‘I have, though I saw no Guards—plenty of Russ, though.’ He immediately regretted the last phrase.
All Mary’s toughness vanished. ‘Mother of God, Tony, be careful.’ The great brown eyes blinked with fear whilst a blood-stained hand no bigger than a child’s rested on his arm. He desperately wanted to kiss her. But, ‘have you seen Major Hume?’ was all he could say
. ‘Aye, over there.’ That same hand pointed through the mist as another ball flashed overhead.
He ran through the strangers of Number Five Company who were picking themselves up, pulling down their coats and belts and settling their equipment before he came to Hume and his adjutant, McDonald. The major was already in the saddle, the adjutant just mounting.
‘Ah, you’re back, Morgan, what news?’ Hume looked down enquiringly.
‘Sir, the Forty-First were just about holding on to the Battery when we saw them, but there’s not many of them. The enemy are doing their damndest to take it and on the way back we bumped into a group of light infantry who’d got some way up the hill behind us.’ He tried to be as brief as possible.
Hume and McDonald exchanged glances. ‘Some way? Can’t you be more exact, boy?’ Hume frowned.
‘Sir, about three hundred yards I would say and that must be five and twenty minutes ago, now.’
‘Right, the Guards are supposed to be forming-up somewhere hereabouts, we’re to protect their left flank.’ Hume paused for a moment before adding, ‘D’you think you can guide us?’
Morgan’s stomach tightened; he licked his lips. ‘I can, sir.’
Morgan led the stuttering column back down the same paths. Anxious to find the Guards and not to lead the whole Wing in the wrong direction, he pressed on hard through the bushes, only to be told by Ormond.
‘Hold hard, sir, you’re losing them.’
The column had concertina’d behind him. He’d quite forgotten that one man could move three times faster than a column in thick country, especially when visibility was so poor. To help him find his way, though, incessant ripples of firing were now echoing from the Battery again with re-doubled shrieks and cheering. Clearly, fresh troops had already arrived to prop up the defenders.
Almost before he knew it, Morgan burst into a clearing some way to the rear of the Battery. The fog was less dense and he found himself amidst a group of bearded, bear skinned Guardsmen, all intent on the fight to their front. In the middle of them, surrounded by a group of other horsemen and easily recognizable as a member of the Royal Family, was the Guards’ divisional commander, the Duke of Cambridge. Despite his jowls and whiskered face, at thirty-five he was by far the youngest of the major-generals and he’d done well at the Alma. Now he stood in his stirrups, tugged at his forage cap then settled himself back in his saddle. Just off to his left stood the Grenadier Guards’ Colour party. Like everyone else, their flags had remained furled in their cases, the escort clustering round the subalterns trying to find comfort together as the musketry, artillery and yelling rose in another crescendo. More of the 95th followed Morgan and soon a group of them stood, waiting for their officer to tell them what to do.
One of the Duke’s party spurred his horse over to Morgan. ‘Who are you?’ The young officer in the blue frock coat and cocked hat of the Staff struggled to make himself heard. ‘How many of you are there?’
‘Sir, Mr Morgan, I’m guiding a Wing of the Ninety-Fifth, we’ve been told to support you.’
‘Good, we need it. Can you get your commander up here to speak to the duke?’ His horse jibbed at another storm of fire in the Battery.
‘Sir,’ Morgan broke away, leaving Ormond to collect the men, and dashed back up the path, bumping straight into a very pale Carmichael. At the mention of the Duke’s name, though, he brightened and insisted that he be taken straight to His Royal Highness.
‘Good: Carmichael, was it? I’m damn worried about our left. Get your commanding officer to form up over there,’ the duke pointed to a gap in the trees someway to the left of the Battery, ‘...but impress upon him that he must stay on the high ground, there’s too many Muscovites to go chasing down into the glens. Is that clear?’
The proximity of blue-blood was almost too much for Carmichael. ‘Yes, Your Highness, Sir George Cathcart’s Division is also on its way—he’s my uncle.’ But this nicety went unremarked by the duke who merely nodded into the din before walking his horse back to the rest of his party.
For a moment it seemed as though Carmichael had become his old self again, his confidence and arrogance had returned. He told Morgan where to gather the Company and in which direction they were to face before haring back up the path to find Hume and to pass the duke’s orders on to him.
‘Bet that’s the last we’ve seen on ‘im, sir.’ Sergeant Ormond waited till Carmichael was out of sight.
‘I’m surprised at your lack of charity, Sar’nt Ormond,’ replied Morgan, ‘if a royal duke’s here, I can guarantee Mr Carmichael will be back.’
About half the company had arrived and were being shaken out into line by the NCOs as another wave of attackers crashed against the Guardsmen holding the Battery. Not fifty yards in front of them British and Russian dashed and stabbed at each other, the defenders’ bearskins bobbing in the fog and powder smoke. More and more of the enemy were climbing onto the flat top of the Battery’s wall, firing down into those inside whilst others lapped around its flank, threatening to engulf the ever shrinking band within.
‘This is a fuckin’ mess ain’t it, sir?’ Colour-Sergeant McGucken had been marking the rear of the company’s column, now he flopped down in the grass beside Morgan, a bead of sweat slowly running down his forehead.
‘Aye, Colour-Sar’nt, it is. Have you seen Mr Carmichael? D’you know what he wants us to do?’
