‘Get hold of their weapons and lie them down please, Colour-Sar’nts.’ Morgan had allowed himself the luxury of riding through the night march rather than plodding along on foot. Now he was glad he had, for he was able to be up and amongst his enlarged command without any waste of time as soon as the first round swept over them. Spurring up to the right of the Grenadiers’ line, he dismounted just as another ball hummed by, making him want to duck low in his saddle despite the fact that it flew many feet high.
‘Can’t see where the buggers are firing from, can you, sir?’ Colour-Sergeant McGucken had come doubling up the line of crouching men, as trim and taut as if he’d just come from the sergeants’ mess rather than from a back-breaking night march.
‘Not yet, Colour-Sar’nt,’ Morgan had passed his reins to a private soldier and scrabbled to the top of the gritty bank behind which the troops – some of whom were still struggling with straps and laces – were sheltering, ‘but just let me get my glasses on them.’
McGucken had crawled up beside his company commander and was trying to get his own telescope from the front of his smock. Both men were soon scouring the low, flat ground that lay to their front, its ditches and shallow banks, its ribbons of trees and clutches of buildings, which suddenly gave way to the huge block of sandstone and Gwalior’s fort that loured on top of it.
‘There, sir, there, look at yon temple thing left of that date grove about six hundred paces away.’ McGucken brought Morgan’s attention onto a white building with a domed roof in the middle distance. ‘There’s a drift o’ powder smoke there, ain’t there?’
Morgan gently fingered the central wheel on his field glasses, bringing the swathe of ground into clear focus as the brassy light of a new day swept across it. McGucken’s glass was old, cheap and worn – Morgan knew it almost as well as its owner – whereas his own binoculars were the very best that Berlin could make, and their well-milled lenses confirmed what the colour-sergeant suspected.
‘There is, and I fancy that there’s a bit of a sandbag wall and some gabions just to the left of the temple as we look…there, goddamn, see that?’ As Morgan spoke three gouts of smoke spat in unison from a slight rise in the ground, followed, just seconds later, by a heavy wallop and then the same grinding roar as fast-moving iron passed high overhead.
I’ve had my fill of that, thought Morgan. No matter how wide it is, I’ll never be as cool a hand as McGucken and his like. He lowered his glasses and watched as his colour-sergeant poured every ounce of concentration into spotting where the Pandies’ guns were, bothered by the shrieking ordnance no more than he was by the morning’s patrol of mosquitoes.
‘Sir…Cap’n Morgan, sir…’ Lance-Corporal Pegg was kneeling up at the bottom of the bank a few yards behind his superiors, surrounded by his recumbent command; he pointed off to his left, ‘…the brigade commander’s a-coming.’
A cloud of dust boiled around four horsemen, who were cantering down from the centre of the long line of men and mounts that was now shaking out into battle formation behind the slight ridge.
‘There’s General Smith, his trumpeter and the new brigade-major at a guess, Colour-Sar’nt, but I don’t know who the fourth man is.’ Even at two hundred paces, Morgan could see how all the riders were tensed over their horses’ necks.
‘You don’t need to say it, sir.’ McGucken had read his officer’s mind perfectly. ‘I’ll no’ let McGarry anywhere near him,’ and he scrambled away to usher the visitors into the vantage point that Morgan and he had already found.
In seconds the party were reining in alongside McGucken, who stood like a signal mast, showing the general where he could get the best view of the enemy. But as the quartet thundered up towards him, Morgan saw how the sprawling soldiers looked away, or even rolled on their sides presenting cold, reproachful backs to the group.
Well, there’s a thing. Morgan could feel the troops’ resentment towards Richard Carmichael…A better officer would smell the men’s scorn at a mile, but not Captain bloody Carmichael. He’ll think the boys are just trying to keep out of the sun, if he’s got thoughts for anything but the safety of his own hide. But who’s that with them?
As the cloud of flying grit subsided and the horsemen walked their horses just far enough forward to be able to see over the ridge without exposing themselves, Morgan recognised the generous proportions of the fourth rider. Commandant Dick Kemp was obviously well enough to be back in the saddle and obviously trusted enough to be at the brigadier-general’s elbow.
‘Good morning.’ Smith hailed him as Morgan slithered down the bank to report himself. ‘What have you to tell me of the enemy’s metal, Morgan?’
