Dust and Steel

by Patrick Mercer

  ‘In here, sir.’ McGucken pointed to the end of the nullah, where it shrank away, levelling out to nothing in a patch of scrub and thorns. ‘Let’s get into a bit o’ cover until Mr Fawcett comes up.’

  With his usual eye for ground, McGucken had seen how the very end of the nullah provided a useful dip in which Morgan’s men could conceal themselves whilst the Grenadier Company advanced into the open, covered by Number One.

  ‘Right, Colour-Sar’nt, lead on. Sweetham, are you ready with that flag?’ But before the bugler had time to answer, just as the little party panted into the notch in the earth that the banks of the dry stream bed provided, the very sound that Morgan dreaded slapped their ears as a musket ball cracked past them.

  ‘Come on, sir, let’s have the fuckers,’ and even before Morgan had gathered his wits, McGucken, with Colour-Sergeant Whaley hard behind him, was thumping down the dry gulley, grit and dust flying from the soles of their boots, both men uttering strange, wild yells, leaning over their bobbing bayonet blades.

  Then Morgan saw the five young sepoys, no more than thirty paces away, struggle to their horrified feet, grabbing for their weapons. Obviously, four had been resting in the depths of the nullah – there was a jumble of belts, drinking pots and clothes strewed about them – whilst the fifth had been on sentry halfway up the bank. He’d been dozing, oblivious to the advance of a hundred, heavily armed British infantrymen, and now he was about to pay the price.

  ‘He’s mine. Get the others, sir.’ McGucken spoke more out of respect for Morgan’s rank, for the other colour-sergeant had already weighed things up and was almost upon the stupefied, main group who, Morgan could see, were still undecided about whether to fight or run. But McGucken’s victim was given no choice.

  ‘On guard!’ McGucken yelled the drill-manual phrase at the terrified sepoy. Morgan saw how the lad understood enough English to respond – he probably hoped that the senior NCO in front of him was about to give him a harmless, impromptu lesson in bayonet fencing – for his blade now came up hesitantly to meet the Scotsman’s. With a quick flick and a clash of metal, McGucken dashed the Indian’s bayonet to one side and the boy staggered on the steep bank, leaving himself wide open.

  ‘That’s a fucking useless parry, that is, Pandy, my lad,’ spat McGucken. Morgan had seen his colour-sergeant do this before. It wasn’t that he was playing with his quarry, it was more a demonstration of the man’s skill at arms, a supremely confident, professional killer at work. Even as Morgan closed with his own man, he noticed the flash of McGucken’s bayonet, a bolt of metal aimed at the sepoy’s throat, a killer blow that avoided buttons and buckles, which might deflect a low thrust, and the bone of the skull, which might resist a higher one. No, it was a perfect attack: the sepoy crumpled on his back as fourteen stone of whiplash-muscled Scot dug the long spike into him, paused, stamped a boot onto the dying lad’s chest and then pulled the weapon clear, red in the sunlight.

  Then a sea of grunts and oily bodies engulfed Morgan. As he had stumbled down the stream bed towards his opponent, Morgan recognised the fear and indecision in the boy’s eyes. The four dozing sepoys had been dragged to consciousness by the sentry’s panicky shot and now Whaley, Sweetham and himself were already pounding down upon them in a spray of dirt and dust, weapons at the ready. In the few, brief seconds that their crazy charge had taken, Morgan noticed his chosen target pull his slippers properly onto his feet, grab a blade that looked as if it had been designed to carve the Sunday roast, glance at his comrades to gather what their silent, joint decision would be and then elect to stand and fight. It was a poor choice: as the youngster poked the knife out half-heartedly towards Morgan, the officer skidded into him, slammed the muzzle of his pistol straight into his belly and fired. The half-inch-wide ball probably entered somewhere under the fourth rib; it hardly mattered, for Morgan saw a tear open in his enemy’s shirt and an instant stain of blood just beside his lower spine before he threw the whimpering mutineer to one side and turned to help Colour-Sergeant Whaley.

