The Devil's Assassin (Jack Lark)

by Paul Fraser Collard

  ‘I won’t forget.’ Knightly looked appalled at the idea.

  ‘You had better not. I’ve seen a dying man drive a bayonet straight back though the officer who had struck him, just because the stupid fool forgot to turn his wrist.’ Jack glared at Knightly, reinforcing the message.

  Knightly looked at him, his eyes betraying the terror in his soul. ‘I don’t want to die. When I think of not existing . . .’ His voice tailed off.

  ‘There is nothing you can do about that. Everybody dies.’

  Knightly sniffed, barely in control of his emotions. ‘It’s easy for you. You’ve done it before.’

  Jack laughed grimly. It was not a pleasant sound. ‘Oh, it doesn’t get easier. I sometimes feel I have a ration of courage. There are times when I think it’s gone. Then, in battle, I feel this madness. Nothing matters then. I suppose I lose my mind. And that terrifies me even more the next time.’

  Knightly watched Jack closely as he confessed his fear. He nodded slowly, as if coming to an understanding with his own emotions.

  ‘I don’t know how you can go back. To battle, I mean.’

  Jack shivered, despite the warmth of the night. ‘At first you think you are immune, that nothing can happen to you. It will always be some other fellow who will die. Then you see so many men get hit that you realise it could happen to you. So maybe the only way to survive is to be more careful. But then, when the lead is flying and the enemy come at you, you find that you fight just as hard anyway, no matter how much you have told yourself to take it easy and let someone else do the crazy stuff. That’s when you realise that one day it is going to happen to you. No matter what you do. And that’s when it gets tough, when you know it’s just a matter of time.’ He looked at Knightly, trying to see the effect of his words. ‘Then you can either carry on or give up. And some of us don’t have the option of giving up.’

  Knightly didn’t speak. He seemed lost in another world. It was several minutes before he looked at Jack and forced out a tired smile. ‘What a life.’

  Jack smiled in return. ‘You chose to be an officer. The men have called you “sir” and done what you tell them. Now it’s your turn to pay for that respect. You have to do your best because that’s what they deserve. That, my friend, is the key. Your responsibility to the men comes first. Even before your own life.’ He reached out and placed his hand on the younger man’s shoulder. ‘Don’t worry. You’ll be fine.’

  They marched on in silence. Every step taking them closer to the place they both feared most of all.

  Battle.

  The sand got everywhere. It chafed against the redcoats’ skin, the seams of their trousers turned into abrasive weapons of torture that scoured the delicate flesh from their bodies and made every step an unrelenting agony. It filled their eyes, leaving them red raw and sore, the men blinking and squinting in the fierce early-morning light. The sand had become the enemy, its painful presence adding to the misery of the long advance.

  The columns marched on, the officers relentless as they drove their commands forward, ignoring the complaints and the men who slid silently from the ranks, their bodies dragged out of the line of march lest they be crushed under the merciless boots of their comrades. These unfortunate souls were abandoned to the musicians from the battalions’ bands, who had stowed their instruments so that they could take up their secondary role as stretcher-bearers. The fallen were taken to the surgeons and the pitifully small collection of bullock-pulled wagons, their passing unremarked amongst their fellows, who could do nothing but march onwards, forcing out step after step, the need to cover the distance overriding the need for compassion. The long columns had walked through the night, carrying on until the sun touched the horizon, the men waiting stoically for the order to halt. Still they marched on, advancing into the morning sunlight, forcing their aching bodies onwards, the miles crawling past.

  It was nine o’clock before the command to halt was passed along the line. The exhausted men had no energy for the horseplay that would usually follow a march or the banter that would see them find something to laugh about no matter how dreary their temporary home. The exhausted redcoats slumped to the ground, even the rock-hard soil a welcome respite after the hours they had spent, heads down, grinding through the miles. They would spend the day where they were, the men left to pile their weapons and seek what respite they could whilst still remaining in the order of march. They had covered nearly twenty-six miles, but they were barely over halfway.

