To Do and Die

by Patrick Mercer

  ‘That, girls, is how you deal with Johnny Turk.’ Shields pulled Betty to her feet whilst apparently addressing all of them. But his eyes lingered just on Mary.

  ‘Good job you snuffed him out when you did, Mr Hussar, I was just about to measure the heathen for a tin hat.’ Mary’s eyes danced with anger. Private Shields looked at the spade in her hands and the heave of her breast. He didn’t know what to admire more—her husband’s luck or his bravery.

  ***

  ‘Will you keep up, Pegg, you fat little sod?’ Sergeant Ormond was enjoying the young drummer’s discomfiture.

  ‘Ah’m doin’ me best, Sar’nt...’ Pegg puffed and heaved along between two of the other men who had fallen into step either side of him, pushed their arms behind his shoulders and below his cross-belts and relieved him of the weight of his rifle. Now the trio were just managing to stay with the rest of the running squad and in front of the cavalcade of mules. ‘Must ‘ave been summat I ate, me guts is rotten.’

  ‘Just save yer breath, lad. Get ‘im up to the front, you two.’ Sergeant Ormond, satisfied that Pegg wouldn’t fall out by the side of the road and disgrace the company, put on a spurt, overtook the rest of the doubling men and joined Morgan at the front of the column.

  ‘Pegg’s all right, sir, just a bit blown.’ Sergeant and officer were breathing deeply but evenly, the sweat starting to soak into their socks and cap-bands, both of them in prime, physical condition. ‘Don’t know ‘ow ‘e manages to keep that blubber on ‘im, I don’t, the rest of the lads ‘ave got less fat on ‘em than a butcher’s pencil.’

  ‘Aye, you’re right, Sar’nt Ormond, my clothes are falling off me.’ As they shuffled down into the depths of the valley it became harder for Morgan to see how the situation was developing. ‘Look there, are that Scotch lot shaking out to fight?’

  About quarter of a mile away on a low hillock in front of a village, Morgan could see a kilted regiment moving from column into file, ready to form a defensive line on the forward slope of the high ground. Just as he was wondering what to do, a gunner subaltern whom he thought he knew came cantering towards them on a handsome chestnut.

  ‘Hey, hold hard...’ Morgan flagged the young officer down, ‘...what the devil’s going on, d’you know?’

  The gunner was clearly not pleased to be stopped by some plodding infantryman, but he, too, thought he recognized Morgan and pulled his horse to a stop.

  ‘God alone knows.’ He fought to control his mount as it scraped and pawed the gravel. ‘But we’ve seen Russian cavalry just up on that sky-line yonder...’ he pointed to a dip in the Causeway Heights about a mile away, ‘...Lord Lucan’s bloody cavalry are nowhere to be seen and, if they decide to advance, there’s not a blind thing between them and Balaklava except our guns and the Ninety-Third Highlanders over there in front of Kadikoi.’

  Morgan swiftly pulled his glass from his pocket, tried to control his breathing and looked in the direction that the Gunner was pointing. The roofs of Kadikoi were just visible from where they were and he could now see the tall feathered bonnets of the Scotsmen settling into battle formation and, he assumed, waiting for orders to load.

  ‘What d’you suggest we do?’ Morgan asked.

  ‘Why would I know?’ said the gunner. ‘The battery captain has sent me off to get more shell. You’re Ninety-Fifth, aren’t you? If I were you I’d get over to those Scotties and stiffen them up a bit, they’re as green as grass and could do with your help, though those mules will be a bloody nuisance in a fight...good luck,’ before he spurred his horse hard up the slope of the road.

  It took no more than a few minutes to run the men over to the waiting 93rd—the Highlanders seemed strangely clean and smart as Morgan and his scruffy band approached. Most of the Scotsmen were tall and brawny, their height exaggerated by their billowing bonnets, the whiteness of their leather equipment and spats giving them a solid, parade-ground appearance and without their greatcoats, the red of their coatees was bright against the dull autumn landscape. Morgan realized that it was easier for them to maintain these standards, living in huts close to the re-supply point of the harbour and so far untouched by any serious fighting, but he was still uncomfortable as his score of men and mules scuttled past, with torn coats, muddy trousers and unwashed faces, only their weapons and eyes bright and ready.

  ‘Sergeant-Major, Lieutenant Morgan and a party of Grenadiers of the Ninety-Fifth at your Commanding Officer’s disposal.’

