As soon as he had broken through the shattered ranks, he reined his horse round hard, turning into the wall of bayonets that stood on his flank. He battered his sword down as he turned, the heavy blade a vicious weapon in the hands of such a powerful man.
Jack rode into the melee. He cut down a man from behind, mercilessly slashing his talwar against the back of the man’s undefended head. He pushed his horse into the gap, cutting at another Persian infantryman, who stood in mute horror as he saw his comrades dying at the hands of the British officers. He caught the man in the neck, slicing his blade deep into the man’s flesh, killing him before he could fight back.
Moore fought like a man possessed, his blade never still as he thrust at the men around him. With dreadful skill he hammered his way through the Persian ranks, walking his horse over the bodies of the men he had killed, pressing forward, clearing a path that he lined with bloodied corpses.
Jack realised what his lieutenant was trying to do, and he forced his own horse to follow, battering away the bayonets that reached up to stab at him. His horse staggered as it stepped on a corpse but rallied quickly, steadying its footing just in time to allow Jack to thrust the point of his talwar into a man’s face moments before the Persian had been about to drive a bayonet into the animal’s breast.
He urged his mount on, joining Moore in his attempt to reach his fallen brother. Together they forced a path through the files, kicking out or thrashing their sabres at anyone who tried to block their path. The Persian infantrymen began to step back, terrified of the two bloody warriors who fought with such intensity.
They reached the younger Moore’s fallen horse and Jack rode past the trapped officer, forcing the closest enemy soldiers away. One man risked an attack, coming at him from his left-hand side. Jack saw the blade and slashed his sabre round, but he was tiring, his reactions dulled by the constant struggle to stay alive, and the bayonet slipped past his parry and drove deep into his horse’s chest. The animal staggered and the Persian soldier shrieked in triumph, but it was a short-lived moment of joy.
Jack kicked his feet free of the stirrups the moment he felt his horse stagger and vaulted clear, landing on the balls of his feet as his mount toppled to one side. He hammered the hilt of his sword forward, smashing it into the enemy soldier’s face and bludgeoning him to the ground. He felt the rage course through him and punched the sword down, driving the tip deep into the fallen man’s heart.
The solidity of the ground beneath his feet came as a relief. This was this type of fighting he knew best, and he threw himself at the closest enemy. The bayonet-tipped muskets lunged forward, but he had seen it all before and it was easy to let them come, swaying out of their way before counterattacking, slashing his own blade forward and cutting down the men who were trying to kill him.
The closest men backed away and Jack snatched his revolver out of its holster. In one practised move he swung it up and aimed at the press of bodies to his front. There was just time to register the horror on the dark faces before he opened fire. At such short range, the revolver was brutally effective, and each shot knocked a man to the ground.
The rest of the Bombay Lights hit the square. Their officers had rushed ahead, using the speed of their superior horses to take the fight to the Persians. Now the troopers poured through the square’s broken face, riding over the bodies of the dead and the dying. A handful of Persians still stood in the shredded ranks, and they fought hard, striking men from the saddle or stabbing at the horses that raced past them. But there were too many gaps and the line collapsed as the Bombay Lights cut their way in.
The rest of the square did not stand a chance. The British cavalry attacked without pause, the pace of the charge barely checked by the men they rode down. They smashed into the backs of the other flanks, cutting down the men in swathes, their bloody sabres working furiously. Without pause they rode back and forth, striking man after man from their feet. The centre of the square became a charnel house, the ground churned into a bloody quagmire.
With his revolver empty, Jack turned and ran to the side of the younger Moore, who still lay trapped under his fallen horse. The Persian troops were trying to run, but the British horsemen were everywhere, spurring mercilessly over any man who tried to flee, their faces twisted into dreadful masks of hate as they went about the bloody task with brutal efficiency.
Moore slashed his broken sabre upwards as he sensed Jack approaching. ‘For fuck’s sake, it’s Fenris,’ Jack bellowed as he was forced to dodge back sharply. The adjutant’s weapon had snapped midway up the blade, but the blood that was smeared on what remained showed that he had still used the weapon to effect.
Jack saw the flare of recognition on Moore’s face, and he bent forward and heaved at the body of the dead horse that had the younger officer trapped. The animal was smothered in blood and his hands slipped as they tried to get a grip on the slick, matted coat. He lowered his shoulder and pressed it hard against the animal’s flank. He grunted with the effort but managed to move the beast a fraction. It was enough for Moore to scramble free. The lower half of his uniform was sodden with blood, but he appeared to be largely intact.
His brother left the slaughter and came towards them, his huge horse lathered in sweat.
‘You’re a damn fool!’ The older Moore’s face was twisted with anger, and for a moment Jack thought he would strike his brother down.
The younger sibling threw his head back and bellowed with the sheer joy of being alive, then stepped forward and slapped his brother hard on the thigh. ‘You always were a soulless bastard.’
Jack turned away. He walked across to the body of his dead horse, feeling the remorse of having led the brave beast to its death.
‘Are you coming?’