  The men lay down and rested, baked by the sun, waiting for evening. Waiting for the command to march once more.

  Late in the afternoon, the battalions formed up. The twin columns snaked back across the barren plain like two lines of red ants, the sense of the individual lost in the vastness of the whole.

  The drummer boys picked up their sticks before rattling them against the taut skin of their instruments, beginning the mesmerising rhythm of the march that would continue until the men were finally allowed to march easy. The two columns lumbered into life. Like a pair of enormous beasts they lurched forward, the braying voices of the sergeants rippling along the ranks as they forced their men to order.

  As if at a secret signal, the weather changed. What had been a clear blue sky darkened as the redcoats slipped into the rhythm of the march. Huge banks of dark grey-blue clouds rolled in from the horizon, smothering the last of the sun’s rays and casting an ominous shadow over the advancing troops.

  The men marched in silence. Heads down. Trudging through the miles.

  In the gloom there was little to see, the few trees and olive groves soon lost in the darkness. The men could only make out their fellows, their world reduced to nothing more than the back of the man in front and the heavy sand beneath their feet. The only sound the thump of their boots hitting the hard-baked soil, the jangle of their equipment and the occasional rasp as men forced air into their tired, aching lungs.

  The last of the light was soon gone and the redcoats advanced into the night. They marched on, each man surrounded by hundreds of fellow soldiers, yet still alone.

  A single voice began to sing.

  It came from the ranks of the 64th, the lead battalion in the left-hand column, and cut through the silence that had settled heavily over the redcoats, like a single ray of sunshine piercing a storm cloud.

  ‘And to my heart in anguish pressed, the girl I left behind me.’

  The men recognised the words. The voice sang them well, the purity of the sound only wavering as its owner drew breath. The notes of the familiar tune flowed over the marching troops, a balm that soothed away the misery of the relentless advance.

  ‘I shared the glory of that fight, sweet girl I left behind me.’

  A deeper voice picked up the melody. The two voices sang together, the words blending, the tones merging into one. More men joined in, the song spreading quickly through the tight-packed ranks. They sang softly, using the music to lift their flagging spirits.

  ‘Dishonour’s breath shall never stain, the name I leave behind me.’

  Lieutenant Knightly closed his mouth and listened to what he had started, the men picking up the tune and taking it for their own. The redcoats sang well. They kept their voices low, but the song settled over the noise of the march so that the tramp of heavy boots was lost in the beautiful lament.

  When it ended, the men fell silent once more, sharing the moment, each thinking his own thoughts, savouring his own memories. The feeling of camaraderie was complete, and Knightly was not sure he had ever experienced an emotion as pure or as heartfelt.

  Then a loud voice in the centre of the column lifted to bellow the first lines of ‘Cheer Boys Cheer’ and the spell was broken. The men hooted aloud before joining in with gusto, the deep, sombre melody replaced by the raucous joy of bellowing out the cheerful song.

  Knightly smiled at his men’s spi
rit. His redcoats could take anything. He knew that he would never fully understand their indomitable spirit. They came from the meanest of backgrounds – they were the dregs of society, the flotsam and jetsam, the scum from the jails and the boys from the workhouse – yet they were willing to fight and die for their country. As they cheered their own singing prowess, their faces betraying the simple delight of being with their mates, he remembered what Fenris had told him about the responsibility of leading the men, of putting them first, even over his own life. To fail them was becoming unthinkable, no matter what the cost.

  It was long after night had fallen that the redcoats were ordered to halt. Once more they would seek their rest in the order of march, so that they were ready to advance with the first light of the new day.

  They were not to be left to rest in peace.

  Thunder rolled across the sky, the deep, resonating crashes echoing through the empty landscape, the ominous booms rousing even the most exhausted man from his rest. Lightning followed, slashing through the darkness, the brilliant flashes searing the sky into temporary daylight before plunging it back into an all-enveloping blackness. It was a display of raw power, the forces of nature providing a spectacle of natural violence.

