‘Yes?’
‘Orders from General Nicholson, sir.’ The young officer’s voice cracked as he delivered his precious instructions. ‘Leave enough men to hold the rampart, then bring the rest back down and rejoin the general.’
Jack nodded, looking at the pitiful band he ostensibly commanded. He had men from all three of the battalions in Nicholson’s column, with a smattering of green-jacketed riflemen from the 60th. It was not much of a command, but it was his, and he hesitated, reluctant to leave the men who had fought with him.
They had done their best to make a defensive position. They had turned one of the captured guns in the bastion around so that it faced out towards the Lahore Gate. They had loaded it with canister and readied it to fire should the enemy decide to try to retake what it had lost. The men had reloaded their rifles and would be able to pour on a heavy fire should they be attacked.
Jack looked at Lieutenant Lang. The engineer officer was ashen-faced and grey-eyed but he was still whole and he would have to take command. Jack would lead as many of the men as he felt they could spare and obey the order Nicholson had sent him. It meant returning to the hottest part of the battle for the city, but it would also give him his best chance of finding Aamira. He forced away the tiredness and began giving his orders.
‘Jack! Over here, man.’
Nicholson waved Jack towards him as he led his ragtag band down from the ramparts. He made his way to join the general, bending low so as not to attract the attention of the enemy musketeers, who were sending occasional shots towards the battered British infantry.
The remains of the Bengal Fusiliers huddled at the base of the wall facing the Lahore Gate. Jack saw that their ranks had been shredded by the charge into the breach and the vicious fighting that had followed. They had cut their way towards the gate, fighting hand to hand against the superior numbers of rebel sepoys in the narrow streets and the houses that pressed close against the walls. The fighting had been bloody and bitter and they had taken the ground a foot at a time, paying a heavy toll in lives lost. Their companies were badly disorganised, and the few officers left standing were commanding the men in whatever groups they happened to be in.
Jack crouched at Nicholson’s side behind a low wall that ran around the back of one of the mud-and-thatch houses. He saw the strain on the general’s face, the stress of commanding the attack etched into every pore. He also noticed the blood on Nicholson’s sword. Clearly the general was still leading from the front.
‘We have done well, but I must confess it has not all gone our own way.’ Nicholson greeted Jack’s arrival with a hint of a smile.
Despite his obvious exhaustion, there was a glimmer of passion in Nicholson’s eyes as he spoke. Jack did not have the energy to reply, but the general carried on talking, as if relieved to finally have someone to converse with.
‘Reid and his men have been beaten back. I just spoke to Grant, and he told me that the enemy have launched a counter-attack and driven Reid’s column back as far as Subzi Mandi. Grant’s brigade is exposed outside the walls and is taking heavy fire from the Lahore Bastion. They can advance no further until it is taken.’
Jack glanced at the bastion, which loomed over them. A narrow alley ran between the lines of houses, pointing directly towards the defensive position that had become the critical point in the battle.
‘The third column is faring better. It took the Kashmir Gate and is now fighting towards the Jama Masjid.’ Nicholson stopped talking and looked at Jack. ‘We must take the Lahore Gate. Are you with me?’
Jack had said nothing as he listened to the general’s curt appraisal of the situation. It was clear the pace of the assault was slowing, the lack of numbers in the columns beginning to make itself felt the longer the battle went on. He looked up at the Lahore Bastion again. He understood why Nicholson needed to take it. If the remains of the British infantry could break through one last time, there was every chance that the enemy would fold. It was the decisive moment of the battle.
‘I’ll come.’ His voice cracked as he spoke for the first time.
‘Good fellow.’ Nicholson took his arm in a tight grip and stared at him intently, his eyes full of a wild passion. ‘Let us get this done.’
Jack nodded. It would take one final wild charge and the city would be theirs.
‘Bengal Fusiliers! On your feet!’
Nicholson’s voice was huge as he rose from behind the shelter of the broken wall. He looked like a warrior of old, looming over his men, his physical presence bearing down upon them.
