Dust and Steel

by Patrick Mercer

  Coughing, choking, dragging tendrils of smoke with them, the handful of men tumbled over the windowsill and out into the street, all danger forgotten whilst they sought the clean air. No sooner had they said a silent prayer for having got away from the flames, though, than a series of rifle shots whistled past them; in the smoke and confusion, they must have looked like the very enemy whom Morgan had told the rest of the company to mow down.

  ‘Keep back hard against the wall, boys,’ Morgan spluttered. ‘Maybe Mr Fawcett will get bored with shooting at us in a moment. You’ll be the death o’ me, Pegg.’

  ‘Sorry, sir.’ Whilst Pegg had seemed rather pleased with himself when the fire took hold, he now pressed his considerable form as flat as he could against the wall of the house. ‘S’pose that’s what you’d call “out of the frying pan and into the fire”.’

  But no one had any time to appreciate Pegg’s adlib, for as they trembled there, a mutineer leapt from the window above, ushered out by a vast billow of smoke and landed heavily on the packed earth below, coughing almost as hard as the British. The man hardly had time to stand before Pegg put a bullet into his guts that sent him staggering into a nearby drain.

  Then, like lemmings from a cliff, the other mutineers followed, spluttering and cursing, tumbling into the smoky street, stumbling and rolling just before each was torn by the bullets of the covering party. Hectic minutes passed with the building and roof behind Morgan’s party now blazing hard and lead flashing past within inches of their bellies until a dozen or more rebels lay still or writhing on the ground in front of them. Finally, the stream of sepoys came to an end and, as Morgan desperately shook his handkerchief to indicate his position to the others, so did the firing.

  ‘See, sir,’ grinned Pegg. ‘Just like I said, worked a treat.’

  ‘Neatly done, Morgan.’ As McGucken and the rest of the company had trotted up to join the group, so Colonel Hume, the adjutant and Bazalgette had come running and crouching up behind them. ‘Where’s the rest of these rascals?’

  No sooner had the first stronghold fallen than more shots had come shrieking through the air towards them, singing off brickwork, one catching Private Spoor in the throat and spinning him into a moaning bundle on the ground. Now the men were ranged around the yards and byres, spotting, ducking and replying to the mutineers as Morgan decided what to do next.

  ‘There, sir, keep down, look…’ he peeped round a wall with his head just six inches off the ground, Hume following his example, ‘…in that big building at the road junction; you’ll see the musket smoke…yes, there…’ another volley came from the upper storeys at the end of the street, ‘…and there’s movement behind that bigger window.’

  ‘Which bigger window? There’s any number of ’em,’ said Hume impatiently, irritated more with his inability to grasp exactly what his company commander meant than anything else.

  ‘Here, sir, watch for my fall of shot.’ McGucken understood Hume’s frustration and leant over the top of the wall where the officers crouched, and carefully aimed his rifle. ‘Sixty paces, second floor, plain wood sill below two open shutters; just beneath that…’ and the rifle barked, throwing up a cloud of dust and chippings directly under the target, ‘…seen?’

  ‘Seen,’ Hume answered in textbook style.

  ‘Reckon they’ve got a wee gun or something in there, sir,’ said McGucken, who was now back below the cover of the bricks, hastily rodding another ball down the barrel of his rifle.

  ‘Yes, I can make out something there in the shadows with my glasses. What I’m planning to do, sir, is—’ But Morgan wasn’t allowed to finish.

  ‘You and your boys have done enough for the time being.’ Hume looked across at Spoor, who was now lying silently whilst two medical orderlies wound lint round his neck. ‘I’m going to pass Bazalgette’s company through you to take that next position. You’re to give covering fire from here; Bazalgette, I suggest you move one of those howitzers up here and leave it under Morgan’s direction…’ Hume rattled off a series of orders to both his captains, specifying the route that Bazalgette was to take and a host of other details.

  ‘So, are you clear?’ Hume asked, as the three of them remained huddled in cover.

  ‘Sir,’ said Bazalgette in the same flat tone that Morgan had heard him use before the attack started.

  ‘Yes, sir, but once Bazalgette’s been committed, d’you want my company to become the reserve?’ asked Morgan.