  Then came the rain.

  It fell in solid sheets, a deluge that soaked the redcoats to the skin. Without shelter, the men could do nothing but endure the tempest as best they could, each man’s misery self-contained, bodies wrapped in their greatcoats, faces hidden under their shakos. They sat in silent misery and waited for dawn, looking to the sky and wondering at the power of the gods. Asking themselves if the angry display was a prophecy; a dire warning of what was to come.

  The sound of rifles firing awoke Jack with an uneasy start.

  He scrabbled to his feet, his boots slipping on the damp earth so that his heels gouged thick crevices into the topsoil, a sudden nervous energy searing through his veins. He looked around, his eyes running over the rest of the staff officers, who had made their beds wherever they could, those still at rest looking like so many corpses, their bodies hidden away under their blankets.

  He searched for the danger, for the enemy that had appeared to make the sentries open fire. He saw nothing but the miserable faces of exhausted and sodden redcoats. The grimaces and scowls as the bedraggled soldiers in the nearest battalion pulled themselves to their feet and began to prepare for the march. He suddenly understood the rifle fire and sat back heavily on the ground before running his hands over his face, rubbing vigorously in a vain attempt to bring himself to life. Within moments the bugles sounded reveille, the loud call echoing around the barren ground where the battalions had spent the night.

  ‘What’s that all about?’ Ballard had not moved. He sat next to Jack, hunched deep into his greatcoat, a horse blanket draped over his shoulders. It was difficult to discern the man huddled underneath.

  ‘The sentries are discharging their wet cartridges.’ Jack sighed and forced his aching joints into action, this time taking more care as he began to move. His back ached, the base of his spine on fire as if red-hot pokers jabbed into the very fibre of his being.

  Ballard grunted in reply.

  ‘Come on.’ Jack turned and offered his commander a hand. ‘Time to get up.’

  He hauled the major to his feet and the two officers stood in silence as they contemplated the dreary scene around them. The few hours’ rest had done little to revitalise them, the long night hours spent enduring the misery of the thunderstorm that had raged without pause until shortly before dawn.

  Jack busied himself doing his best to brush off the worst of the mucky crust that was caked on to the seat of his overalls. He knew the army faced another long march, the enemy still miles away inland. He remembered his enthusiasm when he had told Outram that the men could advance with ease. Back then, the fifty or so miles had seemed an easy obstacle to overcome. Now, with his body aching and his sodden uniform stuck to his skin, it was hard to see how they could make it to their destination intact, let alone fight a battle when they got there.

  If Ballard’s intelligence had been correct, the enemy was no more than eight miles distant. Outram had gambled everything on a quick dash across country. If the enemy had been forewarned, they would be ready for the British advance. The redcoats would either be forced to fight on ground of the Persian general’s choosing or they would see nothing more than the rearguard of an enemy long gone in flight.

  If the Persians chose to pick a fight, it would be a close-run affair. After the long march, the redcoats were in a poor condition. Tired, battered and outnumbered, they would be forced to assault prepared positions on terrain that would inevitably favour the defender. It would be a hard fight, with defeat as likely an outcome as victory.

  But if the gamble had worked, the enemy army would be caught in disarray. The British expeditionary force would be able to sweep forward and force the Persians either to fight unprepared or to flee in chaos and disorder. If they could catch the enemy and bring him to battle quickly and without forewarning, victory was almost assured.

  ‘There they go!’ Ballard twisted in the saddle so he could watch the British cavalry rushing forward. The 3rd Bombay Light Cavalry passed to the left of the column, moving from their position covering the flanks to the front of the now stationary column.

  The enemy had been sighted.

  The men had marched with the sunrise. The anticipation of battle had quickened the pace, the troops eager to end the long, wearisome trudge across barren country. Rumours had spread swiftly. Every redcoat now knew that the Persian encampment was only a few miles ahead. Yet no one, not even the commander-in-chief, knew whether the enemy was waiting, ready for their arrival, or whether they had been thrown into chaos by the sudden appearance of the invading army.