  But this was another old hand who knew his trade. Morgan had seen him stab a sepoy between the shoulder blades just as the Indian had turned to run. It had been a good, clean thrust: the native had arched backwards in agony as the spike struck home, but as Whaley had tried to pull the steel clear, the weapon’s socket and locking ring had caught in the native’s dhoti and, for a crucial moment, attacker and attacked had been pulling and staggering around one another like a fisherman and an outsize catch. Then another sepoy thought he had a chance and swiped at Whaley, holding a curved knife low, jabbing abruptly. But as Morgan whipped his pistol round to deal with this man, Whaley simply dropped his rifle and jammed bayonet, twisted on the spot and kicked the rebel so powerfully and accurately in the balls that the man bent double and tumbled to the ground.

  Whilst the experienced men had been doing well, young Drummer Sweetham had not.

  ‘No, sir, don’t shoot.’ McGucken had come pounding down the side of the bank just as Morgan was aiming at the last sepoy’s midriff. The biggest of all the Indians, he’d sidestepped Whaley and Morgan’s private mêlée and beaten the barrel of Sweetham’s rifle aside with a tulwar before throwing the young soldier to the ground and flinging himself on top of him. Now the pair of them rolled and kicked in the dirt, boots and slippers akimbo, the Indian with a headlock around the bugler that threatened to squeeze the life out of him. ‘A bullet from yon thing will go through both of ’em. Stand clear, sir,’ and with that McGucken shoved Morgan out of the way, raised the butt of his rifle over his shoulder, watched the fight for a few seconds and then clubbed the mutineer on the side of the head, the brass butt-plate meeting the man’s temple with a dull thud that shattered the skull and sent him sprawling, blood pouring from his nose and ears.

  ‘Fuckin’ hell, Colour-Sar’nt…’ Sweetham climbed unsteadily to his feet, ‘…thank you. I thought I was done for, I did.’

  ‘He makes a habit of that sort of thing,’ Morgan panted, standing amongst the twist of human debris. ‘He did just the same for me at the Alma.’

  McGucken half smiled whilst Sweetham goggled at the man in admiration.

  ‘Well, learn a lesson, Sweetham.’ McGucken pulled his smock down and straightened his cap, instantly returning to his stern, paternal role. ‘Never let a Pandy get closer than he has to: shoot the fuckers at a safe distance; leave all that close-quarter stuff to the officers.’ Again, a slight smile played over McGucken’s great, granite face.

  In an instant, the top of the nullah was crowned by worried men. Wilkinson’s people peered down from the right with cries of, ‘You all right, sir?’ and, ‘Need an ’and, Colour-Sar’nt?’ just before Fawcett and the Grenadiers, who, on hearing the shot, had doubled across the open ground, almost sixty of them, anxious for Morgan and Jock McGucken’s safety.

  ‘Colour-Sar’nt Whaley,’ the Yorkshireman was just finishing the mutineer whose balls he had so badly bruised as Morgan spoke to him, ‘get over to Mr Wilkinson, please. I want that covering fire as soon as you like; and thank you for your help down here.’

  Whaley, wiping the gore of the mutineer off his bayonet, smiled in response. ‘Sir, it’s been a real pleasure, it has,’ before trotting off to join his officer.

  ‘Now, Alex Fawcett, my bold young bucko,’ Morgan’s ensign had come scurrying down to join him in the stifling depths of the nullah whilst the rest of the Grenadiers crowded into its sandy, scrubby cover behind him. ‘You saw the three guns when we were back up on the ridge. When we come out of this damned ditch and get round those buildings, my guess is that there’ll be no more sentries and that as long as Number One’s fire is well directed, you should be able to roll the buggers up from their left, but you’ll need to have the lads in echelon of platoons, each lot ready to push forward as all three guns fall without any bloody hanging back – got it?’

  Christ, I sound like bloody Smith with all this talk of ‘hanging back’; it must be infectious. I need to encourage the boy, no
t brow-beat him.

  ‘Yes, Morgan, the men are already told off into platoons,’ said Fawcett, slightly coolly, and indeed, as Morgan watched the men scrambling up the far bank of the streambed, he could see that they had been broken down into four groups of about a dozen men, each sergeant or corporal doing his best to move them forward and keep them in four ranks.

  ‘Right, well, as soon as you hear—’ Then they both caught a distant shout, followed by a roll of musketry as Number One Company began their work. ‘There it is, get bloody moving,’ and Fawcett was away up the sandy slope, drawn sword held in his teeth as he reached at tussocks of grass and boulders, anything to get him to the lip of the nullah and to the front of his men.

