cannon as they could bring to bear on the attacking British infantry. Their first gun opened fire, a single roundshot searing its way towards the re-forming infantry. It ploughed into the ground to their front, gouging a huge crease in the damp soil before leaping back into the sky and over the heads of the stoic infantry, who paid it no heed.
Jack felt little as the rebels started the fight. There was no fear, his guts calm and his heartbeat barely increasing even as the second and the third enemy cannon opened fire. He did not fear for his life. For the first time, he faced the prospect of battle with nothing save icy resolve. To his front, the men of the 61st Foot were re-forming well. He watched their manoeuvres with a critical eye. He missed the splendour of the battles he had seen before. The men of the 61st wore dusty grey jackets with white undress caps covered with a cloth to protect the neck. Yet they knew their business, and a two-man-deep line started to emerge from the chaos of the rapid crossing of the canal.
‘Men of the 61st, remember what Sir Colin Campbell said at Chillianwala, and you have heard that he said the same to his gallant Highland Brigade at the Alma. I have the same request to make of you and the men of the 1st Bengal Fusiliers. Hold your fire until within twenty or thirty yards, then pour your volleys into them, give them a bayonet charge and the serai is yours.’ Nicholson shouted his orders as he paraded his horse in front of the battalion. He caught Jack’s eye but gave no acknowledgement of it before he rode on, repeating his orders, showing himself to the men.
‘Battalion! Battalion will fix bayonets! Fix bayonets!’
‘Battalion! Battalion will advance! Advance!’
The 61st Foot was not hanging around. With the drums starting to beat out the rhythm of the march, the men lurched into motion. The British soldiers were moving fast and the enemy roundshot seared over their heads, the rebel gunners unable to adjust their range quickly enough to catch the thin grey line that now snaked across the ground parallel to the canal.
Jack kicked his horse forward, following the colour party. He did not bother to draw his weapons. He did not know if the revolver on his hip had survived the many soakings it had taken that day. It would either work or it would not. If it failed him, he would rely on the sword on his other hip. He would hack at anyone who dared face him, and he would kill them just as he had killed so many times before.
‘Hold your fire!’ Nicholson raced back down the line, a look of almost manic delight on his face as he inspired his men. His eyes glittered with what Jack could only think of as religious fervour. It reminded him of Hodson. There was little love lost between the two men, but in some ways they were very much alike.
The men followed Nicholson without hesitation and the line went forward, covering the muddy ground fast as they marched at the quick-step with their rifles held at the slope.
To their front, the western wall of the serai was lined with enemy sepoys. It was wide enough for hundreds of muskets to be brought to bear on the advancing infantry. There were no skirmishers to screen their assault or to pick at the rebel line and remove the subadars and the havildars who would control the enemy fire. The British went forward at pace, daring the enemy to fire.
The rebels obliged. Their volley crashed out, the thunderclap of sound reaching Jack moments after he saw the first puffs of powder smoke erupt along the wall. The range was long for the percussion muskets, but still they found their mark. Dozens of British soldiers staggered backwards as they were hit, or else simply crumpled over, their deaths marked by nothing more than a soft sigh.
Nicholson’s horse shrieked in pain, then crashed to the ground, a bullet hitting it deep in the neck. Jack heard the men to his front groan as they saw the general fall, the sound echoing through the ranks. But Nicholson was not one to stay down, and he was on his feet in moments.
‘Follow me!’ He raised his sword high above his head as he roared at the men behind him. ‘Follow me!’
The pace of the advance quickened. The enemy had fired, and now the British soldiers could close on them and deliver a volley of their own before the rebels had time to reload.
And the rebels knew it.
Jack saw the first musket waver in the heartbeats following the volley. The sepoys knew what was coming as well as the advancing redcoats. Yet they stayed where they were, the ritual of battle forcing them to hold their ground no matter that they waited only for their own destruction.
The British cannon opened fire. The gunners from the horse artillery had taken up a position on the far side of the canal, and now they brought their guns into action. The roundshot smashed into the wall of the serai. Huge gaps were blown along its length, clouds of stone and dust sent up in fountains as the fast-moving shot immediately found its mark. Scores of rebels were hit, their cries filling the silence that followed the roar of the barrage.
‘Battalion! Battalion, halt!’
The huge voice of the regimental sergeant major brought the 61st to a standstill. To their right, the men of the 1st Bengal Fusiliers were doing the same. Both battalions were no more than thirty yards from the wall of the serai. Nicholson had stopped, taking a dramatic pose like a compère in the music hall silencing the audience ready for the arrival of the main act.
