Jack led his men along the zig-zagging communication trenches that led to the front, feeling the mood alter with every passing yard. He looked up at the now familiar walls and fortifications of Sebastopol, with the outworks manned by resolute, skilled Russian artillerymen and formidable redoubts lined with the ugly snouts of cannon waiting for any British assault. The triangular earthwork of the Great Redan dominated the walls opposite the British lines, overlooking everything across hundreds of yards of open ground.
'Keep your heads down, men,' Jack reminded. 'The Russian sharpshooters just love to put holes in us.'
He heard the advice passed backward from man to man as they moved forward from the first to the third parallel, so they were only about four hundred and fifty yards from the Russians.
'It's bloody freezing!' Thorpe said, loudly, to be hushed into silence by a scandalised O'Neill.
'Shut your mouth or Johnny Russ will hear you and do the army a favour by putting a bullet between your eyes. Her Majesty wasted a shilling when she bought you.'
The resulting laugh was low key but good to hear. The British soldier could laugh at any hardship as much as they could grouse. If the laughing and grousing ever ended, Jack knew that they were in real trouble. Black humour and regimental pride were the army's secret weapons.
Jack paused as a wolf called somewhere, the sound high, lonely and sinister.
'I didn't know they had wolves out here,' O'Neill said. 'Ugly things; worse than the bloody Russians.'
'Are you relieving us?' The speaker was a captain of the Royal Scots; hard of eye and face, with a bloody bandage on his left arm.
'We are,' Jack said. 'Lieutenant Windrush of the 113th.'
'Right, 113th. I am Napier of the 1st Foot.' The captain nodded forward. 'As you see we are directly opposite the Redan so watch for sharpshooters. They like to keep us on our toes.'
'We'll watch for them, thank you,' Jack said.
Napier nodded and gestured to his men to leave the trench. They moved past him in a long column, dragging their feet through weariness but every man with his rifle clean and ready. Napier was last to leave the trench. 'Good luck, Windrush. You lads put up a good show at Inkerman, I heard.' He nodded. 'One last thing. The Russians have been making some new rifle pits lately. So far there are none opposite our positions but best be prepared.'
'We'll watch for them,' Jack said. 'Thank you Napier; good luck.'
Napier vanished along the communication trench and Jack looked out from the breastwork of sandbags. It was only a few months since they first landed in the Crimea yet it seems as if they had been besieging Sebastopol for years.
'That's the Great Redan,' he pointed out the huge wedge shaped fortification.
'Yes, sir,' O'Neill nodded as though he had never seen the ominous shape before.
'That and the Malakoff are the keys to the Russian defence,' Jack continued. 'So they may be firing at us from time to time.'
As they looked to the right, where the great round tower of the Malakoff menaced the French lines, the Russians fired their fifteen inch mortar. Against the darkening sky, the lit fuse could be seen dropping sparks as it rose, then descended in a dreadful arc with the terrifying sound that justified the name the British gave it: Whistling Dick.
'I hate these things,' O'Neill said frankly.
Jack nodded. 'I wish the man that invented them could stand on the receiving end. In fact I wish all the men who invented these hellish weapons could stand on the wrong side of them, with the politicians beside them.'
O'Neill gave a sour grin. 'If that happened, sir, wars would end overnight and you and I and all these brave lads would be out of a job.'
Jack contemplated the sergeant's words for a moment. 'It would be worth it just to see the politicians' faces.'
O'Neill laughed. 'Aye, and take the war mongering kings, queens and bishops too.'
The wolf howled again, the sound echoing through the night like some banshee from the dimness of history. A rocket hissed up from the French lines, flared briefly and fell, fading slowly, back down to earth. A rifle cracked over to the right where the French lines were, followed by a spatter of musketry; an uneasy silence descended.
'Welcome back to the trenches,' Coleman said. 'Bloody Frogs firing their bloody rockets all over the place.'
'Keep your voice down, Coleman,' O'Neill snarled.
Jack checked the positions. 'We were lucky the Royal Scots were here before us,' he murmured to O'Neill. 'They look after the position well.'
