‘Have a care Mr Morgan, sir, it’s Mrs Keenan to you.’ Despite the sharpness of the reply, her eyes were wide with fear, but there was still the same resolute glitter in them that he had seen so often at his family’s house, Glassdrumman, in County Cork. There was a determination in this woman that, despite her nineteen years, had seen her become the unelected leader of the handful of regimental wives who had been allowed to accompany the Regiment on campaign.
‘I’m sorry—Mrs Keenan. But you’re too far forward, please get to the rear.’ Morgan noticed how her fingers trembled.
‘I…I’ll be fine, thank you, sir.’ Despite the stuttered formality of her words, Morgan couldn’t fail to notice the hand that caught at his sleeve.
‘Sir, for God’s sake come on.’ McGucken recalled him to his duty.
All the companies were now stumbling for the lee of the riverbank. The dashing, bounding balls could not reach them here and they were invisible to the gunners, but confusion reigned as men from the regiments of the Light Division plunged off the banks and into the river in an effort to reach the sheltering lip of the opposite bank.
‘You lot, keep your pouches above your heads...’ McGucken was doing his best to stop his men from soaking their ammunition by plunging thoughtlessly into the river. ‘NCOs, get the men to keep their weapons dry.’
Some of the sergeants and corporals heard the Colour-Sergeant and understood him amidst the chaos. A handful of the soldiers, numbed by the noise and fear, had to be grabbed to make them listen, their belts undone for them, their rifles lifted above their heads as splinters and bullets churned up the water.
The few mounted officers urged their chargers into the breast-deep stream. Beach, commanding the 33rd, spurred his dripping little grey mare directly at the bank, but she slithered back, mud staining her knees. He tried again, riding her obliquely up the greasy slope, picking firmer ground in a fine display of horsemanship. Silhouetted on the higher ground for an instant, Morgan saw the 33rd’s colonel rousing his men: then the saddle was emptied by a sudden blast of iron as the Russians fired their first rounds of shotgun-like canister.
Below the lip the regiments teemed. The 7th Fusiliers were astounded by the abandon of their commanding officer—Colonel Lacy Yea. ‘Come on, come on anyhow!’ he yelled as his horse, too, wallowed at the bank. The knotted line—muddy red coats, smeared white belts and dark, sodden trousers—now raised a breathless cheer and surged up the rise.
The two ensigns had floundered through the river keeping the 95th’s Colours almost dry. A subaltern wrung at one corner of the bright yellow regimental standard as they looked for their commanding officer and gathered themselves for the waiting storm.
‘So, that’s where you’ve got to, Morgan.’ From somewhere in the smoke Eddington was suddenly at his side, ‘The Colonel’s been wounded—I saw him being carried to the rear back there in the vineyards—along with half the other commanding officers in the Division, as far as I can see. Major Hume’s in charge, now, but he had a bad fall when his horse was shot.’ Eddington was looking round in the smoke and crowd of soldiers from every regiment who were splashing into the river, seeking the cover of the bank. ‘Where’s Carmichael and his half of the company?’ Even though he had to shout to make himself heard, there was something reassuring about Eddington’s calmness. It was as though he had been born to this confusion, that the shriek of balls and shrapnel was a normal part of his life: he seemed to be enjoying himself.
Just as he asked, a clutch of their men under Sergeant Ormond came stumbling through the smoke and vines. To their rear and hunched in a curious half-crouch came Carmichael, but his shako and coat had gone, his legs and bottom were covered in mud whilst his normally well-combed hair was everywhere. When he saw his company commander his face lit-up with relief.
‘Well done, Sergeant Ormond, I see you’ve brought Mr Carmichael with you,’ shouted Captain Eddington.
Morgan smiled to himself. It was Sergeant Ormond and the men who should have been led by Lieutenant Carmichael, not the other way round, but just as Eddington turned to tell Carmichael what to do, a great, thirty two pound ball skidded muddily off the far bank of the river before hitting him squarely in the nape of the neck. One moment Eddington had a head—the next he had not. So cleanly had the iron done its work that the Captain’s body was upright for an instant, the trunk spurting blood in a liquid rope, before the knees crumpled and the corpse fell in a shrunken bundle of rags and straps onto the riverbank.
