The Lone Warrior

by Paul Fraser Collard

  ‘Please. It would set my mind at ease knowing that you had it.’ Roberts offered it again, pushing it towards Jack’s hand.

  Jack took it reluctantly and thrust it into his pocket. ‘It is foolish nonsense. I’ll give it back to you afterwards.’

  Roberts said nothing. He was looking at Jack intently. ‘I have a feeling this is the last we shall see of each other. I wish we had had time to get to know each other better.’ He thrust out his hand. ‘Thank you, Jack.’

  Jack did his best not to scowl. He gave the earnest young officer’s hand a quick shake. ‘You sound like an old woman. Keep your mind on what is to be done and forget all this nonsense.’

  He heard the tetchy tone in his own voice and he did not care. He had deliberately kept his distance from Roberts. There was a great deal to admire in the young man. Once Jack would have warmed to him, seeking out a friendship to stave off his loneliness. But he had done that before and it had cost him dearly. Subalterns had a habit of dying in battle. Jack would rather be alone than risk getting close to another boy dressed as an officer who would not make it through the next few days.

  Jack stood alone. The column would shortly be ordered to form up, and the men sat on the ground whilst their officers grouped together, sharing a last moment of company with their fellows before returning to their lonely posts. The closest group guffawed loudly at a weak jest, their humour used as a thin armour against their fears. The men sat quietly and fiddled with their weapons and their equipment, getting everything ready as they prepared for the assault.

  It was the last hour, the hawa khana, the breathing of the air. The silent time of superstitious ritual and prayer. For the hour of death was drawing near, and no man could approach what might be the last moments of his life without fear in his heart.

  ‘Do you think they know we are coming?’ Roberts asked the question softly as he wandered close to Jack’s isolated station.

  Jack saw the young officer’s hand clench around his sword’s hilt then release. The gesture was repeated time after time, an indication of tension barely controlled.

  ‘The enemy are no fools. So yes, I would expect they do.’

  ‘The guns will fire until the last possible moment. That should keep the breaches clear.’

  ‘It should.’ Once Jack would have tried to allay the younger man’s fears. But that was before he had lost Aamira. His mind was in turmoil. As the time for the assault finally approached, he tortured himself more and more with thoughts of what might have happened to her. The barriers he had constructed around such dreadful imaginings were failing as the time for knowing the truth came closer. He just wanted to go.

  ‘It is time to trust to God, then.’ Roberts did not notice Jack’s reluctance to speak. ‘Have you enough water?’

  Jack patted the bottle that hung around his neck on a thin leather strap. ‘I do.’ He looked at Roberts and flashed a humourless smile. ‘I am ready.’

  Roberts smiled back. ‘I don’t think I am. But I don’t expect that will matter to anyone now.’ The smile vanished. ‘We must do our duty.’

  Jack met Roberts’s stare. He recognised the younger man’s fear.

  He turned away and looked at the great city. He had told the truth. He was ready.

  The columns moved off shortly after three a.m. They marched past the Flagstaff Tower and then down from the ridge, moving quickly through the ruins on its eastern flank before taking up position in the gardens of Hindu Rao’s House. In the twisted remains of the once beautiful space, a few resilient plants clung to life, a tantalising glimpse of what had been here before the wanton destruction of the siege had laid waste to the land around the city.

  The British guns fired without pause. The men in the columns heading for the Kashmir Gate and the breaches in the closest bastion could see the flames that leapt from the barrels as the huge siege weapons pounded away at the city, the gunners finding the strength for one last effort, one last barrage before their job was done and the battle became the responsibility of the men who marched with loaded rifles and bared bayonets.

  Every few minutes the enemy threw up a star shell, illuminating the ridge and the marching columns, the sudden light making the infantrymen flinch as their progress was revealed to the sentries on the walls of the city. There was no hope of surprise. The enemy would know the British were coming, the days of incessant barrage like the overture at the start of an operetta, a tantalising taste of what was to come in the main act that would follow.