‘On your feet.’ He stalked forward, urging the men to stand. The enemy saw him and their fire intensified, the air around him stung repeatedly as bullets seared past.
Jack pushed himself to his feet. His legs trembled with the effort but he forced them to obey him and walked forward, following the general into the enemy fire. The faces of the fusiliers peered up as the two officers passed by. To a man they were terrified. Not one of them moved.
Nicholson walked forward calmly, his sword held low in his right hand. Jack followed, stumbling over broken stones and the wreckage of the fight. Powder smoke billowed past them, the familiar stench of rotten eggs sticking in his throat and making him want to gag.
They passed the last of the fusiliers, the ones closest to the enemy. Nicholson looked behind him. For a single heartbeat he caught Jack’s eye, then he turned back to face the bastion that dominated the end of the alleyway ahead.
‘Follow me!’ Nicholson roared the command. He did not look to see if anyone obeyed. He raised his sword and began to run.
The alley was narrow. Jack felt the danger in the constricted space as he began to run after Nicholson. His scabbard flapped against his leg and his breath roared in his ears as he pounded forward. Nicholson was already yards ahead, charging on alone, his sword raised high as he mounted a one-man assault on the great bastion.
The 1st Bengal Fusiliers had not moved.
Jack slowed and turned back to face them.
‘On your fucking feet! Now!’ He stalked towards them, his fury driving him on, his fear forgotten as he bawled at the men who refused to follow the example set by their general.
He reached the closest fusilier and hauled him to his feet, forcing him into the alley. ‘On your feet! Move!’ He was like a man possessed. He grabbed at the grey flannel jackets, heaving the men out from their cover and shoving them towards the bastion.
‘Charge!’ Nicholson’s voice called for them to follow his lead. The general had not paused but rushed on, braving the enemy fire alone.
This time the fusiliers responded. They looked like ghosts, their faces matching the colour of their jackets. Like an army of the dead they rose from their hiding places and stormed forward, finally following the example that had been set.
Jack went with them. He felt nothing as the first fusiliers began to fall, the enemy fire knocking men from their feet. He felt no guilt at having summoned them to their deaths. He thought only of following Nicholson and repaying the courage the general had spent.
‘Forward!’
The fusiliers began to cheer as they rushed towards the enemy bastion. Their heavy boots pounded into the ground, and they charged fast down the alleyway. Jack felt something of the former battle madness return, and he fanned the flames of his fury, summoning the courage he would need for one final fight.
The enemy saw them coming. Their fire intensified, the rebels reloading with desperate haste as they tried to turn back the grey-jacketed tide that stormed towards them.
The rebel guns opened fire. Every cannon that could be brought to bear on the narrow alley fired, a dreadful storm of canister cutting through the fusiliers. Many were struck down, the tightly packed ranks torn apart as the deadly hail slashed through them.
Jack tripped, the headless corpse of a fusilier tumbling around his ankles. He went down hard, the breath driven from his lungs as he hit the ground. He tried to get to his feet, but the dusty soil was slick wit
h blood and he slipped, his hand sliding through the gore that lay thick around him.
He lifted his head. To his disgust, the fusiliers were turning back. Dozens of bodies littered the ground, the enemy fire gutting the men who had dared to lead the charge. Those that followed had baulked at the spread of corpses blocking the alley and started to retreat, the charge beaten back by the dreadfully accurate enemy fire.
It was then that Jack saw Nicholson turn. The general was quite alone. He saw Nicholson’s mouth open as he roared at the fusiliers to stand, but his words were drowned out by another deafening volley of rebel artillery.
Jack flinched, burying his head against the body of the corpse that had tripped him. The canister roared past above his head, the air battered by the storm of shot. When he looked up, Nicholson was gone.
He struggled to his feet and lurched into motion. He went forward alone, following in the steps of the general. With the men of the Fusiliers in full retreat, the enemy fire slackened, as if the rebels were sickened by the slaughter they had created in the dank, narrow alley.
Nicholson lay in the gutter. He was bleeding like a stuck pig.
