While this evolution was taking place, which required the sortie to advance a good hundred yards to make manoeuvre room, and for the companies to extend left and right for about fifty into the padi, Hervey climbed to the lower branch of a sal tree and began his own survey. To the right of the village, perhaps a little closer than to the forest's edge, was water - one of the delta's many creeks, he supposed. To the left, and beyond, the same distance, was jungle. He strained to make out something of the village, but the cloud and the rain made it impossible to tell whether there was any stockading. There was certainly no sign of life. He looked at his watch: a little past midday. They could not advance much further without spending the night in the forest. And there were the guns to think of.
The companies struck off at a good pace, splashing through the muddy rice as if skylarking on a beach. Hervey climbed down and pushed his way along the track to where the general marched with the Thirty-eighth's lieutenant-colonel, just to the rear of the leading company. He fell in behind the adjutant, counting himself lucky to have his feet out of the padi. It was only then that he observed how effective was a general's cocked hat in a downpour. Campbell had his pulled over his ears, and water ran down the points 'fore and aft' clear of both face and neck. Strange, the things one noticed at times such as these, he mused.
'View halloo!'
Hervey woke instantly. Where? What? He couldn't see beyond the shakos of the company in front.
'Skirmishers out!' he heard the lieutenant-colonel order.
Men from the light company began doubling past on both flanks to form a skirmishing line. How would they load in this weather?
'Smart work!' said the general.
Hervey could now see the Burmans forming up on either side of the village - with officers on horseback. He prayed there would be no cavalry, however inexpert. They would have the advantage, for sure, even in this going.
'Curse this padi!' It was taking forever to make headway. Hervey glanced left and right: the lines were uneven, and they were having to mark time in the middle, the men on the flanks up to their knees in water, mud sucking at every stride. He thought it bordered on the reckless. If there were cavalry behind the village they could be onto flanks in an instant. He began unbinding one of his pistols, but he had little expectation of its serviceability. He cursed again. A pistol which misfired, perforce at short range, was worse than useless. He began rebinding. He would trust to the sabre, as the infantry would trust to the bayonet.
At a hundred paces musketry broke out from in front of the village, left and right. Hervey could scarce believe it. Just as at Kemmendine the Burmans had concealed their stockades in byaik little more than shoulder high, and kept their powder dry. But again they'd fired too soon and not a ball struck home.
The skirmishers held their fire: theirs was to discourage any who would stand in the open.
Coolly, as if at a field day, the general took in the business before him. 'One company, if you please, Colonel,’ he said, matter-of-fact. 'Remainder to stand fast in reserve lest those there begin to advance.’ He pointed at the Burmans drawn up either side of the village.
It was promptly done. Eight dozen bayonets in two ranks inclined right and quickened almost to double time, Campbell following.
Hervey was hard-pressed to keep pace.
The musketry increased, but it was ragged and had no more effect than before.
The ground now fell away - three feet, perhaps more. Down the slope to the bamboo walls ran the company - eight-foot walls, not five.
There were shots from the left - hopelessly too far again - as Hervey and the general raced to catch them up. He couldn't understand how the Burman fire discipline could be so poor when their other skills were so admirable.
The general glanced left, marked the smoke, then drew his sword and sprinted the last dozen yards to the fort.
The Thirty-eighth were already atop the walls. Hervey glimpsed the bayonets at work - bloody, vengeful work.
The general climbed on a corporal's shoulders and heaved himself up. Hervey and the ADCs followed as best they could. Hervey lost his footing on the wet bamboo several times until Corporal Wainwright leaned out and got hold of his crossbelt.
But it was over by the time they were up. Five minutes' work, at most, to turn the fort into a slaughterhouse as bad as he'd seen. There were dozens of dead piled against the gates, and as many more scattered about the stockade in ones and twos where they had stood and fought or cowered and craved mercy, both in vain.
General Campbell, sword still drawn, but unbloody, at once ordered out the company to assault the second stockade. Hervey, standing on the parapet, glanced back at the other three companies formed up ready, their colonel in front, and wondered at the general's impetuosity. Was it that he was happy at last, knowing exactly what he was about - the simple certainty of fighting, and with his old corps? He might almost be seeking a glorious death. He made work for his covermen, for sure.
