Captain Birch was only a stride ahead of them, and Ensign Kerr's picket was half-way to the stockade. 'Come on you grenadiers, form line!' he bellowed.
But his voice could barely be heard above those of the NCOs, all of whom had the same idea.
'Right marker!’ a corporal was screaming, his hand raised.
A line started to take shape, in double rank -if not as on parade, then no very great distance from it.
Birch doubled to the front and centre. He would have regularity. 'Company will fix bayonets. Fix . . . bayonets!’
Hervey, coming up beside him, drew his sabre.
Behind him came the rattle of a full five dozen blades being rammed home.
'Company, on guard!'
Up came the muskets, bayonets thrust out to impale the luckless souls who stood in their way.
'Company will advance, by the centre, quick march!’
The stockade had fallen silent. The going was heavy but Ensign Kerr's dozen grenadiers had kept admirable dressing. They had but twenty yards to go.
Kerr raised his sword. 'Double march!'
A ragged volley greeted them. A ball struck the hilt of Kerr's sword, knocking it from his hand. Another struck him in the groin so that he staggered left and right, then fell to his knees, his mouth open. The line wavered.
The serjeant, his face a picture of horror, shouted for them to keep going as he rushed to the ensign.
'No, no. That's not the way,' groaned Captain Birch, seeing plainly the loss of momentum. He pointed his sword at the fort. 'Company, double march!’
It was not what he'd wanted to do - not to blow them all by doubling through this mud. They'd need every bit of breath to scale the walls. But he couldn't have the picket faltering.
Hervey saw it too. These Burmans were a deal more resolute than the others. If they could volley as fast as British infantry they had less than half a minute to get to the lee of the stockade.
It was as well the defenders were more resolute than capable, for the mud clung to the grenadiers' feet as if demons were trying to pull them into hell. Never did Hervey think himself so powerless.
He could scarcely get his breath as they made the walls. The others looked no better, and some much worse. Furious musketry from above felled two corporals and enveloped the walls in smoke. A ball struck a grenadier full in the mouth. He ran back towards the river squealing like a stuck pig until another ball sent him sprawling in the mud, choking his way to a merciful death.
Hervey crouched watching as two grenadiers holding a musket between them put their shoulders to the wall.
A third, a big Irishman, jumped onto it. 'By Jasus I'll not spare one of them!' he cursed as they heaved him up full stretch.
Hervey could only marvel at their strength - and then at the Irishman's raw fight as he withstood the rain of blows to his head and hands. He got a footing on the parapet and at once the defenders shrank back, but another rushed him with a spear, and the point sank deep in his chest. The Irishman seized the man's head with both hands and they fell to the ground as one.
Hervey drew his pistol to despatch the executioner, but the grenadiers beat him to it.
There was no shortage of volunteers for the escalade. The lieutenant himself, not long out of his teens, was now hauling himself up, his sword in his mouth like a pirate boarding a prize.
Where were the ladders, wondered Hervey? Why were they going against stockades without so much as a grapple and line?
'Will you be going, sir?' called another of the grenadiers, as if they were asking if he intended taking a walk.
'Me first, sir,' said Corporal Wainwright, his foot on the musket in an instant.
Up it went before Hervey could protest. Wainwright, a jockey-weight compared with the grenadiers, was almost flung over the parapet.
He rolled forward in a neat somersault and sprang to his feet facing the way he had come, sabre already in hand. A clumsy lunge from a spearman was met by a parry and then a terrible slice which parted the spear, and the hand gripping it, from its wielder. Another two spearman backed away at once. 'Clear, sir!' he called.
Hervey clambered up the same way seconds later, by which time Wainwright had accounted for the reluctant supports. He looked at his covering-corporal's handiwork, and nodded: he could not have done it neater himself - perhaps not even as neat.
Left and right, all along the parapet, there were grenadiers duelling with Burmans. Theirs was not so neat work - the jabbing bayonet, the boot, the butt end. There were few shots, a pistol here or there. It was the brute strength of beef-fed redcoats and good steel that were carrying the day, although the grenadiers had had precious little beef this month.
The parapet was now treacherous, running as much with blood as rain. Hervey nearly lost his footing as he made for a down-ladder.
Wainwright was first to the ground, sabre up challenging any who would contest his entry. But there were none that would. Those who could get away from the parapet were making for the back of the stockade, some of them crawling with fearful wounds and a trail of blood. The grenadiers pouring over the wall were looking for retribution, and these men now obliged them. With each point driven into Burman flesh they avenged their comrades - a very personal slaughter, this. Hervey was only glad of the anger that could whip men up to escalade high walls with no other wherewithal than the determination to do so. Ferocious, savage; not a pretty sight, but the proper way, no question. And then get the men back in hand so that blind rage did not lead them to their own destruction. Where was Captain Birch?
Hervey soon learned. The serjeant-major was a colossus even among the giants of the grenadier company, and Captain Birch lay across his shoulder like a rag doll. 'Have you seen Mr Napier, sir?' he asked, coolly, seeing the fight was all but over.
