‘Hold them!’ Jack threw himself forward as the first redcoat fell to the ground, his hands clutched to the ruin of his throat, ripped open by a fast-moving sword edge. He snapped his left hand forward, thrusting the barrel of his revolver into the thickly bearded face of the first enemy soldier to reach up and try to scramble through the window.
‘Fuck off!’ he screamed as he pulled the trigger.
The man’s face disappeared as the heavy bullet punched through skin and bone, a nauseating explosion of blood and offal splattering both Jack and the two redcoats who were still desperately defending the window.
Jack pushed into the gap the fallen redcoat had left. The blue-coated infantry were pressed tight against the window, and now they were reaching up to haul themselves into the opening. Jack got a blurred impression of the hatred in the bright eyes of the dark, bearded faces as he raised his revolver once more and fired into the pulsating mass that screamed its horrifying war cry in the faces of the defenders. The four bullets left in the revolver punched into the closest bodies. Jack steadied his aim after each shot, making sure each one counted. The dreadful salvo cleared a space, each bullet striking a man to the floor, easing the pressure on the route into the barracks.
Jack saw the opening and reacted without thought. The madness was irresistible. As soon as he had pulled the trigger for the first time it had overwhelmed him. Nothing mattered save the dreadful urge to fight, to hack at the enemy.
He put one arm on the ledge and leapt through the window.
He landed on the balls of his feet, the small drop down from the window barely registering in his mind. His beautiful sword whispered from the scabbard, the bright gems encrusted on the hilt flashing in the bright sunlight. The wild call of battle surged through him, the same soul-searing madness that had driven him into the Russian ranks at the Alma coursing through his veins.
He flailed the sword forward, sweeping its sharpened edge in an upward arc, slashing it into the astonished face of the closest enemy soldier. The talwar scoured through the man’s heavy beard, gashing a wide channel that immediately filled with blood before the man fell to the floor, his hand clasped to the dreadful wound.
Jack recovered the blade, punching the hilt forward, driving the heavy guard into his next target. He screamed as he fought, a terrible snarl of animal anger. He moved fast and the blade sang as he threw himself at the enemy. He thrust the point hard into a man’s guts before recovering the blow and flashing the blade away, using the sharpened rear blade to slash the throat of another blue-coated soldier who took the first pace towards his left side.
‘Come on!’ He challenged the enemy to attack him. He twisted on the spot, sliding his hips to one side to let an enemy talwar whistle past his body before countering with his own blade, skewering the man who had tried to kill him with a single thrust to the heart.
He stamped forward, moving away from the window and into the space he had cleared. He did not feel the bodies under his boots, the flesh that slipped and pulsed under his callous tread. He felt nothing save the urge to fight.
‘Forward the 24th!’
The loud cry barely registered in Jack’s mind. He saw the eyes of the man to his front widen as more redcoats threw themselves from the window, Corporal Jones leading his flying squad in a wild charge after their captain.
The dozen redcoats drove into the packed ranks of blue-coated soldiers, firing the shots saved for this moment. The close-range volley butchered the nearest enemy soldiers, knocking them over like skittles at the fair. The redcoats did not hesitate. They stormed forward, thrusting their bayonets at any stunned guardsmen left standing. They forced their way through the men who milled around the window in an onslaught of bloody violence that had the enemy soldiers backing away in horror.
In the face of the counterattack the enemy ranks broke. The press of bodies eased as the Maharajah’s men turned and ran, pushing and pulling at each other in their eagerness to get away from the red-coated devils who had charged with such madness. The men from the 24th that Jack had stationed on the roof kept up their fire as the enemy fled, picking at the retreating mob, adding impetus to the rout.
Jack’s lungs heaved as he tried to suck in mouthfuls of the scorching air. He sank to his haunches, suddenly exhausted, his battle rage vanishing as quickly as it had appeared.
‘Sir.’ Corporal Jones appeared at his side, his gory, blood-splattered bayonet held inches from Jack’s nose. ‘Time to get back inside.’
Jack wiped his face with the dark green facing of his jacket. ‘Thank you for coming after me, Corporal.’