Two ranks! Get fell in!' The serjeant-major blew his whistle fiercely and waved his sword. 'That was nothing! Look sharp, damn you!'
The voice of the Black Country made Hervey think of Ezra Barrow: dragoon to captain - what would he make of it? He would not have volunteered for it, that was certain. 'Never volunteer for anything' was a maxim Barrow had long lived by. And it had evidently served him well. Hervey might almost envy him at this moment, undoubtedly taking his pleasure in an afternoon's repose.
At last the company was fell in to the serjeant-major's satisfaction. They were scarcely depleted, for all the ferocity of the first assault, though every man was as gory as a surgeon's mate. No matter, the rain would wash them clean. But by their look, Hervey wondered if it was what they would want.
The general now threw over all restraint and placed himself in front of the line. He waved his sword at the objective, two hundred yards ahead. ‘Once more, the Thirty-eighth! Let 'em have Brummagem!’
There was a great cheer.
Poor Colonel Keen, sighed Hervey. The general was a captain again and nothing would stop him.
He took post on the right of the front rank, along with the ADCs, with Corporal Wainwright beside him. It would be the closest he had come to a bayonet charge - just as he'd wanted. He could already feel the strength of a line of well-drilled men elbow to elbow, 'the touch of cloth', even blue with red. If only the enemy were not behind a palisade! But no, he needn't worry: the bamboo walls would delay them, not stop them, surely? These men's blood was hotted: they would take the place by escalade again, and the Burmans would once more rue their lot.
But the second stockade was not as easy as the first. The walls were no higher, and the defenders no greater, but the Burmans held their fire and then stuck at it just that bit longer. The first volley came at about seventy yards - some lucky hits, enough to shock - then another at fifty which felled several men including a serjeant.
'Charge!’
The general's voice was louder than the rain and the firing combined, and the cheering louder still as the right-flank company of His Majesty's 38th Foot, under their erstwhile colonel, ran slipping and sliding to the wooden walls.
This time the defenders would not be bolted. They held their ground and kept up a steady fire even as the first redcoats were scrambling up the palisade.
The second rank began desperately unwrapping their flintlocks to engage them. Few managed to fire.
The Burmans had the advantage and the will this time, and the fallen red coats began to show.
But little by little - it seemed an age yet could not have been more than minutes - red began to preponderate atop the palisade. It defied reason, for they could not be gaining it by fire. Hervey himself had fired both his pistols, and the rounds were wide. No, it was not fire that let the redcoats escalade the fort.
He got a shoulder again from a thickset private— ‘Yow mun gow, sir; me leg's shot through.' This time he reached the parapet while there was still fighting. 'Where's the general?'
'I can't see 'im, sir,' said Wainwright, looking either side of the wall.
'Christ!' It wasn't his business to guard him, but—
An ear-splitting roar and the whizz of shrapnel smoke rolled across the stockade floor and hid all for an instant.
Hervey leapt from the parapet and dashed for the gun. A dozen redcoats beat him by a mile. A dozen more lay full of iron.
He saw his man though, spear couched, hesitant but standing his ground. Up went the sabre as he ran in, Wainwright with him.
He didn't feel the ball strike. He only saw the lights dancing in the sky as he fell. And then the shadow of Corporal Wainwright over him, saying something he couldn't hear.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE SURGEON'S BLADE
That evening
The sight of a horse, even a lone horse, made the sentries at Rangoon's gates rush to their posts, and the inlying picket stand to. A horse was at best the bearer of a Burman who wished to treaty; at worst it bore the forerunner of a Burman army.
'Shall I take a shot at 'im, sir?' called the picket-corporal to his officer.
The lieutenant strained to make out the target. Two hundred yards: he could not determine who sat astride, and he was as certain that his corporal, for all his reputation as a hawk eye, could strike neither horse nor rider at that range with a common musket. And with the extra windage of the French balls they'd been issued with he'd have no more chance at half the range. He looked for reassurance towards the field piece in the mouth of the gate - the gunners were already ramming home shell. 'No. Let him come on some more.'
