The Scarlet Thief

by Paul Fraser Collard

  In front of the battalion, Jack could see Colonel Morris urging his powerful horse up the slope. Morris was close to fifty yards ahead of the fusiliers, when he suddenly rose up in his stirrups. At first, Jack thought the colonel was standing tall in the saddle to cheer his men on. To his horror, Morris kept moving, arching backwards before tumbling out of the saddle.

  When Jack reached him the colonel was lying stretched out on the ground, his body twisted like a rag doll. In front of Jack’s horrified gaze Morris’s body twitched where it lay, jerking like a landed fish as more Russian bullets slammed mercilessly into his prostrate body. Jack did not need to look at the blood pooling around the body to know the colonel was dead.

  Far up the slope, the Russian skirmishers fired for a final time before they withdrew, disappearing out of sight over the crest of the slope. The air was suddenly still and Jack tore his gaze from his colonel’s lifeless body to stare in bewilderment at the Russians’ sudden withdrawal. The ridge was clear of enemy soldiers, the path to the great redoubt inviting and open. The fusilier behind Jack pushed him hard in his back, impatient at his dawdling, unceremoniously thumping his officer forward. The jarring blow to his back sent a spasm of pain surging up his spine but it brought him to his senses.

  The time to mourn Colonel Morris’s passing would come later. Right now, those officers left standing had to lead the men forward, to inspire them to victory.

  The pace of the advance quickened now that the withering fire of the Russian skirmishers had ended. No other enemy soldiers appeared to contest the redcoats’ passage. The fusiliers surged up the slope, all order forgotten. In some places the line had broken completely and one or two men were advancing on their own. Every step took them closer to the enemy artillery which stayed ominously silent, hidden behind the high face of the redoubt. The open slope invited the advance, as welcoming as the splayed legs of a whore.

  General Codrington curbed his skittish young horse, slowing its pace as he scanned the open ground. Codrington fretted. He simply could not credit that the Russian general had left his flank wide open. The entrenched battery of artillery was a menacing threat yet no cannon, however well positioned, could hope to resist a determined attack alone. Codrington knew there had to be more enemy infantry close by but, frustratingly, he could not see where they waited. And what he could not see, he could not fight.

  He did not doubt that the brigade had to press home the attack. They must be bold and trust to quick, direct action. But the disordered redcoats were vulnerable. On the left of Codrington’s men, the Light Division’s second brigade, commanded by General Buller, were forming up. Two of its three battalions, the 77th and the 88th, had moved to the side to form into square, something an infantry battalion usually only did if threatened by enemy cavalry. The third, the 19th, had joined Codrington’s brigade, further evidence that the Light Division’s ordered plan of attack was in total disarray.

  Codrington knew he had every reason to order the advance to halt and give his officers the time they needed to re-form the ranks. It was the sensible course of action, the pragmatic thing to do, but any delay gave the Russian general more time to move up fresh troops, to reinforce the great redoubt and secure the exposed flank. Delay, and the opening would be slammed shut.

  Codrington dug his spurs into the flanks of his mount, urging the young horse up the slope. He damned caution and threw prudence to the wind. The fusilier brigade would attack as it was.

  Ahead of the fusiliers, the Greenjackets of the 95th still screened their progress, the loose chain of skirmishers leading the way up the slope. Then, without warning, they stopped. They dropped to one knee and hurriedly opened fire. Jack tried to see what they were firing at but it was impossible to see past the Greenjackets.

  Jack heard the threat before he saw it. It sounded like a distant freight train thundering up the line. But this was no machine. It was the rhythmic drumming of hundreds of boots hitting the ground in unison.

  Through a gap in the skirmish line, Jack finally caught sight of the source of the pounding. A column of hundreds of Russian infantrymen, two battalions of the Kazansky Regiment, was aimed like an immense fist at the redcoats.

  There was no subtlety in the attack. No deft manoeuvre. This was war by numbers, the column an overwhelming force sent to smother the attackers.