  The first knot of men hared off after Fawcett, whilst McGucken and Morgan followed the next platoon under the command of Sergeant Ormond. As the troops trotted along, weapons held at the ‘trail’, parallel to the ground, they moved past the outbuildings and yards that surrounded the temple.

  ‘’Ere we go again, sir,’ Sergeant Ormond, with whom he had carried the Regimental Colours at the Alma, panted as Morgan loped alongside him. ‘Same business, just different stinks. The bleedin’ Pandies have been shitein’ all over the place; look where yer treading, sir.’

  And as they doubled along, Morgan noticed the inevitable detritus of large numbers of ill-disciplined troops – sun-dried coils of excrement, and litters of leaves that the rebels had used to clean themselves, garlanded with clouds of bluebottles. Ormond was right, the whole place stank most dreadfully, but Morgan’s attention was immediately dragged back by another volley off to his left. As he raced to look around the next mud wall, Fawcett sprinted forward with the leading platoon as Number One Company’s bullets threw up great clouds of spoil from the sandbags that shielded the enemy’s left-hand gun.

  ‘That’s a grand bit o’ shootin’ by Mr Wilkinson’s boys, sir,’ said McGucken as the lead balls swept the enemy gun crew from their left and rear.

  ‘Aye, and Fawcett’s good and close,’ said Morgan as the young ensign waved his first dozen men forward, sword knot flapping wildly, every muscle tight for the delicious moment when they would close with their enemies.

  ‘They’re not a bad wee pair of pups, sir, are they?’ These were rare words from McGucken, who would never have said such a thing to the subalterns’ faces, praising them only very occasionally.

  ‘Not bad lads at all,’ Morgan replied. ‘I just hope that Mr Fawcett doesn’t get too close to the next volley, though. I don’t want one of the lads catching a ricochet off this stony ground.’

  But he needn’t have worried, for the men, Fawcett at their head, were already tumbling over the bags and gabions that hid the rebel gun from their view. One or two Grenadiers paused on top of the protective bank to fire their rifles at targets below them that Morgan couldn’t see, but most just leapt amongst their foes, their butts and bayonets occasionally flicking into sight above the earth wall as they went about their bloody task.

  ‘Right, Sar’nt Ormond,’ Morgan turned to the NCO who was poised with his platoon for the assault on the next gun, ‘as soon as Mr Fawcett gives the word.’

  ‘Aye, sir, we’re ready.’ Sergeant Ormond licked at his parched lips before checking his boys. ‘Mek sure your caps are still in place, lads.’ Every man ran a searching finger over the copper percussion caps that should have been pressed firmly over the rifles’ breech nipples. ‘Stand by.’

  And then, into the slight cloud of powder smoke that still clung to the front of the gun position, jumped Ensign Fawcett. With a look of triumph, the young officer turned towards the next platoon, beckoning them forward with urgent sweeps of his sword.

  ‘Oh, no, Mr Fawcett, sir,’ muttered McGucken, unheard by the subaltern, ‘don’t stand out there like balls on a dog. Every damn Pandy in Gwalior can see you.’

  Then, even as Sergeant Ormond gathered himself and his men for the rush towards the middle gun of the battery, Morgan saw Fawcett’s face burst like a ruptured fruit. One second the boy was shouting, urging them on, full of martial vim, full of the crude joy of war; next, a hole as big as a baby’s fist had been ripped beside his nose, his knees buckled and he pitched forward into the ground, quite dead.

  They were all thinking the same. The Grenadier Company’s last officer to be killed was nineteen-year-old Ensign Parkinson, stabbed to death before Sevastopol when he, just like Alexander Fawcett, had been striving to distinguish himself. Morgan could still remember every word of the note that he had written to the boy’s parents, and the memory was made no sweeter by Lance-Corporal Pegg’s next words.

  ‘Bloody ’ell, sir, that’s another of our young subbies you’ve got killed.’

  That heartless, utterly unfair comment goaded Morgan forward. Without pausing to give any instructions to McGucken, all concern for himself swept aside by self-reproach, Morgan was on his feet, kicking up the dirt as he scrabbled into a sprint.