  ‘No, I should have told you about that. You’re to link up with Massey and be prepared to move forward on my orders. Carmichael’s company has, somehow, got tangled up inside the fortress. I’ll pull them up as the reserve once they’re sorted out.’ Hume looked straight at the officers, his face betraying nothing. ‘Tell your men what to do. We’ll start on your signal rocket in, say, forty minutes, Bazalgette – is that time enough?’ Hume asked calmly.

  ‘Sir, that should be. I’ll fire red over yellow, if you please.’

  ‘Fine, good luck to you.’ Hume paused before he moved off, ‘And no hanging back, now!’ he grinned.

  ‘No, sir,’ Morgan laughed back, ‘no hanging back.’ But whilst Morgan had appreciated the commanding officer’s poking fun at the general, the joke appeared to have fallen flat with Bazalgette, who merely nodded as Hume and the adjutant scrambled away.

  The two friends lay for a few moments looking at the next enemy strongpoint, discussing where he was most likely to have sited his riflemen, whether there was, indeed, something sinister behind the big windows, and which direction of attack was better.

  ‘Best thing is to blow him to buggery with that howitzer, just before you assault.’ A little to their rear an artillery crew had arrived wheeling the squat gun forward over the fallen debris with much swearing and sweating. ‘I’ll direct his fire when you launch a second signal. I guess that’ll be from somewhere beyond that clutch of huts yonder?’ Morgan paused and looked to his friend for confirmation.

  ‘Yes, yes, I suppose so,’ Bazalgette answered hesitantly.

  ‘I suggest you use canister; at this range it’ll clear the whole house with a couple of rounds,’ Morgan continued, though still concerned with his friend’s lack of interest.

  ‘Yes, all right I will. Might there not be innocent natives in the house, though?’ Bazalgette asked without any enthusiasm.

  ‘Look, Bazalgette, you must show some drive. We’ll be firing you in, but if the boys detect any lack of certainty from you, the whole damn business will fail. You know what they’re like: if the officer hesitates, they’ll just down tools or, worse, run – and that we can’t have.’ Morgan put his hand on the other’s shoulder. ‘Come on, this isn’t you at all.’

  ‘Forgive me, Morgan,’ and Bazalgette straightened up, licked his lips and strolled away back to his company as lead balls sang around him.

  ‘Where d’you want this gun, sir?’ McGucken had one ear on the company commanders’ conversation and another on Mr Fawcett’s fire control orders. ‘Did we ought to keep it out o’ sight until Captain Bazalgette’s signal, sir? It’ll attract shot like flies round shit, sir, an’ tell Pandy what’s coming his way if we show it too early.’

  ‘You’re right, Colour-Sar’nt. Bring the gun team’s sergeant to me, please. I’ll brief him. Meanwhile, redistribute our ammunition. I want rapid fire when Number Two Company’s assault starts.’

  ‘Sir.’ McGucken had anticipated all of this. ‘Don’t mind me askin’, sir, but is Cap’n Bazalgette all right – he don’t seem normal?’

  ‘He’s fine, Colour-Sar’nt. Don’t worry about him.’

  But as McGucken watched the officer brief his subalterns and NCOs a few dozen paces further back down the street, all the fire, all the energy seemed to have gone out of him.

  ‘Right, Colour-Sar’nt, almost time…’ Morgan snapped the cover back on his half-hunter, ‘…twenty past the hour. Number Two Company should start the attack any minute; have the gunners ready to move, if you please.’

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nbsp; Captain Bazalgette had disappeared from Morgan and McGucken’s sight at the head of his company down an alley that led round the flank of the next strongpoint. When the pair of rockets appeared from Bazalgette’s position, they would be ready with the loaded howitzer, then, when the next rocket rose, they would help to push the gun into position to blast the house and open a rapid rifle-fire with every man of the Grenadier Company.

  ‘He’s late, sir.’ McGucken was looking at his own watch. ‘The colonel won’t like that.’ Five minutes had now passed since the appointed hour with the attack that Bazalgette was to lead acting as the signal for the other two columns to close on their targets as well.

  ‘You’re right, and the general won’t like it either,’ Morgan fretted. Then, more quietly:

  ‘Come on, man, don’t fanny about.’ Almost as if he’d heard him, Bazalgette’s rockets rose high in the sky above the smoke of the burning town, accompanied by a cheer.