  The 95th Rifles fired and fired again at the huge column. Each shot claimed a victim but they could no more stop the Russian advance than a child could stop the rising tide by flinging pebbles into the sea.

  The officers of the 95th bowed to the inevitable and blew their whistles, ordering the skirmishers to move to the flanks of the British battalions. They had done all they could.

  The Russian column flowed down the slope to the east of the great redoubt, aiming at the left flank of the Fusilier Brigade’s advance.

  Two battalions stood in its path. One, the 19th Regiment of Foot, should not have been there. It was part of General Buller’s command and should have been with the other two battalions that made up the second brigade and were currently formed in a square to the right of Codrington’s men. Alongside the 19th stood the 23rd Royal Welch Fusiliers.

  Both battalions were badly disordered, their companies hopelessly intertwined and with their sergeants and officers far from their allotted positions. Even the most inexperienced ensign saw the danger the unformed ranks faced. Yet there was no panic. In calm, measured tones, the officers brought the disordered advance to a halt and started to re-form the ranks, organising the men who were closest to them, irrespective of their proper station. A line two men deep emerged. It was uneven, bulging and then thinning out, but it was the best the officers could do in the time available.

  The line was longer than the width of the advancing column and so the officers on the flanks ordered their men a few paces forward until the British line resembled a flat U. With both ends of the line inclining forward, every rifle could be brought to bear on the Russian column.

  In the packed ranks of the Russian column, only the men at the very front could fire, its own clumsy bulk obstructing the majority from bringing their weapons to bear. The drums in the centre drove it onwards, hundreds of conscripts carried along by the mesmeric beat of the drums and the glory of the moment.

  ‘Present!’

  Two British battalions raised the muzzles of their rifles. The redcoats were not overawed by the huge column bearing down upon them. They had been brought up on stories of the Peninsula and of the famous victory at Waterloo, tales that told of the thin British lines that had stood with dogged determination in the face of Napoleon’s veterans, beating back the best troops that the Emperor could throw against them.

  ‘At one hundred yards, volley fire!’

  The redcoats aimed down their sights at the massed Russian ranks, bracing themselves for the powerful kick of their Minié rifles.

  ‘Fire!’

  The two battalions fired within moments of each other. Each volley wrought a dreadful destruction. It was as if the head of the column had marched into the maws of a mincing machine. The high-powered Minié bullets gutted men in the fourth, fifth and even the sixth rank. The Russian conscripts were literally torn to pieces, their limbs smashed, huge holes ripped in their flesh.

  ‘For God’s sake! Where is Major Peacock?’ Jack screamed in frustration.

  The noise of the battlefield was immense, overwhelming his brain with its dreadful cacophony. His cry was lost in the volleys of rifle fire that the 19th and the 23rd were pouring into the Russian column to his left. Smoke drifted across the ground, screening events that were unfolding a matter of yards away from where he stood. The Light Company had lost contact with the 23rd during the pell-mell advance up the slope. Away on his right the 7th under Colonel Lacy Yea were surging in a disordered scramble up the slope. Jack heard the Russians to his left return fire but he could not even see the
enemy.

  He looked around for orders. With Colonel Morris lying dead on the slopes behind the battalion, command had fallen to Major Peacock. Yet there was no sign of him. He should have been on foot with the colour party in the centre of the battalion. With Peacock nowhere in sight, the battalion was leaderless.

  ‘Sir! Sir!’ Digby-Brown forced his way through the ranks, flushed with sweat. ‘We must advance!’

  ‘I know. Jesus Christ!’ A glance along the stalled line showed that he was not alone in looking around for command. The captains of the other companies had pushed their way to the front of the line, their heads turning this way and that as they tried to find who was commanding the battalion.

  ‘Where the hell is Peacock?’ Digby-Brown had to shout to be heard over the sound of the Russian column returning fire.

  ‘Blow me if I know! Jesus Christ! What a fuck-up!’