‘Dear God!’ shrieked Carmichael, clear above the surrounding noise. He’d been within feet of Eddington when the ball struck, now he was spattered with his blood and matter. A file of their Grenadiers led by a lance-corporal picked up the hysteria in Carmichael’s voice and now they edged uneasily by, trying not to catch his eye.
‘Christ, Morgan, Eddington’s dead...look.’ Morgan was as appalled by the decapitated horror that had been their Captain as Carmichael was, but he knew that they must not let the men see their officers’ fear.
‘That would certainly seem to be the case.’ Morgan was surprised, impressed even, by his own sangfroid. ‘You’re in charge now. What do you want me to do?’ He turned to encourage a young non-commissioned officer; ‘Corporal Aldworth, well done, get those men down the bank.’
‘Just...get on, just...get across to Major Hume and report to him. I’ll...I’ll go and look for the others.’ Carmichael slipped off to the rear, enveloped by the smoke before Morgan could remind him of his duty.
Hundreds of urgent feet had churned the bank of the river, making it hard to stay upright. He slopped into the mud, forced through the water, pistol, sword and haversack as far above his waist as their various straps would allow, watching Hume and the Colour party. The fall from his horse didn’t seem to have unsettled Hume, for now he stretched his arms out behind the young ensigns’ backs, gently urging them on, uttering calm words of encouragement to the knot of frightened men around the Colours.
With the two Colour-Sergeants alongside, the little band ducked their chins and braced their shoulders as if to face a gale as they slithered up the bank. The advance through the vineyard had been mild compared to this, for as the line of dripping troops thickened on the bare slope directly below the Russian guns, so their enemies increased the fire. A mixture of shell and canister whined from the guns ensconced in the
Redoubt behind big, basketwork gabions that were full of protective packed earth: the whole position was carefully sited to cover the point where the British would emerge from the banks of the river.
‘Look there...’ Morgan pointed at a Russian who was desperately trying to set fire to a tar and straw-tipped pole in front of them, ‘...that rogue’s trying to light a range-marker.’ Even Morgan’s crude grasp of tactics told him that attacking into the face of an enemy that had prepared themselves well enough to have range-markers for the guns was unwise—hadn’t someone said something about always seeking a flank?
‘Quick, Nixon, knock him down.’ The Russian struggled with flint and steel as one of the soldiers beside Morgan raised his rifle, squinted and squeezed the trigger as calmly as if on the butts back in England.
‘Damn me, the fucking charge is wet,’ Nixon cursed as the Russian scuttled off into a fold in the ground, whilst the marker spat smokily behind him.
The jumbled line of regiments sputtered up towards the Great Redoubt. Sometimes pausing to fire then reload, the men pushed on despite wide furrows being opened in their lines whenever the Russian guns belched, for at their most effective range the canister rounds were deadly even when fired almost blind through the clinging, grey powder-smoke. Above the tangled, yelling lines Morgan could see the blue Colours of the 23rd and the 7th, the deep green standards of the 19th and his own jaunty, canary-yellow beside the big Union flag, but in an instant they were down, swept away by another sheet of canister.
‘Sir, Major Hume’s shouting for you.’ McGucken had seen the senior major hauling at the fallen flags, pulling
the Queen’s Colour from beneath its stricken ensign, passing it to one of the colour-sergeants before taking up the Regimental Colour and bawling for the closest officer.
‘Mother of God, he can’t want me.’
‘Just get over there, sir.’
Morgan ducked past the levelled rifles of some of his own men, fumbling with his wet sash to find the scabbard for his sword. As he approached the muddied Hume, a ball hummed through the major’s haversack, spilling biscuits and a razor—it was coolly ignored.
‘Ah, Morgan, why the deaf ear? Grab hold of this, get onto the high ground with the Colour-Sar’nt and for God’s sake show front whilst I try to rally them.’
On a hillock, Colour-Sergeant Baghurst had dug the butt of his Colour pike into the ground whilst brandishing his rifle at the enemy entrenchment and shouting encouragements. Then Morgan saw the shot-holes and rents in the bright silk, realizing that he was about to become a magnet for every rifleman and gunner on the field. But with no belt to carry the Colour, he raised the pole that bore the six-foot silk square with both hands, immediately struggling to control it in the breeze.