Jack turned to face the two brothers. The adjutant had slipped a foot into his brother’s stirrup and taken a firm hold on the back of the saddle.
Jack shook his head.
‘Thanks for your help, old man.’
Jack waved the brothers away. His attention was focused on two figures who were trying to flee unnoticed amidst the rout of the Persian army’s centre. The men wore a strange uniform, one wholly different from that sported by the rest of the Persian army. A uniform that had no right to be there.
Jack had recognised it at once. He had fought against men with similar dark blue coats and spiked helmets. Then he had been a red-coated officer, leading his troops against the enemy’s prepared position on the far bank of the Alma river. Now he saw two men wearing the same uniform and he broke into a run, forcing his tired body to move, chasing after the officers dressed in the uniform of the Russian Empire.
He forgot the broken square and the staggering victory the Bombay Lights had earned. Ballard had taught him well, and Jack knew that the men trying to escape the blood and carnage of the battlefield held the answer to the riddle of the Persian spy.
Outram stood close to the British artillery as they limbered up their guns now that the fight was done. He surveyed the field of battle, his glasses panning slowly from side to side as he tried to understand the fight that he had missed. He had only returned to command the army once the attack was well under way, the injury he had suffered the previous night keeping him from the field until the day was nearly done.
His men had won him a spectacular victory, the efforts of the artillery and the heroism of the cavalry ending the Persian resistance before the bulk of his army could even be brought into play. Outram had achieved the first aim of his campaign. The Persian army would never again be able to face the British expeditionary force without remembering the fight at the village of Khoosh-Ab. He might not have been able to inflict a complete defeat and utterly destroy the Persian field army, but he had secured the foothold he needed so that he could launch the second phase of his campaign, which would see his force strike further inland. He would keep fighting until the Shah accep
ted defeat and sued for terms. The British public would be pleased and his masters at Horseguards would nod in approval. He might have hoped for more, but for now his men had done enough.
Outram lit a cigar and watched as the British infantry marched towards the remains of the position that the Persian army had occupied. The enemy battalions had fled, leaving behind their dead and wounded. The British had been allowed to complete their advance in peace, the horror of the enemy bombardment fading as they pressed forward, the beat of the drums the only sound marking their passage.
The redcoats were marching into a butcher’s yard.
The British artillery barrage had been dreadfully effective. Corpses lay in heaps, the mangled bodies a testament to the skill of the gunners. The ground was soaked in blood. Shattered limbs and ragged flesh smothered the sandy soil. The bowels of hell were revealed for all to see.
The first British line marched on, driving after the remnants of the Persian infantry, which streamed away on to the plain behind where they had made their failed stand. The redcoats would not go far, for the enemy was retreating too fast, the Persian soldiers running from the victors in disarray, discarding their weapons as they fled for their lives.
The British cavalry rode after the broken ranks, doing their best to harry the retreat and add fresh impetus to the rout. Yet they had fought hard that day and their horses were blown, the riders exhausted. Without fresh cavalry coming after them, much of the enemy infantry would be able to make good their escape, the shattered ranks heading back to the haven of the high ground and the places where they would be able to re-form. The British army’s shortage of cavalry was hampering the pursuit, denying Outram the ability to turn the Persian retreat into a catastrophic defeat.
The general began to issue his orders. The young officers on his staff were sent galloping across the plain as they carried his instructions to the battalion commanders. The second line of British infantry was to halt as soon as it reached the ground where the Persian army had made its fateful stand. The three battalions in the rearmost line of the assault had taken the majority of the day’s casualties and Outram wanted to give them time to regroup and tend to their wounded. The men in the first line would be recalled to spend the rest of the day and the night that would follow on the field of battle. Outram had his victory and now, finally, his men could rest.
Lieutenant Knightly tried very hard not to be sick in front of his men. He walked amongst the bodies of enemy soldiers who had been living just a few hours before. He wondered how they had felt as the British barrage crashed into their ranks. Had they believed they would be the fortunate ones; that they could not be amongst the fallen? Or had they sensed death coming for them, somehow foreseeing what was going to befall them?
He shivered as he remembered the long advance. The sight of the broken bodies made a mockery of his pathetic hopes that he would not die; that it would always be someone else whose body was broken, whose blood would flow to run into the dusty soil. He saw death in all its grotesque butchery and knew then that it was only a matter of chance whether he lived or whether his own flesh was to be tattered and torn, his corpse left to lie forgotten on some foreign field.
‘Sir?’
Knightly looked up into the calm face of his covering sergeant. He saw the pity in the man’s eyes and it shamed him. He forced himself to stand straighter and fight away the horror.
‘Yes, Sergeant?’
‘Isn’t that your chum over there?’
Knightly looked in the direction of the sergeant’s pointing arm. He was not surprised to see a hussar officer who had no business being in the field of battle. He shook off the dread that had crushed his spirits since the first cannon had opened fire. The battle was over and he had survived. It was time to move on.
He ordered his sergeant to fall the company out and to wait for orders. With his duty completed, he forced his fears away and trotted over to see just what his friend was up to.
‘Arthur! What the devil is going on!’