  ‘Reload!’

  As the redcoats brought their rifles down from their shoulders, the Russian column shuddered to a halt. Stunned conscripts who had thought themselves safe deep in the column now found themselves at the front of the attack. The slaughtered front ranks formed a grotesque obstacle, blocking the way forward. Their officers’ commands to advance were ignored; not one Russian conscript was willing to clamber over the bodies of their comrades and move closer to the red line that had delivered such an appalling storm of violence. They raised their muskets and returned the British fire from where they stood.

  The smoke billowing around the redcoats’ line twitched and flickered as the Russian musket balls penetrated the cloud but the volley did little damage. It picked at the redcoats, taking a man here and a man there, but it was nothing compared to the carnage inflicted by the Minié rifles. The British sergeants closed the ranks where the dead and the dying left gaps in the line, the redcoats shuffling together even as they reloaded their rifles.

  The second volley tore into the stalled Russian column. Their torn ranks valiantly returned fire, picking off more redcoats. Despite the terrible destruction wrought upon them, the Russians still vastly outnumbered their attackers. They could absorb the terrible casualties and still have enough men to win through – if they could summon the courage to advance.

  The redcoats ignored their casualties, always shuffling together, closing the ranks and presenting an unbroken front to the enemy.

  The British line fired for a third time.

  The dead and the dying covered the ground where the front dozen ranks of Russians had stood. It was a charnel house. The Russian conscripts started to inch backwards. No soldiers in the world could stand against such dreadful destruction. Their ranks were gutted and hundreds of their fellows lay bleeding and torn in front of them. The Russians broke.

  History had been repeated. The line had turned the column.

  While the 19th and the 23rd were engaging the first and second battalions of the Kazansky Regiment, a second Russian column moved obliquely across the undulating slope of the valley. It was made up of the third and fourth battalions of the Kazansky Regiment and it was aimed at the exposed right flank of the attacking redcoats.

  It marched unnoticed. The noise of its advance was lost in the dreadful din of the volleys that were being poured into the first column, and its packed ranks were hidden by the natural folds in the land.

  A cloud of skirmishers surrounded the head of the column as thickly as flies on a dung heap. They broadened the point of its attack, and greatly increased its firepower. At its heart, the drummers beat out the staccato rhythm of the march. The ceaseless tempo drove it forward, every step taking it closer towards the flank of the unsuspecting enemy troops.

  The 7th Fusiliers stood on the right flank of Codrington’s brigade, the last battalion in the line. Colonel Lacy Yea had spurred up the slope far ahead of his men, only slowing his charger as he came up against the rear of the Greenjackets whose skirmish line was strung across the slope in front of his battalion.

  Impatiently Lacy Yea twisted in his saddle, his quick temper rising at the slow progress of his men. He had followed Codrington’s lead, rushing his men forward, trading the battalion’s cohesion for speed. The sight of his men advancing in what could only be described as a mob raised a grimace of distaste on his proud features. This was certainly not the glorious assault he had envisaged, the likes of which were depicted in so many of the pictures on the walls of his family’s estate.

  ‘Damn you, sluggards! Advance the Seventh! Press on, men! Press on!’

  Lacy Yea had to pull hard to turn the head of his horse round. Despite his impatience, he had to let his men catch up. Colonels were not supposed to charge alone.

  As he sought to curb his skittish young horse, he thought he saw movement on the right flank of the brigade’s advance. With both hands on the reins, he peered through the smoke, his eyes straining.

  The cloud of powder smoke cleared and the head of the second Russian column loomed into view.

  Lacy Yea stared in astonishment as the column marched across the slope towards the right flank of his disordered battalion.

  He was staring at defeat, at the near certain destruction of his battalion.

  The colonel dug in his spurs and raced back down the slope towards his command.

  ‘Seventh Fusiliers! Form line! Form line!’

  There was no time for anything but a desperate defence. His only option was to throw his battalion across the front of the Russian advance and risk everything on his men’s willingness to stand toe to toe with the enemy horde.