'Yes, sir,' O'Neill agreed.
'We will be equally careful with the trenches.' Jack said. 'It's another way of raising the name of the 113th.'
He moved on, every step sinking shin deep in cold mud, keeping his head as far beneath the sand-bag and gabion parapet as possible in case some Russian marksman had him in his sights.
'Somebody's coming up the communication trench,' Riley sounded nervous. Logan, his constant companion, dropped to one knee with his rifle pointing at the newcomers.
'Captain Windrush!' Light wind carried the harsh whisper.
'That's Lieutenant Windrush,' Jack said.
'Lieutenant Wolseley, 90th Foot, attached to the engineers.' The speaker was young, agile and eager. He started when he saw Logan ready to fire at him. 'It's alright, fellow, we're on the same side.'
'What can I do for you, Wolseley?'
'We're extending a trench forward to prepare a new parallel,' Wolseley glanced at Logan, who remained wary and on guard. 'I'd be obliged if you could ensure your men did not fire at us by mistake.'
'I'll pass the word on,' Jack pushed Logan's rifle downward. 'We'd best have a safe word: how about Rule as a challenge and Britannia as a reply?'
'Wolseley nodded. 'That will do.' He slid over the parapet into the dark, with ten men behind him armed with picks, shovels and gabions rather than rifles and bayonets.
'I don't fancy their job,' Riley said quietly.
'Aye; there are worse units to be in than the 113th,' Jack agreed. He had never thought to say these words.
They settled in, riflemen finding the most comfortable niches, non-commissioned officers growling at the men and officers hitching up their collars and hoping for a quiet night.
Williams was at the extreme right of the 113th's position, peering forward into the murk. 'There's something happening out there, sir,' he called, low-voiced. 'I can hear our sappers digging but there's somebody else out there as well.'
'You would know about digging, Williams,' Jack said. He raised his head cautiously above the parapet to listen, praying that no Russian had his rifle trained on the spot he occupied.
'Yes, sir. They are about two hundred yards apart; the other lot is closer to Sebastopol.'
Another rocket soared up from the French lines, putting Williams' face in sudden silhouette. The hard jaw and prominent line of nose and cheekbones were emphasised, with the eyes a sharp glint hidden by deep shadow. Jack ducked down at once.
'The Russians could be making another rifle pit,' he said.
'I would say so, sir.'
'Keep an eye on it, Williams.' Jack crouched beside him. The ground here was hard with a minimal cover of earth above harsh rock so it took immense labour to hack out every trench. With the ground so rocky, soldiers could not dig deep and used sandbags and gabions to build a protective barrier from enemy fire. The Russians would experience exactly the same difficulties. He imagined them only a few hundred yards away, the hard-worked peasant soldiers of the Russian army toiling away to remove these invaders of their holy land.
'Do you want me to have a look, sir?' O'Neill asked quietly. 'I could take Coleman and Thorpey.'
Jack shook his head. 'You stay here and watch the men. I'll go over.' A good officer would never order a man to do what he would not do himself. That was a cardinal rule he had learned as a child. He would not send a man into danger while he sat in the comparative safety of the trench. He would take Coleman and Thorpe: both veterans of the Burma camp
aign; men who had experience of creeping quietly through thick forest with Burmese dacoits all around.
Their initial looks of disgust at having to reconnoitre altered quickly to the habitual phlegmatic expression of the British soldier when they did not wish their officers to know what they were thinking.
'How many Russians are there, sir?' Thorpe asked.
'That's what we're going to find out,' Jack said, 'so keep your head down and count as many as you can see.'
'There's thousands, Thorpey,' Logan said, 'thousands and thousands, all wanting to chop you into mince.'
'Keep quiet, Logan or I'll send you out with a flare on your head and let the Russians have you!' O'Neill poked a hard finger into Logan's ribs.
Jack prevented Logan's snarl from developing into something more serious. 'Get back to your post, Logan. Thorpe and Coleman, follow me.'