‘Good morning to you all, gentlemen.’ Morgan was damned if he was going to let Carmichael detect just how done up he felt by the trial of the last few hours. Bracing himself to use every ounce of sang-froid that he could muster, he continued, ‘Three Pandy guns firing from the foot of that temple at six hundred, sir; quarter left, see where I’m pointing…’ Morgan stretched his arm in the approved manner, ‘…they’ve got a wall of bags and baskets to protect themselves, but their shooting’s not worth a damn, it ain’t.’ Morgan did his best to control the tremble in his voice. ‘They’ll fire again any second; just watch for the signature, sir.’
And as if they had heard his cue, the mutineers obliged with another salvo of three guns that not only showed Smith exactly where his enemy lay, but also had Captain Carmichael cringing low over his saddle bow.
‘Are you quite well, sir?’ Kemp enquired with false solicitude of the brigade-major. ‘Ate something that’s disagreed, have you?’
Morgan felt almost sorry for Carmichael. To know Kemp’s disapproval for being merciful was bad enough, but he could only imagine his excoriating contempt for cowardice.
‘How are you, Commandant?’ Morgan greeted Kemp. They hadn’t seen one another since the brigade had marched from Seepree.
‘Well enough, young Morgan. Just remind me to keep away from you when Pandy’s going large. You’re too rash for your own good, you are,’ Kemp – ever the leader – smiled, saying this loud enough for the Grenadiers who lay thereabouts to hear quite clearly, so burnishing Morgan’s reputation still further.
‘What d’you make of it, Morgan?’ asked General Smith, who was now standing in his stirrups, straining to get a view of his opponents through his glasses.
‘Three-gun emplacement, sir, probably nine-pounders. They’ll be trying to delay us closing on Gwalior, I’d guess, to buy a bit more time for the defences to be improved there.’
Morgan was rewarded by a nod from Smith. ‘What do you say, Kemp?’ Smith was sweeping his glasses left and right of the enemy position.
‘Aye, Morgan’s right, sir, but with Sir Hugh coming at them at the same time from Morar in the east, I’d wager that the Rhani will have strong forces thrown out and concealed on all the approaches to the kila. She’ll probably try to lure us in by making those guns look like easy meat for a quick coup de main by our infantry and have her horse poised to cut up our lads as they go in.’ The group all listened respectfully to Kemp’s depth of experience. ‘Better step a bit gingerly here, I’d say.’
‘I agree. We’ll use a couple of companies to take the guns and screen them with a squadron of the Eighth Hussars.’ Smith lowered his glasses and smiled a rare smile. ‘Morgan, are your men sober enough for such a task?’
‘Well, it’s the break of day, sir, and, as you can see, they’re normally drunk as lords by now.’ Morgan’s riposte provoked a chuckle or two from the troops and another half-grin from the general.
‘Good; Carmichael, send an order to Hume and de Salis telling them of my intentions. I’m detaching Morgan’s double company and need a squadron of hussars ready to move in five-and-forty minutes. They’re to assemble by that stand of trees yonder.’ Smith pointed to some scrub just to their rear. ‘I imagine that we’ll approach from the right, but we’ll need to reconnoitre that route first.’ He looked at his wat
ch. ‘Yes, we have time. Got all that, Carmichael?’
Carmichael, once he had got over the shock of distant danger, had been scribbling away at a sheet of notepaper balanced on his sabretache. Now he nodded glumly.
‘Very good. I shall lead the attack myself.’ Smith spoke loudly enough for the men to hear him, but Morgan just had time to cast a warning glance at Private McGarry, who seemed to be bursting to voice some witticism. ‘You have your charger with you, Morgan? Good. Well, let’s see if we can find out what the Rhani has up her sleeve for us.’
Smith stowed his glasses in their case and loosened his pistol in its holster. ‘Where are you off to, Carmichael?’ he called after his brigade-major, who was just turning his horse away from the enemy.
‘About to deliver your orders to the commanding officers, sir,’ replied Carmichael a little sheepishly.
‘No, man, use your head; send one of Morgan’s cor porals. I need you with me on the reconnaissance,’ Smith barked, to the delight of the surrounding Grenadiers, who smirked at their former commander’s discomfiture. ‘Come along, everyone, there’s not a moment to lose.’