'No, Sar'nt-major, I haven't,' replied Hervey, dismayed at the lifeless form of the company commander. 'Is the captain dead?'
'Sir. He took a ball in the throat just as he was broaching the wall.'
'Very well, Sar'nt-major. Will you have his orderly attend him, and come with me if you please. We must put the stockade in a state of defence at once.' Hervey did not imagine a counter-attack was likely, but that did not remove his obligation to take measures to repel one.
'Ay, sir. But let me just lay the captain aside decently first.'
Hervey hurried to the back of the stockade. 'Close the gates!' he shouted to two grenadiers.
They seemed uncomprehending.
He cursed, saw a corporal, gave him the same instruction, and at once the gates were pushed shut.
Up came the serjeant-major again. 'Set them shakos straight!' he bellowed at two men on the parapet.
Hervey could hear Armstrong in that command. It was remarkable how quickly a wound began healing in a regiment: that need to carry on, the notion of next-for-duty, and all. Where was the lieutenant?
Lieutenant Napier had given chase. He now returned with a look of thunder. He saw Hervey and shook his head. 'They've bolted, damn them. They beat us to the jungle by a minute, no more, but it's so thick—'
'I'm afraid Captain Birch is killed,' said Hervey.
Napier's thunder was stilled. He had already seen the ensign's death with his own eyes. He looked about the stockade and saw redcoats lying wounded; he knew there were more outside. 'How many, Sar'nt-major?'
'We can muster fifty sir, thereabout.'
That was a lot for the surgeon, or for the chaplain to say words over; a heavy butcher's bill indeed. The lieutenant set his teeth. 'See if we can torch this place, Sar'nt-major. Then we get our wounded back to the boats, and the dead too, and then press on for Kemmendine.' He checked himself, turning to Hervey. 'If you approve, sir.'
'Carry on, Mr Napier,' said Hervey grimly. The lieutenant nodded.
The serjeant-major saluted. 'Serjeant Craggs, bearers! Serjeant Walker, find everything you can that will light - Burmans included!'
Hervey took the lieutenant to one side. 'Do you judge that you w
ill be in a position to take Kemmendine?' he asked, the doubt more than apparent in his voice.
The lieutenant looked as if the question had never crossed his mind. 'Those are our orders, sir.'
'But I asked you if you considered that you had the strength to execute them.'
Still the lieutenant was incomprehending. 'The Thirty-eighth do not balk at trials, sir, however great.'
Hervey was becoming irritated. 'I do not doubt it. But to expend more life in a hopeless venture is base. More than that, however, it would be hazardous for the expedition as a whole. If you fail to take Kemmendine then the enemy will be emboldened. The essential thing while we stand on the defensive at Rangoon is not to have a setback in combat with them.'
'That is as may be, sir, but the Thirty-eighth were given orders to—'
'And I am now giving you an order to remain here until the rest of your battalion arrives!'
The lieutenant visibly braced himself. 'Very well, sir, but I must ask for the order in writing.'
'You may have it in any form you wish, Mr Napier. But I counsel you not to protest too much in front of your troops. They have fought bravely and it is no dishonour to them that they retire now.’
Corporal Wainwright listened intently to the exchange. He had seen his captain, sword in hand, display enough courage for a dozen men; yet countermanding a general's orders must require a different courage from the everyday kind. He wondered at it, took careful note, and hoped fervently that his captain was right as well as brave.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE SORTIE
Two days later
Hervey picked up a pencil. Pen and ink was no good. The paper was damp and the ink spread, so that even his carefully formed letters became indistinct in a matter of seconds. Damp paper, damp powder, damp biscuit - mouldy, even - on which they now subsisted, damp leather inside which men's feet chafed, the sores then suppurating: it was as inauspicious a beginning to a campaign as ever he had known. Indeed, it was more than inauspicious: it was ignominy in the making. Four hundred miles still to their object - Ava - and here they struggled through the delta's mud to attack stockades with only bayonets and the breasts of brave men. Hervey was ashamed, and not a little angry.
Rangoon, 17 May 1824
My dear Somervile,
I am very afraid that your strictures regarding the assumptions on which this war is prosecuted appear already to have been most sadly prescient. We made a landing here but one week ago against opposition unworthy of mention, but the populace has not risen in our support. Indeed, the native people are nowhere to be seen, and with them, we may suppose, are all the provisions and transport upon which the supply of the army was to be found. There are some cattle hereabout, but the order that they be unmolested remains, and therefore our soldiers starve that the sacred cows might live. The rains have come - in such torrents as I could scarce describe - and the river is now swollen in the manner required, but Peto's flotilla is unable to make progress until the supply is ordered and the gun forts all about - of which nothing was known hitherto - are reduced.