  As the disreputable gang had scurried along the rear of the 93rd’s ranks, Morgan hadn’t been able to grab the attention of any of their officers to announce his presence and receive their orders. Only the Highlanders’ senior non-commissioned officer could be distracted from the battle that was obviously about to unfold and even he was deeply perplexed by the prospect of dealing with an officer from a strange regiment. Tartaned, broad and ginger, his beard bursting out above his gold-laced collar, the Sergeant-Major eyed Morgan distastefully for a moment before bringing his hand up to the diced band of his cap.

  ‘Will you be so kind as to take your men to yon flank, sir...’ he said, pointing down to the right of the 93rd’s firing line, about eighty paces away, ‘...report to Number Six Company, please...an’ dinna leave those untidy bloody asses here, sir, if ye don’t mind.’ As if the sweaty, grubby appearance of the men of the 95th wasn’t bad enough in front of these pristine Scotsmen, two of their mules began to piss in unison, great puddles of steaming yellow liquid gathering just behind the 93rd’s Colour Party.

  With a perfunctory nod, Number Six Company’s captain showed Morgan where to form his men telling him merely to, ‘obey his orders’. But he could be forgiven any shortness for no sooner had Morgan fallen his men into two ranks than he saw exactly what was holding everyone’s attention.

  ‘There they are, sir, the bleeders.’ Sergeant Ormond had immediately spotted the Russian cavalry hovering in a tree-line on the near horizon about eight hundred yards in front of them. As they watched, a handful of men in light-blue coats and dark shakoes leaked forward, followed immediately by more, most walking, some trotting slowly down the slope towards them, nothing standing in their way except the odd ditch and vineyard. Steadily they gained pace.

  ‘There must be three hundred on ‘em, sir...’ Sergeant Ormond had quartered his target off, just as the manual advised, counted them and then multiplied by four, getting a remarkably accurate estimate, ‘...at about eight hundred paces.’

  ‘Five hundred...ready.’ To their left, the 93rd had already loaded: now the estimated range was being passed down to the men. Six hundred feather bonnets dipped and fingers tinkered, carefully adjusting the ramped iron sights.

  ‘That’s bollocks, sir...’ Ormond turned urgently to Morgan.

  ‘Aye, you’re right. Ignore that, Ninety-Fifth; load in your own time, six hundred, await my order.’ They rammed and fitted their caps mechanically, deftly flicking their sights forward like the veterans they had unconsciously become.

  ‘Present!’ the Scotsmen flung their rifles into the aim, pulled their butts hard into the shoulder and blinked down their sights.

  ‘They’ll hit fuck-all like that, sir,’ said Ormond, just as the horsemen broke into a slow canter.

  ‘Fire!’ Every rifle bucked, kicking up dust and twigs well in front of the Russian hussars, but emptying not a saddle.

  ‘Reload!’ The order echoed amongst the Scotsmen as Morgan’s party held their rifles at the waist.

  ‘What d’you think, Sergeant Ormond?’ Morgan guessed the Russians were now vulnerable.

  ‘Aye, sir, ‘bout right, but aim at the nags’ knees, you lot,’ Ormond advised the men, as casually as if he were at the races rather than the battlefield.

  ‘Present...aim low...fire!’ Quite out of kilter with their hosts, the 95th’s handful of rifles banged out, sending half a dozen Russians reeling from their saddles whilst a quiet chuckle ran down the grimy English line.

  The Russians slowed to a walk—it was th
e wrong thing to do, for the horsemen concertina’d together, just as the troop of Horse Artillery that had come pounding-up to support the 93rd, wheeled into action. All six guns warmed their barrels with roundshot that whistled over the heads of the Russians, before they smoothly switched to shell, sending furious, black bursts spitting above the hussars’ heads.

  ‘Reload...five hundred, ready.’ Now Morgan was back in step with the 93rd who had been going rigidly through their drills just to their left.

  The Russians were now milling about, sandwiched between two small vineyards and harassed by the guns. With increasing urgency the leaders were turning their horses about, shrill bugle calls trying to tell the men at the rear what their commanders wanted them to do. Slowly, the mass of horsemen began to creep back up the hill, the way they had come as the shells burst above.

  ‘Present...’ Every rifle came to the aim.

  ‘They’re a bit more than five hundred now, lads, aim at the very furthest buggers from you,’ Ormond bellowed above the bangs of the guns.