Jack was close enough to see the terror on the faces of the watching sepoys as they saw the hundreds of rifles lifted into position. The distance was as nothing to the Enfields. At such a range, the effects of the volley would be dreadful. All along the wall, rebels were backing away, their eyes riveted on the sight of death about to be unleashed.
‘Fire!’
Nicholson bellowed the order, taking command of the huge killing machines behind him. The guns roared out, the heavy bullets smashing into the defenders. Men were blown apart, the close-range volley slaughtering them by the dozen.
‘Charge! Charge!’
The Britis
h infantry were unleashed. They stormed forward, emerging out of the cloud of powder smoke created by their volley. Nicholson led them forward. He ran hard, careless of the danger, setting the example to his men as if he were a company commander and not a brigadier general in charge of a small army.
The British soldiers cheered as they charged. The roar had been saved for this moment, and it clearly terrified the battered defenders. Barely a dozen still stood at the wall. The rest had already turned to run, the sight of their slaughtered comrades and the snarling faces behind the British steel sapping their courage.
Jack urged his horse into a trot to keep pace with the 61st’s colour party as it stormed forward. He searched the line for an opportunity to join the fight, but everywhere he looked, the enemy ranks were already broken. The leading men of the 61st were at the wall, some thrusting their bayonets through the embrasures made for the enemy cannon, whilst the rest swarmed up and over the obstacle, working together to get across the ancient stone wall, taking their bayonets against any sepoy foolish enough to stand his ground. Jack could see no place that needed his assistance, so he kept his weapons where they were and rode on.
The sepoys were in full flight. The British line dissolved as the soldiers surged forward, eager to catch the enemy and ply their brutal trade. Officers ran or galloped with their men. It was a rare opportunity to fight, the skirmishes on the ridge little more than frustrating encounters against fleeting shadows that never pressed home the attack. Here was the chance for revenge, and the British battalions seized it with relish.
Jack paused as he reached the wall of the serai. His mount was tiring and he did not have the heart to force it to leap across, so he turned its head and let it pick its way through one of the huge gaps created by the British artillery.
He did not curse the missed opportunity to prove his worth. There would be other occasions, other fights. Nicholson had not needed his assistance. The general was clearly the kind of officer who seized the initiative, placing himself in the greatest danger so that his men knew just what was expected of them. The contrast to Hodson could not have been more stark.
He heard the roars of triumph as the infantry reached the far side of the serai. The enemy had offered little resistance and were now streaming away on the far side of their temporary encampment. The British ranks were already beginning to re-form, preparing to change front and carry the assault on to the enemy positions in the villages close to the serai.
Jack was quite alone. He had reached the closest opening blown into the face of the serai, but his horse baulked at treading on the torn corpses that littered the ground, so he turned its head around and made for another. He was in no rush. There was no fight for him to join, no place for his skills in the rout.
He was the first to see the enemy column that advanced along the good ground on the banks of the swamp away to the west. Its ranks were packed, the sepoys’ commander forced to press his men close together as they picked their way towards the serai, their path hemmed in on either side by marsh and bog.
The enemy had seen the battle. There was little room for manoeuvre, but the best route available to the rebels’ commander still brought his men into the rear of the British line. Even as Jack watched, the column increased its speed, the men pushing the pace as they sought to attack Nicholson’s men from its most undefended quarter.
Jack’s mind raced as he watched the approach of the enemy column. He felt the first spark of fear deep in his gut. The British infantry were too busy preparing the next phase in their assault. There was no protection against the counter-attack that was about to be unleashed against them.
Jack’s horse stumbled as it galloped towards the British gun line. He was pushing it past the point of exhaustion, but he did not care. He kicked hard with his heels, drumming them into the beast’s sides, careless of his cruelty.
For he rode to save an army.
‘You!’ Jack bellowed at the nearest gun team as he came close. He was ignored, his voice lost in the wind. His horse was struggling, its gait little more than a lurch. But it had done enough. He dropped the reins and the animal stopped almost immediately. Jack had his feet out of the stirrups in moments; he threw himself to the ground and ran towards the battery of British cannon.
‘Man the guns!’ His legs wobbled and threatened to give way as he compelled them to carry him forward. The hours slogging through mud and swamp had taken their toll, but he forced strength into them, the rush of fear building as he sensed the enemy column advancing and about to unleash its assault at any moment.
‘What the devil is going on?’ A captain dressed in the uniform of the Bombay Artillery strode forward. His men were busy cleaning their precious cannon, scouring away the residue of powder that would foul the barrels after they had been fired. They had not seen the danger.
Jack did not have time for niceties.
‘Get your bloody guns turned around. Now!’