  The first three columns marched into position then formed up, the ranks tight and ordered. Still the artillery hammered away, the thunderous crash of roundshot smashing into the thick walls deafening the infantry, who were now close to the city.

  The first smudge of dawn lit up the far horizon and the guns fell silent.

  The infantry waited for the order to go. In the sudden quiet, a few foolhardy birds started to sing, greeting the approach of dawn, unaware of the slaughter that would come with the first rays of the sun.

  Jack loosened his sabre in its scabbard and made sure the buckle on his holster was undone. His nose twitched as he smelt the delicate fragrance of orange blossom and roses over the reek of sulphur and the bitter taint of powder smoke. He had not smelt anything so sweet for as long as he could remember, and he savoured the delicate aroma. It was a link to another world, a place where men could think of a future counted in more than minutes. The tranquillity swallowed the column, an exquisite moment that had men staring at each other wide-eyed in surprise.

  ‘Advance!’

  The peace was shattered as the order was given. The bugles called, the rising notes goading the packed ranks into action. With a roar and a cheer the three columns surged forward.

  The assault on Delhi had begun.

  Jack ran hard, his breath roaring in his ears. The men of the column surged along behind him. They ran in silence, the cheer that had marked the start of the attack replaced by the grunts and pants of men saving themselves for what was to come.

  Fifty yards of no-man’s-land separated them from the ditch in front of the breach. Yet it felt like a thousand. The ground crawled past under Jack’s boots. Time passed with cruel slowness, each step taking an age. He pumped his legs, urging them to greater speed, striving to cross the open ground before the enemy could open fire.

  Nicholson ran at his side, leading the men of the 1st Bengal Fusiliers, the foremost battalion in the first column. They ascended the glacis that led to the ditch, their progress marked only by the sound of boots slamming into the ground and equipment thumping and jangling against fast-moving bodies.

  There were no red coats on display that day. The men of the 1st Bengal Fusiliers were attacking in their dirty grey flannel coats, with black handkerchiefs knotted around their necks, their fine black shakos replaced with forage caps covered in white cloth. They might not have looked like the famous red-coated infantrymen of old, but they were still redcoats. They went forward with their bayonets locked tight to the barrels of their Enfield rifles; the vicious steel that had won the British army a thousand victories on a hundred foreign fields held ready to take revenge on the former soldiers of the Queen who had dared to turn against their masters.

  The first hard yards ground past. The men in the attacking column saw the ditch, its great black maw drawing them in. Jack focused his attention on the jump he would have to make. He feared he would break an ankle, his assault ending in an ignominious heap in the mud at the bottom of the ditch. He did not look at the ranks of enemy troops that flowed down the face of the breach now that the British guns could no longer fire for fear of hitting their own men.

  The men of the 60th Rifles were in front of the column in a skirmish line. The fastest of them were already reaching the edge of the ditch, and Jack saw them slow as they prepared to plunge into the darkness.

  The enemy opened fire.

  The air was alive with a hailstorm of musket balls. Jack flinched as one seared past his head, yet still he pound
ed forward, forcing his legs to carry him into danger when any sane man would have sought shelter from the wicked fire.

  The first men fell. A rifleman spun around, his hands clutched to the ruins of his face. Others merely crumpled, their bodies folding over as the enemy shot found its mark in their guts.

  Jack heard the awful meaty slap of bullets hitting flesh. Some men shrieked as they fell, explosive cries of agony and surprise as their hopes of surviving the day were lost in the opening moments of the assault.

  ‘Forward!’

  Nicholson roared the command. The general had drawn his sword and now he brandished it aloft, turning to face his men even as he ran, his mouth stretched wide as he bellowed the encouragement for them to follow his lead.

  The men pressed on. The fallen were ignored, their pitiful cries callously left behind as the column surged forward. The enemy poured on the fire, striking down dozens, the balls coming so fast that it seemed impossible that any man would be able to reach the ditch unscathed.