The guard company now stood to, hastily, dressing in two ranks.
Their captain scaled the ladder to the palisade to see for himself. He raised his telescope; a hundred yards the rider had closed to.
The lieutenant rued his own want of so useful an instrument.
' Two men, Torrance - one leading. They're not wearing red, but they're not niggers either.' He turned and hailed his ensign. 'Out, Wilks, and give a hand!'
They brought Hervey to the surgeon in a dhoolie. Corporal Wainwright, every muscle weary, stayed with him despite the Serjeant's entreaties to fall out and take his ease. The horse, exhausted too, and lame, was led away by a corporal - fresh meat at last, joked the men.
The hospital occupied the town-eater's collecting house - and every building around it, now. Men lay everywhere, barely tended. The place stank worse than Calcutta when the Hooghly was on the turn.
'Out you go, Corporal,' said the surgeon. He had come at once, tired and red-smeared from his ministrations with the bleeding stick.
'I'd rather stay, if you don't mind, sir.'
'I do mind. You're no use to me in here.'
Hervey lay unconscious. The assistants were already cutting away the left sleeve of his coat. Corporal Wainwright did not move.
'Oh very well,' grumbled the surgeon. 'But be out of my way. You both reek of rum.'
Corporal Wainwright stepped back, allowing the surgeon and his assistants full play at the table. One of them held a lantern up close to Hervey's shoulder.
'Too late,' said the surgeon.
Corporal Wainwright's jaw dropped.
'It'll have to come off. It looks like a ball in there. The shoulder will be a deal too smashed, and putrefaction too far advanced.' He sounded as tired as he was certain.
'Sir, with respect, sir,' pleaded Wainwright, stepping forward. 'Captain Hervey couldn't draw his sword and hold the reins with but one arm.'
The surgeon spun round. 'Damn your impudence, Corporal! I've a mind to have the guard throw you out! Another word and I'll have that stripe from your arm.' He turned back to his assistants. 'The saw, please!'
Corporal Wainwright did not flinch. 'Sir, you must try and save Captain Hervey's arm!'
The surgeon went purple. 'Throw 'im out!'
Corporal Wainwright drew his sword and pulled the pistol from his belt. The assistants fell back. 'I'll take the captain with me then, sir.'
'You damned fool,' spluttered the surgeon. 'This is gross insubordination - worse. The arm's got to be amputated, and quickly, otherwise it will gangrenate.'
Wainwright sheathed his sword.
'Sensible fellow,' said the surgeon, nodding. 'Now why not wait outside?'
Wainwright levelled the pistol again. No one moved a muscle.
He stepped forward, crouched slightly, beckoned an assistant to help, and took Hervey over his shoulder. He stood full upright in one movement, with a strength that awed the watchers, and walked out of the hospital.
He walked past orderlies too alarmed by the fierce eyes and the pistol to stop him. Indeed, so compelling was Wainwright's bearing that soon there were sepoys supporting him.
At the river he found more allies, this time in blue. 'It's Captain Hervey, sir,' he called to one of Liffey's officers in an approaching gig.
Liffey's officer of the watch had also been observing from the quarterdeck. 'Fetch the captain,' he snapped at a midshipman. 'And the surgeon. I think it's Hervey.'
Peto came at once with Surgeon Ritchie, both of them fresh-scrubbed and dressed for dinner. 'Hervey, you say?' The edge to the tone was obvious. Peto leaned well out as the boat bore alongside.
'I believe so, sir,' said the lieutenant. 'And his—'
'Great heavens,' exclaimed Peto, springing back from the rail. 'Mr Ritchie, your best work; your best work please!' He rushed to the gangway. 'Two marines - leave your muskets!'
The sentries at the foot of the companionways grounded arms and followed the captain down.
'Sir, Captain Hervey's shot, sir, in the shoulder,’ said Corporal Wainwright, as Peto bounded down the gangway. 'The army surgeon wanted to take his arm off, sir.'