That was another significant word: follow. Officers who said 'go on' were despised by the men. Officers who said 'come on' were leaders, yet Jack had to fight his discomfort as he slid between two sandbags and inched forward on his stomach toward the supposed Russian rifle-pit. He knew that some officers did not feel fear; they would run laughing into a Russian battery or charge a horde of Afghans or Sikhs without a qualm. He was not of that nature. Perhaps it was because he had too much imagination but he could imagine the agony of being shot or bayoneted, or the horror of losing a limb or being terribly disfigured by a cannon ball or blast of grapeshot. The memory of the mewing wounded at Inkerman returned to him; men that had been brave soldiers only hours before reduced to fragments that were still alive but no longer recognisable as human.
He pushed the images away. They would only weaken him. Crawling through cold mud above hard rock, feeling his scalp tingle with the imminent possibility of death, Jack moved on. He could not hear Thorpe or Coleman but he knew they were there, unhappy, wishing they were safe in camp or ensconced in some British pub, hating him, but there, professional, capable, supportive and only a few feet away.
Jack could hear the hacking of honest British pick-axes on the stony ground, and a strange slithering sound as the Russians also worked on their rifle pits.
Raising his hand slightly, he stopped his men. They halted at once, peering into the dark. Vague black shadows coalesced into the shape of moving men. He tried to count them; ten, twenty, thirty … more than thirty Russians although as they shifted around he lost count. An estimate of forty might be accurate, all digging with spades or loosening the rock with long metal poles.
A contingent of infantry in dark uniforms guarded the forty men. They walked slowly around the perimeter of the workings with hardly a sound, holding their rifles in both hands and with the long, slightly curved shashka hanging from their belts.
Jack felt his heart beat increase. Although he knew that many Russian soldiers carried that particular type of sword, the men he had previously encountered had all been Cossacks. That meant major trouble. So far in the war the famous Cossack horsemen had not been a major threat, with the British cavalry brushing them aside with little difficulty. However, the Plastun Cossacks, the Cossack infantry had proved durable, ferocious and very cunning in the sort of night-operations that trench warfare demanded. If the Plastun Cossacks were here in numbers, the depleted and disease-racked British army would need all its resources just to survive, yet alone to take the offensive and capture Sebastopol.
The crack of a cannon broke the hush of the night. The Russians ducked back under the shelter of their diggings, with the Plastun Cossacks vanishing like smoke up a chimney. Jack saw the brief muzzle flare from the centre of the Redan and heard the whizz of the shot, and then darkness returned. There was no reply from the British guns. The echo of the Russian artillery resounded for some seconds, to gradually fade away until a second cannon fired from the Redan. The shot passed overhead to land with an audible thud amidst the British trenches. There was a yell in return, a cry of 'you Russian bastards' and the crack of a rifle as a soldier returned fire.
Other rifles joined the first, so there was a fusillade from the British front line trenches with some of the shots passing dangerously close to Jack's head.
'Time we were out of this, lads,' he said. 'We've seen all I wished to see.' He edged slowly backward, keeping his face toward the enemy. 'Stop!' He hissed urgently as he sensed, rather than saw, movement from the Russian rifle pit.
Half a dozen Cossack infantry emerged, slowly and silently, with their shashkas at their side and their long rifles held in their right hands. They did not crouch, but walked slowly forward toward the British front line, alert and very dangerous.
'We can drop them, sir,' Coleman pushed forward his rifle.
Jack considered. Six Cossacks could do a lot of damage to unsuspecting British troops, while having their own party ambushed in an area they believed they were masters might damage their morale as well as raising that of his men. On the other hand there was the danger of casualties or of more Cossacks reinforcing the initial six.
'Take them,' Jack made his decision. He pulled his revolver from its holster, checked the chambers were loaded and aimed at the third man. 'Coleman; take the first; Thorpe the second and then it's each for himself. Ready … fire.'
The three shots sounded nearly together. The second Cossack jerked backward; the first staggered and the third did not flinch as Jack's bullet missed completely. He fired again, missed a second time and only on the third shot saw the man crumple. By that time Thorpe had reloaded and was aiming again. Coleman was dropping a cartridge down the muzzle of his rifle and the remaining three Cossacks were retreating to their own trench.