Just as Smith gathered his little group around him, the mutineers’ guns fired again, one ball, this time, falling short and skipping over the bank some thirty yards away from where they stood, just as McGucken spoke up.
‘Sir, excuse me, sir. Hope I’m no’ speakin’ out of turn, but don’t you think you’d find your escort handy, sir?’
Smith and Kemp looked rather surprised to be reminded of such a fundamentally important point by a colour-sergeant.
‘You’re right, Colour-Sar’nt. Can’t imagine what I was thinking about. Parkyn,’ Smith spoke to his trumpeter who, up until then, had been sitting at a safe distance behind the ridge, ‘blow for Sar’nt Poole, if you would.’ At once the bugle called out, summoning the twenty-strong escort to join their master. ‘Good. Now we’re complete, we must waste no more time. Sound “form fours: advance”, please, Parkyn,’ and as the notes carried on the dawn air, the little column jangled off, silhouetted against the rising sun.
The party swept wide and fast through the scattered bush and thorns, passing by a mud-walled hamlet where only a handful of scrawny chickens greeted them and a troop of monkeys ran chattering away from the sour apricots that they were trying to filch. Morgan glanced at his watch: they’d been gone ten minutes and skirted round the right flank of the rebel guns, which continued their disciplined cannonade, firing precisely as the second hand reached each three-and-a-half-minute mark, just as their British instructors had taught them. But as they trotted to within a quarter of a mile of the enemy position, Morgan became aware of a low belt of mist, which lay obliquely across their approach.
‘Goddamn, this can’t be passed in a hurry.’ General Smith reined in alongside the bank of a deep, wide drainage ditch that protected the enemy battery from any rapid assault from their left. A thick haze rose from the scummy water, whilst mosquitoes hummed in clouds just above the surface.
‘Sar’nt Poole, take an escort, will you, and see if you can’t find a ford or passing place closer to the enemy.’ As three hussars trotted off, Smith called the officers in around him to look at the map that he’d spread out on the saddle in front of him. ‘You see, this ditch ain’t marked, and if we can’t find a crossing pretty quick we’ll have to delay things and look for a covered approach on the guns’ other flank.’
‘And that’s exactly what the Rhani will want, sir.’ Kemp had his horse hard against the general’s and was tapping at the chart with a stumpy finger. ‘Buys her time and makes us flog around in the worst heat of the day. She’s no fool—’ But his eulogy was cut short by the arrival of Sergeant Poole.
‘General Smith, sir,’ two Crimea medals bounced on the senior NCO’s chest as his right hand came to the salute, ‘there’s a corduroy bridge what spans the ditch ’bout two hunned paces up ahead, sir.’ He and the two privates with him had unclipped their carbines and had them at the ready across their saddles. ‘Only light wood, but stout enough to take a farm bullock or two, so I reckon it should bear the weight of our mounts so long as we keep spread out, sir.’
‘Good, well found, Sar’nt Poole.’ Smith rapidly folded his map away. ‘Will it allow us to get around those guns?’ Another salvo made the air jump.
‘As far as I can see it will, sir,’ the sergeant replied.
‘Have a care, General; seems a strange mistake for a bird of the Rhani’s feather to have made.’ Kemp looked at Morgan, silently asking for his support. ‘May I suggest that half a section of the hussars move in front to prove the route; if that bridge is mined—’
‘Good point, Kemp. See to it, Carmichael. But we are beginning to run short of time. We’ll take a quick look at this last part of the route, then we need to get back to the troops. They should be forming up even now.’ Smith rattled out his orders, the escort divided into halves, heels were put to horses’ flanks, and off they trotted along the banks of the scummy, greasy ditch.
The files slowed and concertinaed as they approached the logs that had been felled and pegged across the ditch. Morgan could see just what Kemp meant, for the guns lay behind the twisting beck, screened from their view by the scatter of buildings, now less than a quarter of a mile away. To leave this bridge intact was a remarkable mistake. Or, he wondered, was the commandant right, and it had been mined?
The hussars were obviously having the same debate.
‘Come on then, nothing to be frit of ’ere.’ Sergeant Poole was having some difficulty with the two leading soldiers.