  ‘Fire!’ But the 93rd seemed to have misjudged things again.

  ‘Bloody-hell, sir, ‘oo taught these Jocks their musketry?’ Ormond was convinced that the few rounds of the 95th had flown true, whilst the Scotsmen’s bullets had, once again, fallen short. But who hit what hardly mattered, for under the grinding of the guns the Russians were now in full retreat up and over the ridge. Meanwhile, the Highlanders cheered themselves hoarse, stamping their spats and raising their bonnets high on the muzzles of their rifles. Morgan wished that all victories could be as bloodless as this one.

  ***

  The next chapter of the drama unfolded gently. Morgan told his men to brew tea and smoke and clean their weapons, whilst further along the slope the 93rd did much the same. From time to time, pairs of enemy horsemen would appear in the woods from which the hussars had sprung earlier, dithering, looking through telescopes at the slender line of British until an artillery round sent them skittering away.

  ‘That last lot weren’t too bad, sir, but if they send one of them great bunches of Cossacks and some guns, we’ll be pushed to ‘old ‘em off.’ Sergeant Ormond voiced Morgan’s exact fears.

  ‘You’re right, Sar’nt Ormond, but look there, are those our cavalry moving towards us?’ Through the bushes and vines there were glimpses of scarlet coats and flashes as the sun caught the brass helmets of the regiments of General Scarlett’s Brigade of Heavy Cavalry.

  ‘They are, sir...’ Pegg had been nosing around making tea in the background and now he cut in, ‘...see there, them’s the Scots Greys, wearing the furry ‘ats. Mind you, Mister Raglan wants to send us more guns up ‘ere, not donkey-wallopers.’

  ‘Just get that tea in the officer’s hand, Pegg. We’ll let you know when Lord Raglan’s got a place for you on his Staff.’ Ormond withered the lad.

  The Heavy Brigade had obviously been split in two by its commander, for whilst one column of horsemen disappeared from view amongst the scrub below them, a couple of squadrons were clearly visible, dismounted amongst the vines beside their own tented camp on the gentle slope opposite them.

  ‘I guess that’ll be the Heavy Brigade’s reserve hanging about the camp over there?’ Morgan mused to Ormond.

  ‘Spose so, sir, General Scarlett won’t want to keep all his eggs in one basket until he knows what Russ is about, will he sir?’ Ormond had undone the top of his coat now that the sun was out whilst trying to clear the stem of his pipe with a slender twig.

  ‘Where’s that tea, Pegg? Mr Morgan and me are spittin’ feathers.’ But just as Pegg wobbled an over-filled tin cup forward, Sergeant Ormond pushed his arm out, pointing excitedly. ‘Look, sir, look yonder,’ Sergeant Ormond had seen what Morgan had feared—a mass of horsemen were probing over the ridge in exactly the same spot that the last group had appeared.

  Morgan said nothing at first. His lips just silently counted the files of light-blue and grey-clad lancers and hussars that were trotting slowly down over the rough-ploughed, chalky slope. But where just a few hundred had been turned back by gun and rifle fire less than an hour ago, there were now many more.

  ‘Christ love us, there must be two thousand of them, Sar’nt Ormond, why aren’t the Heavy Brigade turning to cut into them?’

  ‘Probably can’t see ‘em yet, sir, it’s clear to us here, but you know how broken the ground is and, besides, them trees on the ridgeline will give a lot of cover.’

  Morgan pondered what Ormond had said, knowing that he was right and that he’d exposed his own callowness. He quickly focused his telescope and then it was obvious that neither body of cavalry, probably no more than three quarters of a mile apart, had seen the other. Russians and British trotted on in happy ignorance of each other.

  The early morning mist had all but cleared now and the air was still. Then Morgan saw the leading files of cavalry slow and come to an uncertain halt, the lines of horsemen bunching into each other before the Greys and the Inniskillen Dragoons slowly turned and began to face the enemy. He could see mounted officers and NCOs shouting and pointing, shaking the regiments out, dressing the troops into the proper formation to attack. One little knot of four pecked about in front—Morgan could only suppose that it included their commander, Brigadier-General Scarlett. As he watched, a bugler next to Scarlett raised his instrument to his lips and a few seconds later the unfamiliar cavalry call ‘prepare to attack’ reached their ears.