‘My pleasure, bach. We couldn’t lose our only officer, now could we? Right careless that would be.’
Jack nodded his thanks. A sea of blood surrounded him, the twisted and torn bodies of the men the redcoats had struck down littering the ground. Some still moved, living on despite the dreadful wounds they had taken, their pitiful groans and whimpers loud in the sudden lull.
A fresh round of musket fire broke out. Jack sheathed his sword, ignoring the blood that was smeared on the beautifully decorated steel. The 24th had driven off the Maharajah’s first assault, but the rest of the tiny fortress was still under attack.
‘Corporal Jones, leave half the men here. Give me the rest. We’d better see if we are needed outside.’ Jack snapped off the order within moments of climbing back into the smoke-filled barracks. There was no time to take stock or to rest on their laurels. Dutton and his sepoys were still heavily engaged, and Jack would not let them fight on alone.
‘Very good, sir.’
‘And well done.’ Jack raised his voice so that the watching redcoats could hear his words. Three of their number lay stretched out on the ground, whilst many others nursed cuts and wounds caused by the sharp sabres that had tried so hard to strike them down. They had been lucky.
‘Sergeant.’ Jack called to one of the company’s sergeants, whose name he still did not know. ‘Stay here. Make sure the men are loaded and that they all have a full pouch of caps and cartridges.’
‘Sir.’
Jack turned to the hastily formed platoon that Corporal Jones had put together. ‘Stay with me. Let’s go.’
They set off at a fast trot. The sounds of muskets firing had ceased but they could all hear the clash of blade on blade. The perimeter was hard pressed on all sides. Dutton had already been forced to commit his own flying squad to reinforce the north wall, where the Maharajah’s men had nearly broken through. Everywhere the sepoys were fighting hard, Dutton’s command fully engaged as the swarm of men pressed along the length of the makeshift barricade.
Jack flinched as a volley of musket fire cracked out from overhead. The resourceful Colour Sergeant Hughes had turned his men around, bringing the muskets under his command to bear on the closest enemy troopers attacking the rest of the perimeter, and Jack made a mental note to thank him later.
He turned to his men. ‘Follow me! Whatever happens, stay together.’ He scanned the grimy faces, which looked back at him with intensity. He could see the determination in their eyes. His new command would not let him down.
They went off at double-time, their equipment clattering as it bounced off their bodies. Jack led them fast across the parade ground and towards the western wall, where he saw at least a dozen sepoys on the ground.
‘Forward the 24th!’ His sword rasped as he pulled it from the scabbard.
The dusty ground passed quickly under their fast-moving boots, the last yards rushing by. Jack saw a tall blue-coated guardsmen pull himself on to the barricade. The huge man kicked out, smashing his foot into the face of a sepoy who had been raising his bayonet to cut him down. The attacker threw his head back, screaming his challenge to the gods before he leapt down on the sepoys’ side of the barricade. Men poured over the makeshift wall behind him, a dozen of the Maharajah’s best troops finally forcin
g their way into Dutton’s fortress.
‘At them!’ Jack screamed the command to his half-company.
The giant guardsman saw him coming and took a double-handed grip on his huge talwar. Jack recognised him instantly. Subedar Khan was serving his master well by leading his men from the front.
‘He’s mine!’ Jack roared the challenge, rushing towards the man he had come to know during his time in Maharajah’s palace. He could not let any of his men face the huge man in combat. That responsibility was his and his alone.
He slashed his own sword forward as he skidded to a halt, flashing the blade at Khan’s body. He sensed his men pushing past, wielding their own weapons as they fought to drive the enemy back over the barricade, leaving him to fight alone.
‘Come on then, laddie! Let’s fucking dance!’ Khan parried the first attack, swatting Jack’s fast-moving blade aside with ease. His counter-stroke lashed out, but Jack had been ready for it and he ducked low, letting the talwar swipe through the air over his head. He recovered his balance and attacked again, battering his sword at the target in front of him.