Knightly puffed out his cheeks. The run had left him out of breath and the hurried question had him gasping for air. He had arrived to see his friend holding two officers prisoner at gunpoint. Both were dressed in a uniform he did not recognise, but he was sure that neither would pose much of a threat. To see a raised weapon seemed rather melodramatic now that the battle was done.
‘Arthur, if these men have surrendered, you should put your gun down.’
He watched his friend’s face closely. He saw the grime that covered his face, the flecks of blood that had been splattered across his cheeks. His uniform was filthy and there was a thin crust of blood across one thigh. Knightly looked into his bloodshot eyes and saw the anger burning deep within.
The taller of the two prisoners spread his arms, showing the British officers that he was unarmed. His face twitched, a spasm of what might have been fear twisting his mouth. Knightly had seen enough.
‘Arthur. Put the gun down.’ He spoke slowly, as if to a difficult child. He was ignored. ‘Arthur!’
The prisoner looked at Knightly, his eyes beseeching the red-coated officer to come to his aid. He opened his mouth, releasing a torrent of words. It was a language Knightly did not understand, but the meaning was clear. His fellow officer was tormenting the two men. Now that the battle was over, it was a gratuitous display, and Knightly knew he would have to bring it to an end.
He thought about calling for his men to come to his aid. Jack and his two prisoners were partially hidden by a fold in the terrain that kept them out of sight of the redcoats, most of whom had already sunk to the ground, finding the few clear spaces not littered with bodies. Knightly did not have the heart to march over and force them back to their feet, so he sucked up his courage and tried to intercede once again.
‘Arthur. You are scaring the poor fellows witless. It’s over now. The battle is finished. Let me take them back to battalion. You look done in.’ He tried to sound light-hearted, and even offered a short laugh as he attempted to shake off the tension in the air. He took a step forward as if he were going to push the gun aside.
‘Stay where you are.’
The command was snapped and angry. It stopped Knightly in his tracks. The young lieutenant felt the first flutter of fear deep in his belly. The battle was over, but he sensed the presence of death.
Jack did his best to keep his gun steady. The exhaustion threatened to overwhelm him, and his arm was aching from shoulder to wrist from having fought for so long. He had heard Knightly arrive but he did his best to pay the junior officer no heed. He kept his eyes fixed on the taller of the two Russians, who stared back without fear. It was only when the British lieutenant started to intervene that Jack was forced to act.
‘Stay where you are.’ His voice rasped as he gave the order. He looked into the Russian’s eyes as he spoke to Knightly, sensing that the man understood his words. ‘I’m going to shoot these bastards if they don’t tell me what I want to know.’ He saw the flicker of understanding, the slightest narrowing of the eyes as the Russian officer planned his next move. He knew he could not afford to drop his guard, not even for a single heartbeat.
The Russian had a hard face. His left cheek bore a single thin scar that linked the corner of his mouth to his ear. His black hair was flecked with grey, his thin moustache showing the first signs of losing its colour. He looked more like a veteran soldier than a diplomatic observer. He stared at Jack for a long time. Jack met the scrutiny calmly, revealing nothing. The second officer, who was much younger, took a tiny half-step backwards, as if trying to edge away from the wild-eyed British officer of hussars who threatened murder on a battlefield.
‘I surrender.’ The older officer spoke in English for the first time. He spat to one side, as if the language had left a sour taste in his mouth. ‘Now put the gun down, Captain, and I will offer you my parole.’
Jack smiled, the dirt that crusted his face pulling at his skin. ‘So you do speak English. But then of course you would. You wouldn’t be here otherwise.’
‘So let us go.’ The Russian sneered, defiant even with a revolver aimed at him. ‘We are not here to fight. My country is not at war with yours. We are here as peaceful observers, nothing more.’ He scowled as he offered the response. It was clear that surrendering was not an easy thing for him to do.
He turned his gaze back on Knightly. His eyes were like steel. There was no trace of fear. Just a quiet, simmering anger. ‘Tell your friend he is to let me come with you. Tell him to let us go.’
‘Arthur.’ Knightly used his friend’s name gently. It was clear that both men terrified him. He looked like a small boy summoned to bear witness to his first bare-knuckle fight. ‘I’ll take them back to our lines.’
‘You will do no such thing.’ Jack lifted the barrel of his gun an inch, aiming it directly at the Russian officer’s forehead.
The Russian turned away from the fresh-faced young officer who was being so roundly ignored and focused his attention on the lean face of the man with the gun. ‘What do you want, Englishman?’
‘Tell me why you are here.’
The Russian smiled. It did not come close to reaching his eyes. ‘I am an observer.’
‘Bollocks.’ Jack raised his voice for the first time. ‘You’re a fucking spy.’
‘And you are a madman.’ The Russian turned his pale eyes on Knightly again. ‘Get this man away from me.’
‘Shut your fucking muzzle,’ Jack snarled. ‘I know who you are and why you are here. I want to know the identity of the spy in the British camp. The spy who reports to you. You will tell me or I will kill you.’
The Devil's Assassin (Jack Lark) Page 29