  ‘Right, yous, stand by,’ McGucken yelled above the noise of gunfire to the howitzer’s crew. ‘Next rocket, I want you up here and a round in that pox-ridden house sharpish; then reload as fast as you like an’ give ’em another.’ The crew were already braced at the spokes of the gun’s wheels, a bombardier holding the trail-spike ready to lift it clear of the ground. The artillery sergeant stood behind a low bank of debris, peering hard at the target.

  They heard a burst of musket fire from the next street and the crack of Number Two Company’s rifles replying, some shouting, then silence.

  ‘Come on, man.’ Morgan licked his lips, urging on his friend’s invisible progress as another burst of fire broke out. ‘What’s holding you up?’

  It was impossible to judge the other company’s progress, so they all hung on the next signal rocket, hoping that the sporadic firing meant that Bazalgette’s men were getting close to their target.

  ‘Any moment now, lads,’ Morgan yelled to his own troops and the gunners, who were still crouching in cover. ‘On my order, up into your fire positions and lace into the Pandies.’

  But a great, tearing ripple of shots, like nothing that Morgan had ever heard before, suddenly rose from the far side of Bazalgette’s objective, along with a cloud of powder smoke that billowed slowly over the intervening walls.

  ‘What, in God’s name, was that, Colour-Sar’nt?’ The dense firing was accompanied by more shots and shouts of glee from the mutineers’ stronghold.

  ‘Dunno, sir, but it sounds as though Cap’n Bazalgette’s in trouble, so it does.’

  Morgan knew McGucken was right and that something had to be done. The rebels would be concentrating on Number Two Company and if he launched an attack straight up the alley, sixty or so paces in front of them, they might just catch Pandy off balance. But the charge would have to be straight in front of their own howitzer, preventing it from firing more than one round – and they would be sprinting directly into the arc of the horrid little gun that he suspected the enemy was keeping as a lethal surprise.

  That same indecision now gripped Morgan that he’d experienced before. The stealing, icy fingers of doubt clutched at his guts just as they had done at Sevastopol – and what had been the answer then?

  It’s a damn sight better to do something, to go forward, than to dither about, he thought. Just look at the men’s faces, they’re wondering why I don’t take a bloody decision…Jesus.

  ‘I think the only thing to do is to boil up a wee bit of a charge, sir…’ McGucken had seen the doubt in the men’s faces too, Morgan thought to himself, ‘…I’ll get the company ready to follow you, sir, once the gun’s done its bit.’

  So, there’s my decision made for me, thought Morgan. Here we go again…

  The hilt of his sword was slick with sweat and he’d forgotten to check how many rounds he’d fired from his pistol.

  Don’t bother yourself; that howitzer will scrape any bastard away from the windows and it’ll just be a wee trot up the street and into a house full of dead men – the thought was meant to reassure him, but it did nothing to make his bowels feel any less watery.

  ‘Get that left wheel forward a bit.’ As the crew pushed the howitzer over the broken ground and into the mouth of the alley, the gunner sergeant had straddled its trail, crouched down behind the barrel, and now, one eye shut, ordered the gun to be inched left or right and aimed by lay of metal directly at the open shutters just yards away down the street. ‘No, come forward a bit more.’ The gunner beckoned his straining men with an outstretched palm until the piece was aiming just where he wanted it.

  Morgan stared at the building. The side facing them seemed quiet, though the firing from the other side, at right angles to his forthcoming attack, was growing in volume. Then, just as the sergeant took the slack off his firing lanyard and began to lift his leg clear of the trail, the air was filled by shrieking metal, bouncing and singing off the howitzer’s barrel, the window bay full of smoke and three of the gun crew rolling on the ground, shrieking, the sergeant thrown backwards, twitching by the trail.

  ‘So, you was right, sir.’ McGucken, taking cover next to Morgan behind a broken fence, looked dispassionately at the blood-stained artillerymen. ‘They have got a gun up yonder; best get at it.’

  ‘Aye, before they can reload,’ said Morgan, trying not to let his courage leak away. ‘Follow me, lads.’

  How fast can they get another dose of shot rammed into that thing? Morgan’s boots scrabbled on the packed earth of the alley. If I can just get close enough to the bottom storey, they won’t be able to depress the barrel enough to hit me, but the lads will be all bunched up behind, a perfect target…oh Jesus.