‘You’re hit.’ Jack croaked the words as he went to his knees beside Nicholson’s head. A few stray shots came his way, but he paid them no heed, his nerves stretched too thin to be concerned even as a bullet gouged a crack in the wall no more than six inches from his head.
‘Yes, yes.’ Nicholson sounded more annoyed than in pain.
Jack reached forward and pulled back the folds of Nicholson’s jacket. His shirt was soaked in blood. A musket ball had hit his chest just below the armpit. There was little hope with such a wound, but Jack reached down anyway and took a firm grip under Nicholson’s shoulders.
‘For pity’s sake. I order you to leave me here and return to the men. I shall stay here until the city is taken.’ Nicholson tried to swat Jack’s hands away, but there was no strength left in his great arms.
Jack ignored the order. He took firm hold and started to drag Nicholson back, cursing as the motion pulled at his own barely healed wound. Slowly, and step by bloody step, he hauled the general towards the remains of the Bengal Fusiliers. The enemy fire died away, leaving him in peace. He did not know if it was out of mercy, some misplaced notion of kindness, or whether the enemy was simply as sick of killing as he himself had become.
He reached the safety of the Kabul Gate and dragged the general into the shelter of the walls, ignoring the bloody trail he had left in the dust.
‘Damned fool!’ Nicholson still had the strength to curse at Jack. ‘Organise the men. Stop wasting time.’
Jack turned away. He looked at the men of the 1st Bengal Fusiliers. Not one could meet his eye. They huddled down in cover, their heads buried, their hands shaking.
‘Sergeant!’ Jack was not finished. He saw a grey jacket with the bright white chevrons of a sergeant. ‘Sergeant!’ He was forced to repeat his summons, even the experienced non-commissioned officer trying to avoid his demanding voice.
‘Sir.’ The sergeant clambered to his feet. He still clutched his Enfield, its bayonet bloodied to the hilt. He had not shirked from the fight.
‘Summon a doli. The general is to be taken to the rear.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The sergeant seemed relieved to be given such an undemanding task.
Jack looked around. He couldn’t see another officer. He just saw the beaten and bloodied remains of a battalion that had suffered too much that day.
‘Reload!’ He spoke softly, stalking around the broken ranks. ‘Make sure you are loaded. Find ammunition caps if you need them. Get ready.’
To his amazement, the men responded. The bitter silence was broken as the men began to shuffle around, looking for ammunition or for fresh firing caps for their rifles. Others began reloading, the routine task returning some degree of order to the battered battalion. They might have been beaten back, but they were still British redcoats. Jack smiled. He should not have doubted the indomitable spirit of the forgotten men who fought behind the seventeen inches of British steel. They still had plenty of fight in them. They just needed to be shown the way.
‘Lark!’
He heard Nicholson call for him, the general’s voice little more than a whisper. He walked closer, bending low so that he could hear the words.
‘Hold here. Do not give up what we have gained.’
Jack nodded. He stood back as a pair of doli bearers rushed up, followed by the fusilier sergeant who had summoned them. They worked quickly, bundling Nicholson up with rough and hasty hands.
‘Heh!’ Jack reached forward and took a firm hold on one of the bearer’s arms. ‘He is our general. Take more care.’
The native bearer stared at Jack as if he were mad. But they finished getting Nicholson into the doli and Jack could do nothing but stand back and let them leave. He would rather have trusted the general’s care to men from the Bengal Fusiliers, but he knew Nicholson would tear a strip off his hide if he tried.
The bearers went off at a fast trot. The inspirational leader of the British troops was gone. It was down to the line officers to hold on to what had been won. The time for grand strategy was over. The moment had come to put faith in an Enfield rifle, a steel bayonet and the exhausted and bloodied soldier who stood behind it.
‘Take cover!’
The remnants of the 1st Bengal Fusiliers crouched in whatever shelter they could find as the enemy opened fire. The rebels had brought forward two light cannon, and now they began to batter the huddle of grey-jacketed men who refused to retreat.