Two days ago I attended the Grenadier Company of the 38th, which is Campbell's own regiment, in two most gallant attacks upon stockades upstream of here. Their Captain was killed, and the ensign too, and they lost one in three of the Company, but they were all for assaulting a third and stronger fort until I ordered them to await reinforcement by the battalion companies, which, in the event, did not show because of some alarm here. The fighting spirit of the men is admirable, but I have a fear that it will be frittered away in ill conceived assaults - the Company had not even ladders for the escalade - and, perhaps the more so, by sickness, which is already rife.
Major Seagrass is dead of a fever, and I am thereby now General Campbell's military secretary. There is little for me to do, however, and yesterday when I gave my opinion of the parlous state into which we were lapsing (my cause was in respect of the mounting sick lists), Campbell became so angered that I am still unaware if it were on account of his despair at our situation or with my candour, though in this connection I must say that I do not believe he has a true grasp of our peril. I see none of the energy for which he had reputation in Spain, nor any faithful imagination of the scale of the undertaking. I pray most fervently that I am wrong in this assessment, but . . .
There was the sound of spurs outside and then a knock. The door opened and into Hervey's quarters stepped one of General Campbell's ADCs, well-scrubbed, hat under arm and sword hitched high on his belt. 'Sir, the general would speak with you; at once, if you please, sir.'
'Very well,' said Hervey, rising. 'Do you know in what connection?'
‘I am afraid I do not, sir. The general has spent much of the morning in conference with his brigadiers.'
Hervey placed the letter to Somervile in the pocket of his writing case, gathered up his sword and shako, and left his quarters certain that he was to hear another paragraph of sorry testimony for inclusion in the letter.
The general's door was open. Hervey knocked and stood to attention.
'Come in, Captain Hervey; come in.'
General Campbell looked tired. Or was it worry? Hervey had received no word from him after handing the quartermaster-general a report on the Thirty-eighth's endeavours. He was unsure even if he had read it, for there had been nothing but routine orders from Campbell's office in days. Neither had there been any sort of conference; Peto had fumed about it when they had dined together the evening before. 'Good morning, General,' said Hervey, a shade warily.
'Sit down, sit down.'
It was curious, thought Hervey, how the general repeated his bidding. He did it not infrequently, of late especially. Was it a mere affliction of the nerves, like blinking or twitching, or did it reveal an uncertainty? Since the general could not doubt that any order would be obeyed, it could only be that he tried to overcome his reluctance to give the order by repeating it for his own hearing. Yet in such small matters as entering a room and taking a chair, what could there be by way of difficulty?
Except, perhaps, that the general intended saying something disagreeable.
Surely not? Surely a major-general would not rebuke a captain direct when there were others to whom he might so easily delegate the unpleasant task. Hervey took off his shako and sat in a rush-seat chair in front of the general's writing table.
‘I did not say that I approved of your conduct the other day - on the river, I mean.'
Hervey was perplexed. The fact was indisputable, but the words suggested one thing and the manner of their delivery another. Was this a statement of disapproval or not? The general did indeed seem weary. 'No, sir.'
'I did approve, most decidedly. We can have no frittering-away of our troops, especially not our best ones. We shall need every man.'
Hervey nodded. He would once have said 'Thank you' to a sign of approval, but now he saw no occasion for thanks.
'I have intelligence that Kemmendine shall be the base from which the Burmans will launch their attacks on us. It is in all likelihood in a strong state of fortification already.'
Hervey nodded again, wondering what these remarks portended.
'Your observations on the Burman manner of fighting would appear most apt. It would seem they are advancing on us by degrees through the jungle, digging and throwing up their damned stockades with each day.'
Hervey frowned. 'That is exactly the manner in which I understand them to fight, General. But I must say that it is not by my observation as much as by study of what others have written before.'
The general waved a hand dismissively. 'Yes, yes, but it was you who wrote the memorandum. That is what I meant. And now you've been inside one of these damned bamboo forts of theirs, you'll have other notions of how to deal with them, no doubt.'
Hervey was about to say that he considered any attack without artillery to be iniquitous, when the general pronounced his intention to deal with the encroaching threat. 'I shall attack at once -tomorrow. I shall take them ut
terly by surprise.'
Hervey, certainly, was surprised. Indeed, he was as intrigued by the notion as he was by the general's purpose in summoning him.
'You think ill of my design, then, Captain Hervey?'
Hervey would once have been flattered by such an enquiry. Now he felt only anger for the reply he would have to make, for it hardly seemed a design at all - more a statement of hope. 'I should not advise it, sir.'
The general looked taken aback; whether by the sentiment or by its plain expression, Hervey could not tell. Nor, indeed, was he in the slightest degree concerned.
The general frowned. 'How so?'
Again, Hervey would once have measured his words; now he paused but a moment. 'The jungle is the Burman's habitude. General. It is where they would choose to fight us. To fight them there we should have an approach through very trappy growth, and could scarce keep formation. Or, if we were in column, it would be the very devil to deploy, especially if there were skirmishers concealed. And in all this it would seem to me utterly impossible to achieve the slightest degree of surprise.'
The Sabre's Edge Page 7
