As the second brigade marched across the bridge, General Havelock consolidated his success. '78th; advance; hold the road and ensure the Mutineers don't interfere with the advance of the heavy artillery. When the rest of the army has passed, act as rear guard.'
Knowing the Mutineers were almost certain to attack along this road to delay the passage of the guns, the bearded, kilted men of the 78th looked pleased. 'Aye, sir,' they said and crunched firmly forward as the remainder of Havelock's army followed the pre-arranged plan and turned right to march beside the canal.
'It's bloody hot,' Elliot fanned a hand in front of his face.
Jack nodded; marching with thousands of other men along a narrow lane was not conducive to coolness in India. He looked over his shoulder, hoping the rebels did not attack while they marched in column.
'Why don't they hit us now?' Elliot echoed Jack's thoughts. 'We're stretched like string, and with the canal behind us, there's nowhere to fall back on.'
'Poor leadership,' Jack repeated what he had said before. 'We're fighting some of the best soldiers in the world, well trained and brave as lions. If they were better led, we'd be in real trouble.' He motioned to O'Neill. 'Sergeant, take two good men and hurry ahead; see if the Mutineers have any nasty surprises prepared for us.'
'Yes, sir,' O'Neill saluted. 'Williams, Parker; you're with me. Come on!' O'Neill hurried ahead, happy to be away from the restrictions of the slow-moving column.
As they neared the Dilkusha Bridge, the British veered north toward the heart of the city and O'Neill returned. 'There's trouble ahead, sir. We've got to cross a bridge over a nullah at the Kaisarbagh, and the pandies are waiting for us. The Kaisarbagh is another of these walled gardens, sir.'
'Thank you, Sergeant.' Jack said. 'I'll tell the General.' Oh God, another blasted bridge!
'There's no help for it,' Havelock peered over the bridge into the chasm below and then looked upwards, where rebel artillery and musketeers garrisoned a solid-looking building. 'This is the best route. We'll just have to charge them again.' He sighed. 'The Good Lord knows I don't like inflicting casualties on my men. We are still three-quarters of a mile from the Residency, and the rebels seem to be in great force here.'
The bridge was only wide enough for only two men marching abreast, while rebel guns commanded the whole stretch.
'They pick their spots well,' Elliot uncorked his hip-flask and took a long swallow.
Jack nodded. He felt the tension rise within him as he always did before battle. Other officers and many of the men seemed to enjoy the thrill of combat or took it in their stride as part of the soldier's bargain. He was not of that temperament. Every encounter drained him, leaving him shaken, with a head full of images he could not lose and nights when nightmares returned him to the monstrosities of war. 'They know their stuff.' How many more battles would there be?
He took a deep breath. It did not matter how many more. He would face them one by one until this war ended, as he had in the Crimea, or until he was dead or too crippled to be of any use to anybody. That was the soldier's bargain. Once again the Mutineers held the advantage, and the British had only raw courage to pit against accurate artillery. That was the only ace in their pack; that and General Henry Havelock.
As before the British advanced into a torrent of fire which swept men away and left screaming, limbless wrecks on the ground. Jack rushed forward with his men, saw a musket ball raise chips from the road at his feet and felt a tickle on his scalp as something knocked off his hat. Shaking his head, he shouted something that was intended to be defiant but which came out as a meaningless gabble.
'Sir?' O'Neill was at his side.
'Charge, damn you!' Jack tried to say. Slipping, he fell against the parapet. For a moment he remained there, staring into dizzying space as bullets and balls cracked and whined all around him, and his men thundered past, and then somebody took hold of his arm.
'Are you all right, sir?' O'Neill looked genuinely concerned. 'Best get you somewhere safe.' There was a sudden roar from the Kaisarbagh, and a charge of grape ripped the length of the bridge, bringing down men in a froth of blood, flesh and splintered bones.
Jack allowed himself to be helped up. 'Thank you, O'Neill.'
'Come on sir, while they're reloading the gun.' Grabbing Jack by the sleeve, O'Neill dragged him off the bridge, just as the cannon fired again, scattering deadly grapeshot.
'The lads can't get past.' Jack tried to shake the dizziness from his head.
'No, sir.' O'Neill was frowning. 'You've been hit, sir.'