'Back, men,' Jack ordered. He could hear increased fire from the British trenches and knew that the Russians would retaliate. 'We got our men.' He fired another shot in the general direction of the retreating Russians without any hope of hitting anybody and crawled backward.
'Sir!' Coleman put a bold hand on Jack's leg. 'Over there!' He pointed to the right, where Wolseley and the engineers were still working.
Jack saw them; another party of Plastun Cossacks with the long shashkas and dark uniforms, ignoring the firing as they moved cautiously toward the engineers.
'Down them,' Jack reached into his pocket, pulled out a handful of cartridges and began to reload his revolver. The Cossacks covered the ground at a steady pace. Their leader was a tall man with a distinctive loping gait. Jack jolted; he knew that man only too well.
'Fire when you're ready,' he said. 'Don't wait for orders and for God's sake somebody kill that tall fellow.'
'Do you know him, sir?' Coleman asked.
'I know him,' Jack said. By God, he thought, I know that tall man with the eye-patch and the American drawl. That is John Anderson… He aimed his revolver and fired. The bullet must have gone close enough for Anderson to notice for he turned around, just as Coleman and Thorpe opened fire. Anderson remained upright while one of his Cossacks toppled over.
'That man has a charmed life,' Jack said openly, and fired again.
Anderson vanished, and the Plastun Cossacks with him.
'Gone to ground, sir,' Coleman said calmly. He reloaded with speed, lying on his back to drop the cartridge down the barrel of his musket.
'Did we get that tall fellow?' Jack peered into the dark. The muzzle flares had destroyed his night vision. He could not make out anything.
I don't think so sir,' Thorpe said. 'The bugger went into cover.' He looked curiously at Jack and repeated Coleman's question. 'Do you know him, sir?'
'Only too well, Thorpe,' Jack said, 'and he is trouble.' He looked ahead, seeing nothing. 'Best get back to the trench, men. If the Plastun Cossacks are on the loose there won't be much peace for us tonight.'
'Sir!' Coleman raised his rifle and took a snap shot as a figure loomed out of the dark to their right. 'There's more!'
They came fast and hard, shadowy men with drawn shashkas appearing on both flanks. Jack had a sudden vision of a Cossack slashing downward at Coleman.
'Aye, would you, you bastard!'
Coleman parried the sword stroke with a raised rifle, swore as he was forced back a pace, twisted his rifle and landed a savage blow on the Cossack's arm with the butt.
Jack saw somebody rise in front of him and took a snap shot. The man fell but whether dodging or hit he did not know. Thorpe swore, grunted and fired quickly, with the muzzle flare revealing a brief vignette of hard, moustached faces and the gleaming blades of shashkas.
'There's too many of them sir!' Coleman lunged with his rifle-butt at another Cossack, swore when the man sidestepped, and slashed downward with his bayonet, tearing the Cossack's cheek open. 'They're tricky beggars these, sir.'
Anderson stood a dozen yards away from Jack, holding a long barrelled pistol in his hand; for a moment both men stared at each other and then an Irish voice shouted: 'on them, 113th!' and O'Neill was there, solid and reassuring, with a dozen men at his back.
Anderson and the Cossacks vanished at once, leaving one dead man forlorn on the ground and another with blood pumping from his ruined face.
'Well done, O'Neill,' Jack panted.
'We heard the firing, sir,' O'Neill sounded calm. 'Was that the American fellow?'
'It was,' Jack confirmed, 'and God only knows what he is doing leading a platoon of Plastun Cossacks.'
'I'm sure that God knows but I don't, sir,' O'Neill crossed himself devoutly.
'Get the men back to the lines,' Jack said, as a cannon belched from the Redan. Johnny Russ will not like all the racket we are making.'
A wind whispered from the east, bringing a whiff of gunpowder through the tough grass.
'113th!' The voice sounded eerily from the Russian lines, echoing over the battered plain. '113th! Can you hear me, 113th?'
'Keep quiet men,' Jack passed the order along. 'Don't respond to them. They're trying to get us rattled.'
Windrush: Blood Price (Jack Windrush Book 3) Page 4