  Jack ran on. He could do nothing else. Even as the fire flashed past, he went forward, his arm lifting instinctively to screen his face, as though he was walking into a storm rather than the deadly volleys that were gutting the column’s leading ranks.

  Dozens of men lay scattered on the ground, their shattered bodies stretched out, their blood staining the dusty soil. The main body of the column could not avoid them, and heavy boots crushed the ruined flesh.

  Jack reached the edge of the ditch. He had seen some of the riflemen pause, going to their knees so that they could lower themselves into the darkness. But he had been there before, and he ran hard before leaping out and into the ditch without pause.

  His stomach lurched as he fell through the air, and he hit the ground hard. He stumbled, his boots slipping in the muck, and careered into a rifleman, his head bouncing off the man’s back. Yet the infantryman seemed not to notice as he rushed away, intent on reaching the far side of the ditch.

  More and more bodies thumped down around Jack. Men cursed as elbows and knees punched into their flesh, then the crowd surged forward, making room for the men who were still piling down, those still on the lip desperate to get into the supposed safety of the dark, dank ditch.

  But the ditch was no safe haven. The enemy in the breach could not fire directly into it, but those high on the walls and on the bastions could. They poured down their fire, striking scores of men to the ground, the bodies falling to tangle around the boots of those still trying to press on.

  It was chaos. Jack was jostled, men clawing at each other in a desperate race to get to the shelter of the far bank. An elbow drove into his gut, the bright flash of pain goading him on. He went forward, caught up in the rush, powerless against the surging forces of the mob.

  ‘Where are the ladders?’

  The despairing cry echoed around the ditch. Men were reaching the far side, only to be met with a wall of damp earth. The crowd was surging around, some trying to push backwards in a desperate search for the ladders, whilst others were pressing forward, the animal instinct of the mob certain that there was safety in moving on.

  The enemy in the breach crowded forward, hurling stones and broken masonry into the ditch, the rocks shattering the skulls of the unlucky souls they hit. The rebels on the walls fired shot after shot, until the bottom of the ditch was running with streams of blood.

  Jack was helpless. He was wedged in tight, bodies pressed all around him. He tried to turn, but he was caught fast. The mob surged forward, its numbers swelling as more and more men leapt into the press of bodies at the bottom of the ditch.

  Voices lifted in panic. Still the enemy fired, knocking more men to the ground, their animal shrieks of horror drowning out the demands for the ladders. It was like shooting rats in a barrel, and the rebels could not miss.

  A spray of hot blood slicked across Jack’s face. With his arms pinned at his sides, he could not use them to wipe the gruesome offal away, and it dribbled to his mouth, the tang of blood in his nostrils and its salty taste on his lips.

  The man in front of Jack had been hit. The musket ball had ripped through the crown of his undress hat and pierced his brain. He fell fast, dropping like a stone, but Jack felt nothing but a surge of joy at finally having room to breathe, the momentary respite from the crush meaning more than the death of a man he had never known.

  A sharp blow hammered into his spine, nearly knocking him from his feet. He was shoved to one side, his rank of no consequence in the horror of the ditch.

  ‘Get out the fucking way!’ A rifleman spat the words into Jack’s face as he staggered past clutching one of the precious ladders.

  ‘Make way!’ Jack understood at once and grabbed at the ladder, taking hold and inching it forward, adding his strength and his voice to the men trying to force a passage in the melee: ‘Move!’

  They shoved their way through the press of bodies, their curses drowned out by the screams of men as they were hit. They used the ladder as a battering ram, bludgeoning a path towards the far side of the ditch, their task only made easier when the enemy shot struck down the men in their way. Step by step they burrowed through the press of bodies until they reached the far side. The men carrying the ladder immediately rammed the front of it into the base of the ditch’s side. They had it raised in seconds.

  ‘Me first!’ Jack was bellowing at the riflemen, his hands reaching for the ladder like a greedy child. But the men who had fought to drag it forward pushed him out of the way, and he was forced to stand aside as their heavy boots thumped into the rungs.

  ‘Out of the way!’ Jack could wait no longer. He shouted the words into the face of a rifleman before using his shoulder to barge his way on to the ladder.