'What? Only my arm, a long time ago.' Jack touched his left forearm. The wound was open again.
'No, sir. You're bleeding from your head.' O'Neill put a grimy finger on Jack's temple.
'Am I?' Jack touched the place; his fingers came away wet with blood. 'So I am.' He tried to smile, but the effort made him giddy. 'We'd better push on.'
'We're all alone, sir. The lads couldn't cross.' O'Neill pointed to the far side of the bridge, where the 113th sheltered behind broken houses and isolated rocks.
'We'll have to take the gun without them then,' Jack shouted as the rebels' artillery roared again.
'Yes, sir,' O'Neill replied, and then there sounded a loud cheer and the rattle of musketry on the Mutineers' side of the bridge. The firing rose to a crescendo and died away, to erupt again.
'Something's happening, sir!' O'Neill said. 'That was a British cheer.'
A few moments later a kilted corporal strode to the bridge and waved for the Madras Fusiliers and the 113th to cross the bridge. 'Over you come, lads,' he shouted. 'The 78th have done your work for you.'
'How the hell did you get there?' O'Neill bellowed. 'You're meant to be the rearguard.'
'We were fighting off the pandies while you beggars were having your wee stroll beside the canal.' The corporal sounded cheerful despite the bandage across his face. 'We kept them at bay for three hours on the Cawnpore road, threw their guns into the canal and came through the town to help you out.'
'Glad to see you,' Jack pushed himself upright. The ground seemed to be swaying all around him. 'Where are my men?'
'They're coming now,' O'Neill said. 'Houghton is gone though, and Gordon's wounded. Are you all right, sir?'
'We're losing far too many.' Jack pushed O'Neill's supporting hand away, blinking as blood flowed into his left eye. 'Could I borrow your bayonet, O'Neill?'
Removing his tunic, Jack cut off the left sleeve of his shirt, folded it into a rough bandage and tied it around his head. He knew it looked theatrical, but it would serve to keep the blood from his eyes until he could get proper medical attention.
A steady flow of British soldiers was crossing the bridge now, their boots echoing on the stone. They sheltered behind a group of ruinous buildings a few yards from the walls of the Chatr Manzil, the Umbrella Palace and looked forward. Jack counted his men; only forty left standing of the 113th now, and darkness was fast approaching. He did not relish the idea of a night among this complex of palaces and spacious garden grounds with no defensive lines and thousands of Mutineers and other rebels prowling around.
'This place could be paradise.' There was fresh blood soaking through Elliot's tunic and powder burns on his sleeve. 'But this battle's turning it into Satan's playground.' He gestured to the bridge. 'Here are the generals coming along now; I wish Havelock were in sole charge.'
Outram was smiling, apparently pleased at the progress they had made. 'We'll halt here at the Chatr Manzil until the remainder of the rearguard and the heavy guns join us.' He sat erect and military on his horse amidst the devastated splendour of the Nawab of Oudh's palaces.
'No, sir.' Havelock's decision outweighed Outram's. 'Our duty is to reach the garrison in the Residency; our primary task is to help the poor women and children inside there. God alone knows what suffering this siege has put upon them.'
Jack felt the blood soaking through the makeshift bandage on his head as Outram and Havelock discussed what was best
to do. 'We'll be hard hit by an immediate advance,' Havelock admitted, 'but we'll do the thing quickly and get it over with.'
Outram lifted a hand and replied in anger. 'Let us go then, in God's name!'
'He means us, sir.' O'Neill said. 'Are you fit?'
'As fit as you are, damn it!' Jack said.
'We're going through the Khas Bazaar, sir.' O'Neill pointed ahead to a tangle of narrow streets and tall buildings. 'That will be a killing ground for the defenders.'
Jack raised his voice. 'To me, 113th! And stay together for God's sake.' He swayed, righted himself and looked ahead.
'This will be tough,' Elliot said quietly. 'Dear Father help me in my time of need.'
Jack looked at him; Elliot was serious. 'God be with us all,' he said.
With Havelock and a wounded Outram at the head, the British formed column and moved on into the narrow streets and alleyways of the Khas Bazaar. The Mutineers waited for them, firing furiously. If men strayed from their units or fell wounded, rebels would drag them away and murder them. Every window held at least one enemy musketeer, while others manned trenches they had hacked across the street.