  Staff officers put their spurs to the sides of their horses, a sudden bustle replacing the calm of the morning march. Orders needed to be delivered to the brigade and battalion commanders to move the battalions out of the marching column and into the long lines in which they would engage the enemy. The junior officers whose role it was to deliver these messages burst away from the huddle of senior officers, each one puffed up with self-importance as they went on their vital errands.

  ‘May I go with them?’ Jack chafed at his impotence. He had fidgeted in the saddle as the blue-coated cavalry had ridden past, the sudden flurry of activity infectious.

  ‘No you may not.’ Ballard let out a disapproving humph at his subordinate’s suggestion. ‘Must I remind you of your proper station again?’

  Jack sighed and settled into the saddle, letting his horse’s reins go limp. ‘No.’

  ‘You sound like a petulant child.’ Ballard smiled at Jack’s pathetic expression. ‘You will have soon have things to do. We will be called upon again.’

  Jack sat straighter in the saddle as he peered ahead. He could not make out the enemy. All he could see was the cloud of dust kicked up by the fast-moving horses of the light cavalry rushing forward to drive off the enemy vedettes.

  ‘This is a gloomy place for a battle.’ Ballard chewed his lip and looked at the terrain to the sides of the column. The high hills were certainly forbidding. They had funnelled the advance, forcing the column to march directly for the enemy’s encampment at Borãzjoon. There was no room for deft manoeuvre, for the subtlety of a flanking march. A handful of men could hold off an army in the hills, the narrow gullies and ravines a nightmare for an attacking force. Outram had had to order the advance on the flatter ground between the hills. It was his only choice, but it meant the army would have few options when they came across the enemy. If the Persians knew they were coming, the fight would be brutal in its simplicity.

  ‘Maybe the enemy chose it that way.’ Jack enjoyed the grim comment. It was his way of paying Ballard back for his refusal to let him join the cavalry.

  ‘Perhaps.’ Ba
llard lifted his hussar’s busby with its glorious eight-inch scarlet osprey feather plume before settling it back in a more comfortable fashion on his head. ‘Perhaps they are not ready for us.’

  ‘They had better not be. Outram would have my guts for garters.’

  ‘I think you take too much on yourself.’ Ballard smiled, enjoying his own turn to send a barb towards his fellow intelligence officer. ‘I rather fancy the general had his own ideas. I doubt you swayed his mind.’

  Jack scowled. ‘Perhaps.’

  Ballard laughed and then fell silent, cocking an ear as he listened intently. The sound of rifle fire rippled down the column, echoing around the empty hillsides.

  The huge voices of the regimental sergeant majors followed the gunfire, and the column shook itself into life. With all the precision and martial splendour of the parade ground, the battalions manoeuvred into line. The left-hand column would form the second rank, the right-hand column the first. With the drummers marking out the time, the hundreds of red-coated soldiers swung into the formation they would use to attack.

  Each battalion formed into a line two men deep. With four battalions in the first line and three more in the second, the army snaked across the plain, the exposed flanks protected by the limited number of cavalry at Outram’s disposal. The battalions’ skirmishers broke from the formed ranks and took their place to the front of the tightly packed line, ready to screen it from any enemy skirmishers. The tactics Outram employed had changed little since the days of Wellington and the battles fought in Portugal, Spain and France. Manufacturing had improved the weaponry, the Enfield rifles carried by the regular British army regiments more powerful than any weapon previously brought to the field of battle. Yet their leaders clung to the anachronistic principles of a dead general and the battles he had fought over forty years earlier.

  The British line bustled with purpose. This was what they had come all this way to do. The redcoats looked at one another as they heard the sounds of fighting ahead, the men of the light cavalry and the rifle battalion that formed the vanguard of the army already engaging the enemy’s troops. Soldiers fiddled with their equipment, making sure everything was just so, their fears building as the order to advance rippled down the line.