  Of the four battalions that had followed Codrington in his advance towards the great redoubt, the third was about to become heavily engaged with the enemy. That left just one to carry on the assault.

  The King’s Royal Fusiliers would have to capture the great redoubt on their own.

  ‘Fusiliers! Fusiliers!’ General Codrington galloped across the slope, his grey Arab pony lathered in sweat. The brigade commander had seen the advance grind to a halt as three battalions traded volleys with two massive Russian columns. Only the King’s Royal Fusiliers were unengaged but that battalion had stopped advancing and now stood impotently halfway up the slope towards the great redoubt.

  Codrington would not let the attack falter. Standing tall in his stirrups, he waved his old-fashioned bicorn hat, bellowing for the fusiliers’ attention. ‘Fusiliers! King’s Royal Fusiliers! Advance! Advance!’

  Lieutenant Flowers was the first to respond.

  ‘Come on! Follow the general!’ he yelled and spurred his tired horse up the slope. ‘Advance!’

  Codrington rammed the decrepit bicorn back on to his head. With his right hand now free, he drew his sword, all the while shouting his encouragement over the din of battle.

  The fusiliers responded and once again surged up the slope, led by their general and their adjutant. They cheered as they advanced. It was a ragged cry, barely more than a growl, but it released some of their fear.

  Ahead, the great redoubt was ominously silent. The redcoats could see the muzzles of the Russian cannon pointing down the slope. They braced themselves for the twelve Russian guns to fire, a terrible fear building as they got closer to the redoubt. The tension was dreadful. Twelve pieces of artillery would deliver a storm of canister and roundshot that would shred the advancing line, snatching dozens of the fusiliers into oblivion and leaving countless more twitching and bleeding in its wake.

  Yet still the redcoats marched forward, their desperate courage and sheer bloody-mindedness pushing them onwards. They marched as if into the face of a violent storm, leaning forward as if battered by a fierce wind, their muscles straining. Their chests heaved with the exertion of the advance, and the pitiless heat of the sun baked them in their thick red jackets.

  With four hundred yards to go, a young drummer boy in the centre of the battalion stumbled and fell, his body tumbling ove
r the large drum tethered to his front. The terrified youngster remained on the ground, curling round the broken instrument, hugging it close as he lay weeping and trembling with overwhelming fear.

  At three hundred and fifty yards, a fusilier in McCulloch’s company let his rifle slip from his sweating hands. The redcoat marched on regardless, leaving his weapon, terror driving him forward, all rational thought forced from his brain. The discarded rifle lay abandoned, trampled and broken under the heedless boots of the fusiliers that marched behind.

  With three hundred yards left to go, the Russian battery fired.

  The power of the volley was terrible. The solid roundshot cut through the British ranks, each missile killing several men, the red-hot iron balls passing through successive bodies. Large gaps were blown in the ranks.

  The screaming began.

  Despite their horrendous casualties, the British line continued forward, heedless of those left behind, stepping over the dead and the dying, callously ignoring the shrieks of agony and the pleas for aid.

  The first Russian volley released the tension. The redcoats’ terror was still bright but now the agony of anticipation was over. There was nothing left but to close with the enemy and exact a bitter revenge on the merciless Russian gunners.

  The Russian gunners swabbed out the red-hot barrels of their guns, producing hissing clouds of steam, then they frantically rammed and reloaded them. They knew their survival depended on tearing the attacking line to shreds, on slaughtering enough of the British so that the survivors broke and ran rather than face certain death from the guns. If the redcoats got into the battery their revenge would be dreadful. The terrible steel bayonets that glinted so brightly in the sunshine would hack and gouge at the men who had laid down the barrage of fire with such ruthless precision.

  The Russian gunners switched to loading canister, a tin can packed full of musket balls that would explode as it emerged from the muzzle of the cannon. It was a brutal weapon, a close-range killing machine.