Khan snarled in anger as the speed of Jack’s blows forced him to give ground before he scythed his own talwar back, the growl turning to a roar of frustration as Jack parried the attack.
Jack was astonished by the calmness running through him. There was none of the battle madness that had taken charge when he flung himself through the barrack-room window. Instead he fought with icy detachment, his fear banished and replaced by composed confidence.
He thrust his talwar forward, aiming it directly at Khan’s heart, picking the spot with ruthless precision. He felt nothing as the subedar parried the blow, driving his blade wide. He waited for the inevitable counterattack, snapping his neck backwards so that Khan’s wild slash whispered past his face.
‘Damn you laddie!’ Khan roared before he attacked again, flailing his sword at Jack’s body, his words drowned out as the two swords clashed together.
Jack stayed silent, his emotions banished. He felt no remorse. He stamped his foot forward, attacking with a series of blows that used all of his speed. Again and again Khan parried the flashing talwar, each time only just catching Jack’s blade an instant before it ripped into his flesh.
Around him the 24th drove the enemy soldiers backwards, forcing the Maharajah’s men back over the wall. They were not having it all their own way. Two redcoats were down, their bodies torn open by the sabres of the blue-coated soldiers, who fought on even as they were driven backwards, refusing to give up the hard-won foothold on the redcoats’ side of the barricade.
Khan came at Jack, releasing a blow driven by a wild fury. Jack stepped backwards quickly, letting the talwar pass in front of his body. As the blade went wide he saw the opportunity. He snapped his wrist forward, ramming the point of his sword into the giant man’s chest, the force of the blow driving it deep into the man’s body.
Khan grunted as the blade pierced his flesh. Yet still he fought on, slashing his talwar at Jack in a final gesture of defiance.
Jack twisted as he suddenly saw the fast-moving blade in the corner of his vision. He flung his arm up into the sword’s path, the reaction uncontrolled and instinctive. The sharpened blade sliced into his left forearm. He felt the edge bounce off the bone before the burning agony seared into his skull. Then Khan fell. Jack’s talwar was ripped from his grip, the beautiful blade trapped, buried nearly to the hilt in his adversary’s body.
Jack clasped his right hand over the deep gouge that was already slick with blood. He barely heard the cheer as the last of the blue-coated infantry were forced back over the wall, his exhausted redcoats driving off the enemy soldiers who had come so close to breaking their dogged resistance. He stared down into the face of Subedar Khan, who lay in the dust no more than a foot from his boot. The Maharajah’s officer was dead, his eyes glazed, his life torn away. Jack gripped his arm, feeling the blood pulse over his fingers as it pumped out with every beat of his racing heart. He forced the coldness into his soul, denying the emotion that was trying to take control.
The shouts of victory sounded distant as he nursed his wound, the defenders roaring in triumph as the Maharajah’s finest troops pulled back, beaten by the resolute defiance of the redcoats.
The defenders of Bhundapur had survived the first attack.
‘Hold still.’
‘It bloody hurts!’
‘Don’t be such a baby.’ Isabel stuck the tip of her tongue out as she concentrated on tying off the bandage she had used to cover Jack’s wound.
‘Sweet Jesus!’ Jack hissed the oath as the tight binding sent a spasm of pain running up his arm.
‘Listen to you.’ Isabel shook her head in resignation, busying herself gathering up the cloths she had used to clean the wound. ‘I’ve never heard such fuss.’
‘My apologies, ma’am.’ Jack opened and closed his hand, testing its mobility. The pain was like a red-hot poker buried deep in his flesh, but his arm was usable. He had been lucky. Khan’s strength had been failing when the blow landed. Had it been driven with full force, Jack knew he could have lost his arm.
‘You should take better care of yourself.’ Isabel tried to sound light-hearted, but Jack could hear the strain in her voice. A smear of blood had dried on her cheek, the grotesque rouge dark against her pale skin.
For the first time, Jack understood her father’s longing for her to live a normal life. She did not deserve to be surrounded by death. A girl her age should be worrying about what dress to wear to the ball, which young gentleman would receive the honour of being the first name on her dance card. She should not be forced to wallow in blood, bearing witness to the basest emotions of man.