‘Now look here! Who the—’
Jack strode past the officer, ignoring his protests. He made for the gun on the left of the line, the one closest to the enemy.
‘Turn that bloody thing around, then load with canister. Look lively now.’ He snapped the orders at the sergeant in charge of the gun.
The gunnery sergeant had served in the regiment for nearly twenty-five years. He was not a man easily cowed. Yet he saw something in Jack’s face that made him spring into action.
‘Come on, lads, you heard the officer. Look lively now.’
‘Enemy to the rear.’ Jack threw up an arm and pointed at the column that was not far from ruining Nicholson’s victory. From the artillery’s viewpoint, the massed ranks of rebel infantry were largely screened by a thin smear of stubby trees that lined the edge of the marshland. But they were close to the serai now, and the head of the column began to emerge from the scruffy cover. The threat was clear and would soon be out in the open. He searched the sergeant’s face and saw the flicker of understanding.
Jack left him to it and marched to the next gun in the line. ‘Aim west! Load with canister! Quick now!’ He was bellowing the orders, grabbing men, shoving them to their places, galvanising them into action.
He turned and saw the first gun he had accosted about to finish loading. ‘Fire!’ He yelled the order even as he charged down the line like a madman, running from gun to gun, his urgent actions infectious.
The left-most gun opened fire. It leapt backwards, the heavy wheels gouging thick crevices in the soaking, cloggy ground. The blast of canister seared into the enemy column, punching a hole in the side closest to the gunners.
‘That’s the way! Next gun. Fire!’ Jack saw the captain of artillery looking aghast at the stranger who had arrived to steal his command. But he did not care. He spied Nicholson running towards the battery, his face betraying his shock.
‘Pour it on!’ Four guns fired within moments of each other. The air shook with violence and Jack’s ears rang with the deafening sound of the battery warming to its task.
The leading ranks of the mutineers’ column had been butchered. Swathes of men had been cut down, the vicious storm of canister working a dreadful butchery on their bodies. There was nowhere for the rebels to go. The marsh and swamp hemmed them in on both sides, holding them in place. The British gunners were being given a choice target, and they would show no mercy.
The guns were firing in quick succession now, pouring an almost constant fire into the stalled column. Each blast of canister cast down another dozen men, and the gunners went about their task with the calm professionalism of an army butcher slaughtering that day’s bullocks.
The enemy turned, trying to flee. Yet the lead ranks had nowhere to go until those behind them had cleared away, and they bunched together, their cries of fear drowning out the screams of the dying.
‘Keep firing!’ Jack kept his eyes fixed on the slaughter he had ordered. Some sepoys were throwing themselves into the swamp, their desperate desire to escape overriding any notion of sen
se. They could barely move. The swamp fixed them in place, holding them fast until the next blast of canister threw them down, their bodies sinking beneath the matted, waterlogged soil.
‘Roundshot! Load roundshot!’ Jack was commanding the battery now, and he ordered the change in ammunition. The column was moving off slowly, the rearmost ranks breaking free and finally allowing the survivors of the massacre at the front room to move. As they got further away, the effect of the canister was lessened. Roundshot would be more effective as the range increased.
‘They are breaking! Cease fire!’ The artillery captain gave his first order.
‘Shut the fuck up!’ Jack’s anger was immediate. ‘Keep firing!’ He strode towards the artillery officer as if about to commit murder. The gunners did not hesitate, and sweated hard as they rammed and reloaded as fast as they could.
‘Kill them!’ Jack bellowed the words, demanding more. The guns fired and fired, roundshot after roundshot flung into the enemy column, each one knocking over half a dozen men.
‘Enough! Hold your fire.’ A new voice issued the order. Jack turned on his heel, his hand twitching to the sword on his hip. It was Nicholson.
‘Cease fire.’ Nicholson repeated the order, his eyes fixed on Jack’s.
Jack felt his anger flare. He wanted to keep the guns firing. He wanted to inflict death, to kill and maim as many of the enemy as he could. The hatred was overwhelming. He had never felt anything like it. The cold, emotionless soul he had nurtured since Aamira had been taken was gone. He wanted revenge.
‘Enough.’ Nicholson’s eyes narrowed as he studied the young officer who stood in front of him, vibrating with emotion. ‘We have won, Jack. It is over.’
Jack barely heard the words. He turned away, his eyes returning to the butchered column. Even from a distance, he could see the shattered bodies, the remains of what had been men just a short while before.
It was not enough.
‘I must thank you.’ Nicholson walked towards him, his voice loud. ‘You saved us.’
The Lone Warrior Page 26