The storm of canister cracked against the walls of the Kabul Gate, tearing huge splinters out of the already heavily pitted stone. The fusiliers crouched low behind their cover, yet they no longer cowered. Each man’s rifle was loaded, the bayonet-tipped Enfields ready to defend the gate. There were barely two hundred men left, but Jack had them in hand. They would obey the general’s final order. They would hold what they had won.
They came at them then, a wave of screaming hatred that surged towards the thin line of fusiliers. Jack peered around the cover of the wall that he was hiding behind and stared at the enemy that came on in a mob hundreds, perhaps thousands, strong. The defenders were outnumbered many times over.
He readied himself. He had reloaded his revolver, his shaking hands fumbling with the ammunition but finally getting the weapon ready for the fight he had known to be inevitable. He closed his eyes and tried to summon the image of Aamira’s face as a talisman to keep him safe in the fight. But the hazy, undefined picture that formed in his mind meant nothing. He shivered, a surge of grief sprinting down his spine, followed by a great shudder that resonated deep in his being. He opened his eyes and knew for certain that she was lost.
He shook his head, trying to dispel the haunting notion. The realisation stunned him. Aamira had been lost since the moment the rebels had carried her back into the city. The bitter certainty eroded the last vestiges of his hope.
‘Here they come!’
Jack stared at the swarm that thundered towards them. He would follow the sole course of action left open to him. He was a redcoat. So he would do the only thing he knew.
He would fight.
‘Stand to!’ Jack bellowed the order and strode into the light. The glare dazzled him, but he walked forward nonetheless, taking his place in the centre of the fusiliers. They formed a rough line, half the men in cover, half in the open. But every gun faced the enemy, every barrel ready to fire.
‘Prepare to fire!’
Jack slipped the revolver from its holster with his left hand. He gripped the hilt of his sabre in his right. He thought of the fabulous weapon he had once owned, the sword of a prince that had once meant so much to him. He smiled at his foolishness. He was a butcher. It did not matter what manner of weapon he held.
‘Fire!’
The fusiliers’ volley crashed out. The rifles fired as one, a single great thunderclap of sound. The heavy bullets tore into the mass of humani
ty that charged towards them. Men were torn apart, limbs ripped from bodies, blood showering bright in the sunlight. The head of the attacking mob was gutted, great holes blown in the tightly packed ranks as every British bullet found its mark in flesh.
‘Charge! Charge!’
Jack felt the madness of battle return and take its remorseless hold over his soul. He submitted to it with relief, grateful for its return, for the wonderful oblivion of hatred.
He fired his revolver as he ran forward, pulling the trigger again and again. He cared nothing for the men he struck down, picking out targets without a thought.
‘Charge!’
The enemy had taken appalling casualties, but still they came on. This was no battle on an open field. In the cramped confines of the city street, the fight would be brutal. With no way to escape, both sides knew they had to kill or be killed. There could be no retreat.
Jack slashed at the first face he saw. He whooped in savage delight as he cut the man down, barely noting his civilian garb. He cut backhanded, slicing his sword across another man’s midriff before punching it forward and driving the point into a sepoy’s chest.
He went wild. He gave no thought to defence and flailed his sword around his head before half severing a grey-bearded jihadi’s neck. A bayonet grazed his ribs but he felt nothing and slammed the hilt of his revolver into a pagdi-covered face, bludgeoning his attacker to the ground.
Around him the survivors of the Bengal Fusiliers were fighting hard. They drove into the enemy ranks, thrusting with their rifles and punching the heavy steel bayonets into body after body. Many were cut down in turn, the enemy refusing to shirk the fight. Talwars flashed in the searing sun as the jihadis cut at the fusiliers, the heavy swords butchering the men who fought on no matter how many of their fellows were struck down.
A talwar slashed past Jack’s face. It came so close that he felt the wash of air as the edge missed his cheek by no more than an inch. He twisted hard and bellowed with fierce elation as he sliced his own sword into a man’s chin, cutting it up through mouth and nose. He kicked out as he drove onwards, slamming his boot into another man’s groin before driving the sword forward again, taking a screaming rebel in the mouth.
The Lone Warrior Page 32