  He climbed fast. The ladder’s rungs were rough, and he felt the stab of pain as a splinter tore at his palm. He had a moment to curse his foolishness. He had not thought to draw his weapons, so he was scaling the ladder with his hands empty, rushing towards the enemy without the means to fight back. He reached the top and threw himself from the top rung, and began to run.

  Barely a dozen riflemen were with him, but he did not care. ‘Follow me!’ He drew his sword as he charged forward, the steel whispering out of the scabbard, the blade coming alive in his hand.

  The riflemen heard him. They stormed after him with a will, yelling like fiends released from hell.

  The breach was packed with the enemy. Not all were rebel sepoys. Many were civilians, the braver elements in the city come to defend their freedom. Others were jihadis. Countless heads lined the walls above the breach, with dozens of muskets aimed down at the men breaking free of the ditch. Jack saw the dark faces under bright pagdis, their mouths twisted into dreadful grimaces as they fired and fired at the men who came to reclaim their lost kingdom.

  The British soldiers went forward like a pack of hounds released to the kill. They were cheering now, their horror and rage unleashed. More and more men were escaping from the hell of the ditch, and they swarmed after the leading troops, rushing up the easy slope of the breach, keening for blood.

  The enemy fired and fired, every shot finding a home in flesh. But still the British infantry came on, ignoring the men falling around them.

  Cannon opened fire on the attack. Shells whistled through the air, the explosions bursting in bright fountains of colour that scythed men from their feet. Another cannon had been sited at the top of the breach, and now it opened fire with canister. The first blast cut deep into the leading ranks, but still the assault went forward, the men from the first column swamping the breach with more men than the enemy could kill.

  Jack stayed silent as he ran up the slope, dashing through the explosions. All around him men were dying, their bodies littering the ground. Yet he could do nothing but go forward, lurching on despite being certain that he would be hit.

  A shell smashed into the ground half a dozen yards to his front. The ground lurched, a fountain of broken stone lifted high into the air. The shock wave b
attered against him, his body hit by a spray of splinters. Yet somehow he kept his footing, and he roared in anger, releasing the terror before running on.

  The enemy in the breach began to flee, clawing away from the point of the assault. But some were slow, and the British soldiers caught them as they tried to escape. With a dreadful keening the bayonets were rammed forward. They punched into enemy flesh, ripping huge holes in the bodies of the men trying to evade the attackers’ wrath. The redcoats finally had a target for their rage, and they were merciless as they cut down every man they could find.

  The first men were reaching the top of the slope. Somehow enough had survived, and now they pressed on towards the huge gabions that lined the head of the breach.

  Jack followed a rifleman through a gap in the gabions. The far side was full of rebels, who now turned and thrust their bayonets at the British soldiers as they forced their way past the barricade. There was no time for fear. The rifleman to Jack’s front fell, a bayonet piercing his neck, his despairing scream cut off as half a dozen blades ripped into his flesh. More bayonets reached for Jack. He battered aside one thrust at his guts before cutting his sword back in a desperate parry as another aimed at his side.

  He felt the pressure at his back as men tried to follow him through the gap in the barricade. He slashed his sabre, cutting hard at the wall of bayonets in front of him, trying to force them to give ground. But the enemy stood firm, forming a rough line as they fought to hold the top of the breach. They had been well trained by their British masters, and the line tightened, the files standing shoulder to shoulder so that there were no gaps for the redcoats to exploit.

  More and more men were reaching the top of the breach. They forced their way through the gaps in the barricade, pressing into the backs of the men who faced the enemy line. Men screamed as they were pushed forward and driven on to the enemy’s bayonets.

  Jack bellowed as he parried another bayonet, and then another. He felt hands shoving at his back and he tried to step back lest he too be thrust on to one of the dozens of bayonets to his front. But the pressure was relentless. He was thumped hard, fists pounding into him as men behind the barricade fought to get through and escape the wicked enemy fire that still scoured the breach.