  ‘E’s not going to tek that lot on just with what there is down there, is ‘e?’ Sergeant Ormond and the rest of the group were now on their feet, tea forgotten, shading their eyes, straining to see. He spoke quietly, incredulous at what was about to happen.

  ‘They’ll be all right, Sar’nt, one of them’s worth ten of Russ.’ Pegg’s normal disdain for the cavalry had suddenly evaporated.

  ‘Don’t be a knob, Pegg, or are you now a dragoon as well as a master bleedin’ gunner?’ Ormond had had quite enough of Pegg for one morning. ‘There’s only a couple of hundred of our lads that are ready to attack, the rest of the Brigade’s strung out to buggery an’ they’ll have to go at ‘em up hill. If Russ spurs on the Heavies’ll be cut to slices.’

  ‘S’pose you’re right, Sarge,’ Pegg conceded.

  The Russians gained speed. The dense block of horses and riders swept downhill heading straight for the Scots Grey’s and Inniskillen Dragoons. Both regiments calmly continued their preparations—the watery sun glittered on a couple of hundred straight, steel blades as they sang from their scabbards. On their flanks the 4th and 5th Dragoon Guards—black and bay horses—tried to make up time over the difficult, vine-obstructed ground. But when it seemed that the unstoppable Russian mass would simply gallop and trample the Heavies into the ground, the inexplicable happened.

  ‘They’ve stopped, sir, the daft, serf bastards have just stopped dead!’

  ‘What can they be at, Ormond?’

  So sudden was the enemy’s halt that the rattle of bits, snaffles and bridles carried up to the ridge. Morgan saw panic in the leading Russians. Although their peaks obscured their eyes and the thick, grey, caped coats reminded Morgan of so many pouter pigeons, there could be no mistaking the urgent commands and the hurried fumbling for swords and pistols.

  But if the Russians were ruffled, the Heavies were not. The regiments were still far from ready when the ‘Charge’ was sounded. There was no mistaking it and Morgan thought he could see a frown on the NCOs’ faces whose backs were still to the enemy and whose precious dressing was not yet complete. There it was again—insistent, compelling, the urgent bugle notes that should have set the two dragoon regiments off like greyhounds. But Morgan could only see one group of men advancing—Brigadier-General Scarlett and his half-dozen Staff cantering uphill as hard as they could, clods flying from their hooves, sabres above their heads, shoulders set and tense, ready for the butchery. They were yards in front of the rest of the Brigade and as they drove into the face of the enemy column, sword hands falling and chopping t
o both left and right, the Russian flanks curved round them, closing, enveloping, cutting the handful off.

  In seconds they were surrounded. Morgan was intent upon the flailing clutch of men whose destruction could only be seconds away. But then a shock wave swept through the Russian cavalry, sending horses and riders crashing into one another, packing the whole mass even more tightly together so that cut and thrust could hardly be delivered, chargers wedged so firmly that they could barely move.

  Morgan had been watching Scarlett’s group so closely that he had missed the pounding arrival of the Greys and Inniskillens. The two regiments had cannoned into the inert face of the enemy horsemen, arriving no faster than a trot, but using all their weight and momentum. Some of the static, distracted Russians had been knocked over bodily by their onslaught and now possessed, desperate men in scarlet hacked and beat at their foes, all line and dressing lost.

  A slight twist of his lens brought the morass into sharp focus. The British were demented, chopping in all directions with their heavy sabres. The Russians recoiled, alarmed, appalled by such brutal force. The hard-learnt lesson that a thrust was always better than a cut was instantly forgotten in the press of bodies, scabbard—blunted blades bouncing off the Russians’ caped shoulders. One man, though, brought his sword far back over his head, slicing down with all his strength, rising in his stirrups to give the blow extra weight. The steel caught an enemy dragoon square on the crown of the shako, driving down through leather, hair, skull and flesh so hard that the victim fell from the saddle cut almost to the jaw. Blood sprayed crazily; the dead man took the sword with him, almost unseating his executioner.

  So tight was the melee, so fighting mad were the British that Morgan saw one thickset Inniskillen whirl his sword around his head—the ‘moulinef’ as it was known—catching not a Russian but a friend with the back of his blade. The wounded man threw his hands to his head but he was lost to sight as smoke fanned across the scene. As sword arms tired of the hacking or sabres were lost, both sides used their pistols—pushing the barrels hard against their enemies’ chests and faces before they fired.