Peto pulled back the cloak to see for himself. He grimaced when he saw how much blood there was. The whole of the buff bib was red-brown. 'A hammock, there!' he shouted to the lieutenant, who had already anticipated the need.
Another marine scuttled down the gangway with it.
'Bear him up gently, men,' said Peto, more a plea than an order. 'Gently as you can.'
Seamen and marines began lifting him into the hammock.
'My cabin, if you please, Ritchie,' he called to the surgeon.
Surgeon Ritchie raised his hand to acknowledge and sent the loblolly boys sprinting to the cockpit for his instruments and the medical chest.
The marines, red in the face and sweating like pigs, bore Hervey up gently. Two more came to the job as they reached the main deck.
'I'll have your table, if you will, sir,' said the surgeon, as Peto came back on deck.
'Ay, of course, of course,' replied Peto absently. He pushed past, calling for his steward. Together they began clearing the table of its silver and fine china.
'Save the tablecloth, sir, if you please,' called the surgeon. 'Sit Captain Hervey upright,' he said to the marines. 'Support him with the cloth until I know what we're about.' Back came his assistants.
'Lay it all out here and give me the sharpest knife!'
Corporal Wainwright's stomach heaved. 'Sir, I—'
'One way or another the coat will have to come off, Corporal,' said Ritchie, moving candles closer.
Corporal Wainwright's relief was palpable.
'A bowl of hot water and some brandy, if you will, Flowerdew.'
To anyone who observed the preliminaries of the two surgeons - the army's and Liffey's - the reason for the crew's high opinion of theirs would have been clear. Whereas, ashore, the man had worked in Stygian gloom, though there was no obvious cause to, and his prognosis was made after the most cursory of visual examinations, Surgeon Ritchie made full use of the evening sunlight that streamed through the stern windows - and his magnifying glass.
His prognosis, however, tended to the same. 'Not good, I'm afraid. Lint, please.'
An assistant rummaged in a haversack.
'Clean lint. Let's not have any more stink than needs be.'
Hervey opened his eyes.
>
'Capital, my dear friend!' said a delighted Peto. 'You're in good hands, now.'
Hervey appeared not to register where he was or even who was there.
'An ill-timed recovery, I'm afraid, my dear sir,' muttered the surgeon, pouring brandy on the lint and wiping away some of the blood caked about the wound.
Hervey's head rolled.
Peto peered over the surgeon's shoulder at Hervey's. 'He reeks of rum, Ritchie,' he said, shaking his head. 'Little wonder he nods.'
Ritchie threw the lint to the floor.
'Hold hard there, my old friend!' Peto called, as if to a deaf man, which, to all intents and purposes, Hervey was.
'How much rum has he drunk, Corporal?' asked Ritchie.
'Only a very little, sir,' replied Wainwright, standing to attention by a bulkhead. 'I poured the most of it into Captain Hervey's shoulder, sir.'
Ritchie turned and looked at him before more rubbing with new lint. 'And why, pray, did you do that?'
'I know Lord Nelson's body was preserved in brandy, sir. I thought it could help Captain Hervey.'
'You did, did you? Well, it can't have done too much harm, though it might have been better had you poured it all down his throat.' He took off his coat and pulled up his shirtsleeves. 'A digital examination, then, now the wound's exposed proper.'
Peto screwed up his eyes, the better to see the work, although it anticipated the flinch too.
Ritchie inserted a finger - the right index - with the utmost care, but the pain was so great that Hervey let out a cry and at once passed out.
'Good,' said Ritchie. 'Much the best way,' as he continued probing.
Peto grimaced, but more in anticipation of what Ritchie might say. Wainwright stood stock-still, at attention. He could do no more now than trust.
'There's been prodigious bleeding,' said Ritchie after a while. 'But no disruption of the glenoid cavity. No bone splinters either. And I believe I may feel the ball.' He withdrew his finger and wiped it on some lint, taking good care to observe Hervey's breathing as he did so.
The marines shifted their weight a little.
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