As if to confirm his fears, no sooner had he drawn close to Baghurst than the Colour-Sergeant yelped, let his flag sag to the ground and grabbed his ankle, barging into one of the men who was hurrying forward. He wasn’t alone for long, though, for his servant and fellow Corkman, Keenan, left the ranks and ran to be beside his master—quickly slinging his rifle and picking up the fallen Colour.
‘So, your honour, bet you never expected to see me doing an officer’s job, did you?’ Morgan agreed: there were a number of things that surprised him about Keenan, not least his wife, Mary.
Death loved these sparse, scarlet files. No more than two thousand British had climbed out of the riverbed and now the guns were whittling at them so hard that it would be madness to pause to dress the line. Like a tangled piece of string, the troops plodded up the slope, the perfect target for Russian riflemen who were now forming to one side of the Redoubt.
The stolid slabs of Russian infantry were just visible through the smoke, their bayonets glittering above them, whilst hovering about their flanks was a cloud of riflemen. Active men wearing soft green caps, they sped into cover, kneeling behind the scrub, firing, disappearing to reload and then emerging from a different spot. One was handling his ramrod with fluid movements—he paused to adjust his sights then cuddled his butt into his cheek.
Keenan’s tongue flicked quickly over his stubbled lips as the pair saw the rifle barrel deliberately swing up towards them. At two hundred paces, every detail of the Russian’s uniform and features were clear and both men unconsciously drew their shoulders up to shield themselves as the marksman disappeared behind a cloud of smoke. The bullet snatched at Morgan’s wing, holing the bullion and opening a gash in the scarlet cloth at his shoulder through which a pennon of white lining now peeped. Next to him Keenan, without a sound, sank to the ground, the great yellow flag shrouding him for an instant before it was snatched up. Morgan fancied that he saw a smile on the Russian’s face.
‘He’ll cook you with his next round, sir.’ Sergeant Ormond—one of those steady, likeable men, the backbone of the company—had appeared beside him, giving words to his own thoughts as the ramrod flew down the barrel of the distant rifle.
‘Thank you Ormond—you’re a great comfort, you are. Luff, pass me your rifle...is it made ready?’
‘Sir, an’ it’s dry an’ all. Sure you know how it works?’ It wasn’t much of a joke, but Luff’s words made them all smile amongst the danger and noise. Morgan, like most officers, had been brought up with gun, hounds and rod and took a pride in being more skilful with the new Minie rifle than the soldiers. Despite this, officers didn’t carry such weapons in action; gentlemen were expected to arm themselves only with a chivalrous sword and pistol.
Now Morgan glanced at the sights and drew the chunky rifle into the shoulder. The Russian was just starting to kneel—he aimed at his belly and as the pale disc of his face swam above the foresight, he squeezed the trigger. He was always surprised at the kick of the new weapon; a few rounds would leave your shoulder black and blue.
Even above the din, Morgan recognized the sound. He’d first heard it as a boy when shooting seals off Bantry with his father’s heavy rifle—the solid, meaty thump of a soft lead ball tearing flesh. The Russian jerked forward onto his face, invisible now amongst the low scrub and the young officer marked the spot as he would for his dog and a downed pheasant.
Had Morgan been able to hear above the pounding of his heart, he would have sensed that the din was less. As they’d raced up the lethal slope splinters and balls had sliced the men around them and Morgan had been conscious of holes and rents suddenly appearing in his Colour as the artillery banged and roared its hatred at them. But at the crucial point, when cool, disciplined gunnery would have won the day, panic seemed to have struck the Russians and now the brass-barrelled howitzers were being manhandled and tugged away by teams of horses to save them from being over-run.
‘Right, come on you lot, they’re all in a pother, get amongst ‘em,’ Hume recognized the moment. The Russians were confused by the whining shells and bullets and the screaming British: dash and boldness now would carry the position.