Some Mutineers fired in volleys, others in single shots and the British soldiers were falling for every yard they advanced. As always in battle the noise was constant, the popping of distant musketry and the cracking of rifles close-by, the clatter of lead balls on bayonet and rifle-barrel, the shrieks of the wounded and shouts of defiance and anger of the fighting men, the shouted orders and the wail of the Highland bagpipes.
'This is brutal!' Elliot fired his revolver and ducked behind a wall to reload as a private of the 78th crumpled at his feet, shot through the head. 'This is as bad as Inkerman!'
The dense British column was a perfect target, and although the garrison of the Residency tried to help by firing on the Mutineers, man after man crumpled to the ground beneath the rebels' fire.
'Keep together, 113th,' Jack swayed, grabbed a crumbling wall for support and moved on into the labyrinth of the bazaar. His men formed behind him, shooting at anything that could be an enemy, ducking as bullets spattered around them. Musketry rattled so continuously it sounded like a single noise rather than a succession of individual shots as the British fought for every yard of ground.
'Keep going!' Jack shot a bearded man who charged at them with what looked like a scimitar and winced as a musket ball smashed into an arched doorway and sprayed splinters of stone into his face. He saw Riley bayonetting a scarlet-uniformed Mutineer as Logan fired at a moving group of three rebels. He saw O'Neill and Coleman combining to deal with a group of screaming men in yellow turbans. He saw a British officer thrust his sword into a rebel's body only for the man to slide up the blade and hack the officer's head clean off his body.
'Desperate work, eh, Jack?' Elliot fired at the rebel swordsman, shooting him again and again as he lay on the ground.
'Yes; save your ammunition,' Jack yelled above the sound. 'We might need it later.'
There were more houses, more loopholes with smoke and fire jetting out, more British soldiers falling. Sights and sounds merged into a chaotic succession of horror, or bloodshed and screaming men, of white-clothed rebels firing from dark windows, of Moorish doorways where knifemen waited to spring at stragglers, of British oaths and wild howls of 'Allah Akbar'.
Battered, bloodied and dazed, Havelock's columns emerged from the bazaar to find men of the 78th already waiting.
'Where did you come from?' O'Neill demanded.
'We came the better route,' the same corporal who had spoken to them at the bridge wiped blood from his bayonet. 'You choose the worst places don't you, 113th?'
'We like to do things our way,' O'Neill said.
'Jack!' Elliot hurried up to him. 'Did you hear the news?'
'Not a word,' Jack reloaded; he only had one cartridge left in his revolver although he could not remember firing more than three shots.
'General Neill's dead,' Elliot said. 'A pandy shot him in the bazaar.'
'Oh.' Jack had never liked Neill, thinking him a brutal, violent man. 'He was a good soldier.'
'Maybe so,' Elliot said. 'But he was a poor man and a bad Christian.'
Jack could never forget Elliot's religious upbringing. 'I can't argue with that.'
'Listen!' Elliot held up a hand, 'they're cheering in the Residency!' By now full night pressed down on them, illuminated only by the flashes of gunfire and the reflected orange glow from a fire somewhere to their rear. 'They know we're through!'
The column reformed amidst much cursing and swearing and thrust once more toward the gates of the Residency.
'Come on boys; we're nearly there!' O'Neill shouted encouragement as the 113th formed up, depleted, bloodied but defiant.
There was a group of men at the gates, dim shapes in the dark but wearing turbans and red uniforms. A squad of British soldiers charged them with rifle-butt and bayonet until a gaunt British officer screamed at them from within the Residency. 'They're loyal Sikhs!' he said. 'You're killing our men!'
'Oh Dear God in heaven,' Jack said, and pushed his men through the breach. 'Come on, 113th!'
'We've made it.' There were tears in Elliot's eyes as he entered the battered building in which the Lucknow garrison had endured so much and held on for so long. 'We got here.' He sunk to the ground, exhausted.
There were men all around, thin, dirty and tattered, with rifles clutched in hands like claws and faces drawn and tense.
'Welcome to the Residency,' an officer in an unidentifiable uniform said. 'We've been waiting for you.'