‘Well, you go, then, Sar’nt,’ said one of the privates who was keeping a tight rein on his horse whilst covering the brush around the narrow bridge with his carbine.
General Smith had obviously not heard this exchange, Morgan realised, being further down the column. He spurred his horse forward – the only way that the reconnaissance would be completed in time was for an officer to lead from the front.
‘Follow me, Farrier-Corporal Martin.’ Morgan had spotted his old friend as soon as the escort had ridden up. ‘These young ’uns need a bit of help.’ He hardly slowed Emerald’s pace as he trotted by and, to his immense relief, as he glanced over his shoulder, he saw how the NCO was following him without any hesitation, pulling his carbine free of its clip, his face full of eagerness.
But as he bustled between the leading troopers who dithered just short of the bridge, his guts tightened.
Why am I doing this? I can’t see a thing against the rising sun, and the bloody Pandies will have their fuses lit to blow the bridge to matchwood no sooner than I lay a hoof upon it. The hussars should be doing this, or that arse Carmichael, thought Morgan, as he and Corporal Martin came within yards of the crossing point. No point in hanging about; the faster I go the less of a target I’ll be. And with that he kicked his mare as hard as he could, making dirt fly before her metal shoes thumped on the spongy wood.
‘Get on, me lovely,’ said Corporal Martin, hard behind him, and in seconds they were across and clear, with not a sign of the enemy.
‘Nice as ninepence, that, sir,’ panted Corporal Martin, obviously as relieved as Morgan, as he beckoned the rest of the escort forward. ‘The Pandies have missed a trick ’ere,’ he added, as the leading horsemen spurred across the bridge.
Morgan turned to study the gun position. From here he couldn’t see the artillery pieces, – they were hidden by the temple and its outbuildings – and if he could get his men to this point unseen, they would be able to fall upon the gunners from an unexpected flank.
‘That was bravely done, Morgan.’ The brigade commander on his great, black stallion was suddenly by his side.
Praise from Himself? Perhaps that bit of foolhardiness was worth it after all, thought Morgan.
‘This will be a capital forming-up point for your men, and we’ll screen your right flank with the Eighth; seen enough?’ asked Smith, being almost cordial. ‘Time’s short.’
‘Aye, sir. I t
hought the same and—’ But Morgan’s sentence was never finished, for a volley of shots crashed from the thicket of bushes and brush thirty yards away beside the bridge.
Lead tore the air apart, something pulled at Morgan’s cap, but before he could gather his senses, Emerald was barged hard by the general’s horse, which dropped in a welter of kicking hoofs and bridle-work.
He has a bad habit of falling off his horse. But even as it came into his mind, Morgan realised what a ludicrous thought it was, for Smith was rolling in the dust, apparently unhurt but clearly shocked by the impact of another fall.
Lying low over the mare’s neck, Morgan grabbed his revolver from his holster and fired all six chambers into the middle of the cloud of smoke that clung to the leaves and undergrowth. Then he circled his horse between the ambushers and the brigadier-general to give him some protection, before swinging to the ground.
‘Here, sir, here…’ Morgan grabbed Smith by the arm and pulled him towards Emerald’s empty saddle, ‘…take my beast.’
‘Where’s my goddamn revolver?’ The general had recovered quickly; he was stripping maps and binoculars from his own horse, which had now ceased to kick and thrash as the blood stopped pumping from its nostrils and its great, soft eyes glazed over. ‘Help me find the bloody thing.’
The pair of them scuffed the grass and poked about as chaos exploded around them. A few hussars returned the enemy’s fire with their carbines, but the ambush had been well planned, with only part of the escort across the bridge and the rest still back in the relative safety of the brush that covered the further bank. Horses whinnied and circled, one hussar was down, lying still on the ground, his mount shivering with confusion as she sniffed at her master’s body.
Then, in the bedlam, a familiar voice shouted, ‘Fours about…fours about, follow me!’ as Captain Richard Carmichael set his gelding as hard as he could back across the bridge in an effort to save himself and anyone else that was quick enough to follow. Some men obeyed, some didn’t, but in the flying dirt and smoke, Morgan saw nothing except that he and his brigade commander were stranded within feet of the enemy, unarmed, and with only one horse between them.
Dust and Steel Page 32