  ‘Follow me, you lads,’ he yelled, gripping the butt of his pistol so hard he feared that he might bend the steel, running so fast past Fawcett’s body that he could have no time to see the puddle of blood that was now seeping into the earth below his shattered face. He scarcely noticed the curtain of lead that sang around him as Number One Company fired another perfect volley, and all the time he was thinking, you poor, brave decent lad – why you of all people? Stopping only once, he was soon kneeling, chest heaving, in the embrasure next to the great brass barrel of the second gun. There he paused, more than twenty yards in front of Ormond, Pegg and the rest of the platoon, steadying himself against the metal, which was still hot to the touch, face to face with half a dozen terrified gunners and a pile of wounded and dead, cut down by Wilkinson’s covering fire.

  The surviving gun numbers were pressed hard against the sandbag wall, cowering from the cracking lead that had already killed and injured so many of their comrades, when Morgan sprang into the embrasure, pistol cocked and menacing.

  They look as though they’ve seen the devil himself, thought Morgan as he crouched, revolver outstretched and, rather to his surprise, remarkably steady. There’s more of them than I’ve got rounds – why don’t they just turf me out? But the sepoys stood and gawped at him, brown eyes open wide, lips trembling, hands moving together, dropping weapons and tools, making namasti, begging for mercy. But then I suppose I must look pretty, bloody diabolical. Morgan took a minute to survey himself. His trousers were torn at both knees; his smock was filthy from the morning’s scrimmages and soaked in sweat; his cap was on the back of his head and fresh torn with shot, whilst both hands were as black as if he had been mining coal. He could only guess at his own expression, but whatever horrid scowl he had adopted, it had clearly shaken the Pandies. Now he signalled with his pistol barrel and all of them sank quickly to their knees.

  ‘Come on, boys, they killed our officer…’ and through the other side of the embrasure bundled a sweaty, panting Sergeant Ormond followed by an equally torrid Lance-Corporal Pegg and a gang of angry, revenge-filled private soldiers, ‘…destroy the bastards.’

  ‘No, lads,’ Morgan gasped, still sucking for air. ‘Leave them be – there’s no more fight in this lot.’

  ‘But they killed Mr Fawcett, sir,’ blurted Lance-Corporal Pegg, who had tumbled down from the top of one of the gabions and was lifting his cocked rifle to his shoulder. ‘They’re fuckin’ Pandies, sir.’

  ‘I can see that for myself, Corp’l Pegg,’ replied Morgan as the mutineers began to keen most pathetically at the sight of the advancing Pegg, ‘and they can face a court martial: that will decide what happens to them.’

  ‘Bollocks, I’ll—’ muttered Corporal Pegg, still pacing towards the mutineers, who were huddling together even more tightly, their voices raised high in supplication.

  ‘You’ll do exactly as you’re told, Corporal Pegg.’ Morgan pointed his pistol away from the prisoners and glared at the angry NCO. ‘That’s what you’ll do.’

  Pegg hesitated whilst t
he rest of the platoon watched the little drama. Morgan half expected Sergeant Ormond to weigh in on his side, but no, this was a straight test of character between the two men. If Pegg fires, thought Morgan, all the others will join in and I’ll be powerless to stop them. Nobody will even notice another pile of riddled bodies.

  Then slowly, Pegg lowered his rifle, not stopping until the tip of the bayonet touched the ground. ‘Sir,’ said the lad quietly, his face still red with righteous anger, but his eyes unable to hold Morgan’s.

  ‘That’s better.’ Morgan sighed with relief, having won the confrontation. ‘Now, Sar’nt Ormond, signal to the next platoon to stay back. I don’t want them being hit by whoever shot Mr Fawcett.’

  ‘Didn’t stop you draggin’ us up ’ere, did it?’ muttered Pegg, trying to regain some credibility in front of the others.

  Morgan ignored him. ‘The rest of you, get the prisoners to tear me a hole in this wall. We’ll deal with the last piece a bit more cleverly.’

  Each of the three guns in the battery was surrounded by six-foot-high sandbag and gabion walls on three sides, but were open to the rear – just as the Field Artillery manual said they should be. Number One Company had been able to rake the first position comprehensively and disable most of the men in the second bay, but the angle of the third made Morgan worry that many of its crew would still be alive.

  ‘Sar’nt Ormond, cut me half a dozen bits of fuse – about two seconds worth each – and stick them in those gun cartridges yonder.’ Morgan pointed to a neat pile of linen bags, each containing about three pounds of propellant powder, which were lined up ready for use by the gun’s trail. They peeped out from below a stretch of tarpaulin – the better to resist any stray sparks – once again, just as the manual said it should be done. ‘We’ll blast the buggers out.’