'Roll call, O'Neill,' Jack demanded as the defenders rushed to meet them, hands outstretched in welcome, faces, lit by flickering, flaring torches, gaunt, filthy and drawn but also bright with joy.
There was food for the relievers, beef cutlets, mock-turtle soup and champagne for the generals, less for the junior officers and men. Jack looked around the bullet-scarred interior with its rifle pits, trenches and gun batteries from where the garrison had defied all the rebels could throw at them. He had thought the advance was tough, but these people had endured unending hell, with the knowledge that any weakness would mean defeat and slaughter. The lesson of Cawnpore had been well-learned. No surrender, fight to the end, keep the flag flying, save the women.
Men and women emerged from every corner of the Residency; scarred, gaunt-faced, some in ragged uniforms, others with no shoes. Veteran soldiers stared through hollow eyes while women were trying to look composed despite their tears. Even the wounded crawled from the beds in the makeshift hospital to raise a wan welcome.
Jack saw his Highland corporal lay down his rifle and hold out a hairy paw to shake the hand of an elderly lady. The 78th foot, Jack had heard, had lost a third of their strength in the last four days' fighting and here was their reward; a handshake from the women they had fought twelve battles to rescue. In another corner, Coleman and Thorpe were exchanging a bottle of illegally obtained rum for something, and there was Logan, grinning insanely and pushing Riley forward.
'Go on, Riley; she's waiting for you.'
Jack stared and furtively flicked the tears from his eyes as he saw Riley take two slow steps forward to the woman who stood, arms outstretched for him. 'Charlotte,' Riley dropped his rifle and ran forward, enfolding her in his arms.
'You took your time,' Charlotte said. 'I've been waiting and waiting and waiting.'
'I know,' Riley said as Charlotte buried her head in his chest. 'I know.'
Jack turned away. There were other families of the 113th emerging now, some enquiring about their husbands or fathers, others only staring mutely at the loud, blood-stained men who crowded into their Residency. A pair of burly, blood-smeared Highlanders held a huge-eyed baby between them, weeping, while Havelock loudly prayed for the dead and injured.
'Sir?' O'Neill's voice seemed to come from far away. 'Are you all right, sir?'
Jack looked up. O'Neill's face was at the end of a long tunnel, receding into the dista
nce as he sunk away.
Chapter Seventeen
Jack was not aware of much over the next days. There were periods of light and periods of darkness. There was a soft voice in the corner and strong arms around him. There was heat, and there was more heat and then a welcome coolness that he did not wish. He struggled against it, and a familiar voice was speaking: 'don't be such a baby, Jack Baird Windrush' and the words were known to him from a very long time ago, and he relaxed and let people do things to him.
There was thunder outside, yet he knew it was not thunder, and lightning he knew was not lightning, and then the acrid smell of powder smoke was in his nostrils together with the sickly-sweet reek of blood.
'Jack Baird Windrush.' The words whispered through the night. 'Do your duty, Jack Baird Windrush.' When the words faded, a bearded face leered at him with hate in its eyes.
Jack started up with tight beads of sweat formed on his forehead and streaming in rivulets down his back. Looking into the darkness, he struggled to control his breathing. He had never liked confined spaces. Living in the open air was best for him, and here he was in claustrophobic darkness surrounded by nightmares.
Flies buzzed around his head as he looked up.
'Where the devil am I?'
'You're safe with me, Jack Baird, my lad.' The woman's face was smiling down at him through concerned eyes, and the lines of tiredness were deep in her face.
'Jane?' Jack struggled to sit up, staring. 'Where am I? How did you get here and what the devil' he looked down at himself. 'What happened?'
'You are in the hospital at Lucknow,' Jane said, 'I came with the baggage and found you wounded.' She touched the rough bandage that swaddled his head. 'You lost a lot of blood, Jack, so only God knows how you managed to get here in the first place.'
'My men?' Jack looked around. There were others in the room, many others, sick and wounded soldiers from every regiment in the relief column as well as from the 32nd Foot who made up the bulk of the original garrison. The air was hot and thick with the stench of unwashed men and human waste.
Windrush: Cry Havelock (Jack Windrush Book 4) Page 23