Gasping, Morgan crouched with Sergeant Ormond below the bank of gabions, Colours across their laps, gathering themselves for the final rush into the heart of the enemy,
17
whilst the troops around them scrabbled through the unaccountably empty embrasures, boots rasping on the basketwork as, rifles at the ready, they leapt into the gun positions beyond. Catching Morgan by the arm, Ormond led the way up and over the breastwork, brandishing his Colour as soon as he was steady and helping the officer over the obstacle.
Inside the Redoubt everything was in uproar. Four horses plunged and shivered, anchored at one end of their harness by a heavy howitzer and at the other by a subaltern of the 23rd who, clinging to the tack with one hand, had a pistol firmly in the ear of the Russian driver. The man was clearly terrified by the demented youngster and his revolver and he was leaning so far out of his saddle that he was in danger of falling and losing control of his horses, yet still the boy yelled and threatened.
Another gun remained. Morgan saw how Alfred Heyland, commander of Number Six Company, and a handful of his soldiers went surging towards it. There was blood all over Heyland—it dripped from his nose and whiskers and one arm hung uselessly by his side. Later, Morgan was told that Heyland had been blown over bodily by a discharge of grape just yards from the centre of the gun-line in the Great Redoubt—everyone thinking that he was dead, yet he’d risen up like a torn and bleeding Lazarus, determined to lead his men on. Now all that Morgan saw was a crazed thing, chopping at one of the gunners with his sword whilst the men dealt with the others in a mad lust for blood.
Three Russians had been surrounded beside the gun’s trail. They all had short swords, but none had drawn them before their attackers pounced. None of the British had reloaded their rifles, nor were their bayonets fixed, so the Russians met death in the most brutal way as butts rose and fell whilst boots kicked and stamped, despite the cries for mercy. Eventually their victims were silent: chests heaving, the executioners looked down at the red splashes on their feet.
But the trophy was theirs. Some men cut away the hastily placed tow-ropes whilst Heyland clutched his sword by the end of its blade and scratched a crude 95 into the green paint of the carriage to confirm its capture. Faint with lack of blood, Heyland was swabbed with bandages and then led away by two of his men. Morgan remembered how well Heyland had danced at Dublin Castle last year—and how jealous they had all been of the flock of women around his elegant form. Now, how could any girl find this broken, bruised creature attractive again?
‘Good men, get those Colours up on the parapet.’ Major Hume was now commanding the Regiment. Just as collected—though even more tattered than when the pair had seen him last—he was barehe
aded, quite unarmed and utterly in control. The same self-confidence that Morgan had noticed when they were in the river was asserting itself over every man to whom he spoke, regardless of regiment or company, calming, reassuring and helping frightened boys to become men.
‘We’ve done it, sir, we’ve taken the Redoubt.’ Morgan had thrust the butt of the Colour pike hard into the parapet; now he looked round up at the bushy slopes to the horizon no more than three hundred paces above him.
‘Aye, Morgan we have, but there’s plenty more Muscovites: look there.’ Hume pointed up the hill.
Although a few hundred British had bloodily taken the centre of the position, they were now pinioned between the unprotected rear of the Great Redoubt and a mass of fresh, Russian infantry who lay on the smoke-laden slope above them. Meanwhile, the British commander, Lord Raglan, had moved forward with a tiny group of his Staff until he was well to the fore, almost in advance of his leading troops with the foresight to order-up a battery of British guns that could fire right into his enemy’s flank.
Now we’ll need some help to hold it.’ Major Hume was so hoarse he could barely make himself heard, despite the fact that the guns and rifles had fallen quiet for an instant right across the battlefield.
‘Yes, sir, Cambridge’s Guards are in reserve right behind us, aren’t they?’ Morgan knew what was supposed to be the plan, but Hume looked anxiously back towards the river.
‘Well, if they are in reserve, they’re a bloody long way away; we need them up here now before the Russians counterattack,’ Hume replied.
The Duke of Cambridge’s division had, indeed, been held in reserve, untouched by the fire that had so damaged the Light and Second Divisions during the advance to the river and now he was determined not to let his command fall into the same ruptured state as they crossed the Alma. But Cambridge’s caution meant that his Division lay too far to the rear of the troops that were now so horribly exposed in the Great Redoubt. They should have been closely supporting the first wave of attackers, on hand to deal with whatever the Russians planned to do next.
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