  Every pounding pace he took he imagined his enemies thrusting powder, musket balls and fuse into their gun, lowering the barrel to sweep the British away. A quick glance to the rear revealed a scarlet and dusty wave of men hard after him, a pack of drumming feet, shouting mouths and glittering steel pressed together by the buildings on either side of the alley – food for the gun’s maw.

  Then he was against the lower window, tearing at staves and planks.

  ‘Here, Suttle, Williams, lend a hand…’ just like the last building they’d stormed, the window bay was blocked with rolled mats and carpets filled with earth – improvised sandbags – which were hard and heavy to shift, ‘…get your shoulders to it.’ But with the officer leading the way, the three of them toppled the obstacle and tumbled into the room to find themselves staring at two Pandies, muskets levelled, who stood at the bottom of a flight of wooden stairs.

  As Morgan dived to the filthy floor of the room, four weapons banged deafeningly in the confined space; his two men firing as they clambered over the sill, the two mutineers – one of whom was still in his red coat – doing the same from the stairwell. One Pandy staggered forward, dropping his weapon, clutching at his leg, whilst the other scuttled back up the stairs to his comrades around the gun. Even prone on the floor in a room now filled with powder smoke, it was an easy shot for Morgan. Lifting himself on one palm, he stretched out the Tranter, it bucked, the sepoy clutched at his thigh with a yell and then tumbled back down the stairs in a tangle of belts and pouches, knocking his wounded, whimpering comrade to the floor.

  ‘Leave them, leave them alone.’ The poky, sordid room was suddenly full of his men, all jostling to finish the wounded Indians with bayonets and kicks. ‘Fire into the ceiling.’ Morgan could see the men’s eyes full of blood lust, but if they shot up through the boards into the room above, they might just stop the gun from firing down the street again.

  Shots splintered the wood overhead, making sore ears ring again, but a shriek came from above and, in a rush, Morgan and a clutch of sweating men were up the short flight of wooden stairs and fanning out into the big room.

  Well, that’s our second piece today, thought Morgan as his men fell to their brutal work on the crew who surrounded a boat’s iron swivel gun mounted on two great blocks of teak, which the rebels must have manhandled up the stairs.

  An Enfiel
d round fired through the floor had hit one of the gun crew somewhere in the calf, and now the man hopped about the boards, clutching at his wound. What no one realised, however, was that he’d spilled loose powder all around the muzzle of the gun and when Private Henry Robinson brought his rifle up to put the man out of his misery, the muzzle-flash licked at the explosive, causing a vast, slow, yellow flash and belch of smoke that caught the mutineer at its centre.

  ‘Someone kill the poor soul, can’t you?’ Morgan shouted in the din of shouts and bangs around him as the rebel, now burnt from head to toe, hair and beard singed off, his clothes smouldering and still hobbling on his wounded leg, shrieked with pain.

  McGucken was instantly there. In the confined space filled with scrabbling bodies, he reversed his rifle, butted the man to the ground and then thumped his bayonet squarely through his stomach so hard that it stuck in the wooden board below. For an instant the Pandy squirmed, spitted until the colour-sergeant stamped a boot onto his victim’s ribcage and worked the blade free from the flesh.

  ‘That wee thing’ll look good at the entrance to the big hoose, sir, wouldn’t you say?’ asked McGucken.

  The room was now silent except for the heaving lungs of the Grenadiers, who stood over the torn and bloody bodies of the gunners, the colour-sergeant routinely cleaning the gore off his bayonet whilst casting admiring glances at their latest prize.

  But Morgan could only nod, amazed by the man’s sang-froid, before another storm of shouting and firing broke out down the corridor that linked this room to others on the further side of the house.

  ‘Sounds like Cap’n Bazalgette’s a-tryin to break in, sir.’ Again, McGucken had read the battle perfectly. ‘Might we lend him a hand?’

  ‘We shall,’ said Morgan, and with that it was all pounding boots and cries of dismay from the Pandies as the Grenadier Company caught them in the rear just as Number Two Company broke in on their flank. Morgan hadn’t seen anything like it since the butchery at Inkermann. His men went at the enemy with bayonets, boots and butts, Ensign Fawcett with his sword, McGucken killing methodically, dispassionately like the deadly professional that war had made him.