‘You should go home, Izzy.’ He spoke softly.
Isabel bit her lip. He saw the pain in the green eyes that had so captivated him, from the first moment he had seen her at Proudfoot’s gathering the night he had arrived in Bhundapur. She didn’t speak, but Jack caught the slightest nod of her head as she acknowledged his words.
He reached across with his good arm, entwining his fingers around hers. ‘You deserve so much more than this.’
Isabel shook her head, forcing down the shudder that ran through her body. ‘There, that’s your arm done.’ Her voice was cool. She slid her hand from his, gathering up the remnants of bandage before wiping clean the bloodstained scissors that she then slipped back into the front pocket of her smock. ‘How does it feel?’
Jack lifted his arm, flexing the fingers to demonstrate the successful dressing of his wound. ‘It hurts, but it’s fine.’
‘It won’t stop you fighting?’
Jack looked up sharply as he heard the ice in her voice. ‘No. It won’t stop me. It can’t.’
‘So you can do your duty. You can go on killing.’
Jack closed his eyes. Her bitterness hurt. When he opened them once more, she was staring at him. ‘Yes.’ He acknowledged her condemning words. ‘I’ll fight.’
‘You frighten me, Jack.’ Isabel’s voice cracked. ‘And I am so tired of being scared.’
The words were like barbs.
She sniffed once before rising to her feet, brushing away the dirt that had stuck to her simple dress. The heavy tread of army boots prevented Jack from saying anything further, and he too eased himself upright, cradling his arm gingerly as he moved.
‘Begging your pardon, sir. I’m sorry to interrupt, but Major Proudfoot would like you both to join him.’ Colour Sergeant Hughes stood ramrod straight in the doorway, his eyes elevated as if embarrassed at spoiling the moment.
Jack smiled at the sergeant’s sensibilities. He couldn’t help thinking how he could have used a man like Hughes in the Crimea. ‘Thank you, Colour Sergeant.’
‘How’s the arm, sir?’
‘Bearable. It could’ve been worse.’
‘Indeed, sir. I was watching you.’ The colour sergeant spoke plainly. ‘You fought like the very devil.’
‘Mr Lark is a fool, Colour Sergeant,’ Isabel interrupted. ‘He throws himself around like a schoolboy, thinking he cannot come to harm.’
‘He’s an officer, ma’am. It’s what they do.’ Hughes offered the explanation as if it was all the answer that was needed. ‘The best of them, anyhow.’
Yet Jack heard the censure in Isabel’s words. The enemy were at the walls and he would have to fight again if he was to do his duty. But he knew he was losing the girl who had saved him. Doing his duty came with a price.
Jack helped Isabel across the barricade, cherishing the thin smile she gave him in thanks. They had been ordered by Major Proudfoot to join the deputation that would answer the enemy’s summons to a parley.
A party of exhausted sepoys were checking the enemy bodies that littered the ground outside the barricade, doing their best to separate the living from the dead. There was no time for anything more; the dead would simply have to be left where they lay. They had at least cleared a path, so that Isabel and the cantonment’s officers would not have to walk on a carpet of bodies, although the ground under their feet was still soaked in blood, the pale dusty soil stained dark mulberry.
Proudfoot was dressed in uniform, the first time Jack had seen him in the scarlet coat of a British officer. Ever the dandy, he had eschewed the regulation shako, preferring to wear in its place an old-fashioned bicorn topped with an enormous ostrich feather.
‘I hope the bastards are asking for permission to bugger off,’ Dutton growled as he walked at Jack’s side. ‘Beg your pardon, of course, Miss Youngsummers.’
Isabel looked across Jack and smiled sweetly. ‘I have spent too long with Jack to be shocked or offended by such words, Major Dutton. Have no fear for my sensibilities.’
Major Proudfoot heard the words and laughed aloud. ‘You have a great deal to answer for, Jack.’ There was no trace of nervousness on his face. Clearly being summoned to a flag of truce on a bloodstained battlefield did not daunt the British political officer.
The Maharajah's General Page 30