‘No, sir, he was going in the wrong direction last time I saw ‘im—just for a change. We’d better do something about this though, sir, or the Guards’ll be done for.’
He was right, the Battery would fall unless they acted. Morgan knew that Major Hume would expect to use all three companies together, but the situation was dire and Carmichael had told him nothing of what the duke wanted. As he tried to decide what to do, more Guardsmen were falling; as he dithered his men turned tense faces towards him expecting orders. His hand went for his flask but fell away.
‘Right, Colour-Sergeant, get them on their feet.’ The decision made, he instantly felt better.
The NCOs had been expecting this and in a flash the men of the company were up, settling their equipment and, even before he could give the order, reaching towards their left hips.
‘Fix bayonets!’ He’d had the same sensation at the Alma when he’d told the men to load with live ammunition. How many times had he given the same order on the barrack yard, never dreaming that, one day, he would say it in earnest? But now the order was being repeated down the line and sixty or so long, thin slivers of steel sang from their scabbards and clicked home over the rifles’ muzzles.
‘Prepare to advance.’ Again, the command was repeated by the NCOs. The bayonets came down level with the men’s waists. Some made sure that their rifles were cocked and that their percussion caps were firmly in place and ready to fire, but most just stared at the insanity into which they were about to plunge.
‘Advance.’ The line belched forward, Morgan sighting along his sword-blade at a Russian’s cross belts. Where was that indecision now? He had no need for a pull at his flask or, indeed, anything except the sweet release of action.
‘Charge!’ The men had been forcing the pace as they closed with the Battery. They stumbled into a run through the long grass; a primeval, animal growl arose that Morgan had never heard before from these boys.
***
The Russians hadn’t seen them coming. Exhausted Guardsmen were barged aside as the 95th hit their enemies like a wall. Some aimed and fired at point-blank range, the heavy bullets throwing the Russians to the ground, but most went in with the bayonet.
Morgan
saw that it was a fresh enemy unit: they had white belts and red collars and cap bands and they looked older than the others that he had seen this close. All had tanned faces, luxuriant moustaches, their boots were caked in mud and they fought with a determination that was new to him.
McGucken was where the company colour-sergeant should be, just to the officer’s right and rear. Now he pounced on one of the enemy who parried his blade but who then stumbled until his back was against the sandbag wall. McGucken feinted with his bayonet, the Russian floundered with his and almost lost his balance as he tripped over the casualties on the ground. Too late, for the burly NCO’s blade flashed low at his foe’s stomach, before it skidded off the double thickness of serge greatcoat and lodged deeply in a sandbag. The force of the thrust had the two men pressed almost face-to-face, their weapons useless. But McGucken’s ‘Glasgow kiss’ ended things. His head came back before snapping forward onto the bridge of the serf’s nose. Even in this din Morgan heard the bone splinter. The man’s knees buckled just as surely as many others had on Sauchiehall Street.
All this left the colour-sergeant exposed, though. Another Russian lifted his musket and bayonet ready for a deadly thrust into McGucken’s back, but Morgan was there. He struck in exactly the same way that he would with an uppercut with his right, except that his hand now held his sword. Every ounce of his strength was behind the thirty inches of steel that met the Russian’s throat just below the jaw. Morgan saw the point go in, a dab of blood and his foe almost left the ground as the blade jarred heavily against his backbone. The musket fell with its owner, whose body slipped smoothly off Morgan’s sword. Morgan had never killed at such close quarters before—he felt nothing.
‘Thank you, sir, a pretty stroke. Bastard almost had...’
Before he could finish his thanks, though, another attacker dashed at them through the press of struggling bodies. He threw his musket up within inches of them, there was a scorching flash and concussion, but through the gout of smoke McGucken skewered the man through the cheeks. His long blade caught his enemy just in front of his right ear, banged his head hard against the bags where it stuck, spitting the Russian firmly. Then one of the Colour-Sergeant’s boots came up, stamped hard against the man’s ribs and held him there as the gory blade was withdrawn. The Russian sagged unconscious onto the growing pile of bodies at the base of the wall.
‘Go for their throats and faces, boys, not their bellies.’
McGucken had seen how the Russian coats could be proof against their bayonets, yet he also knew that the men would instinctively attack the stomach as they had been taught.
Heeding his words, a Guardsman fighting alongside threw his whole weight behind a thrust just as his enemy did the same. The British blow caught the Russian in the eye, the blade sinking its whole eighteen inches in the man’s face and emerging from just behind the right ear, bits of spongy grey matter sticking to the steel. At the same time, the Russian had struck just as hard but low. Morgan saw how the shaft of the weapon went straight through the Guardsman’s body, its point ripping his coat in the small of the back, staining the off-white leather of his belts red with blood. Both men gasped, the Russian’s head tilted sharply back, transfixed, the Englishman slowly toppling backwards. They fell away from each other, their weapons exchanged in death.
The 95th’s arrival had helped to staunch the flood of Russians on the left. Now Morgan’s men, having driven the enemy back to a respectful distance with the bayonet, started a rapid fire from the flank that tore into the enemy’s column. Just a few yards to the right, though, the enemy pressed forward against the wall of the Battery as densely as ever. The Guards had been in action for an eternity now, almost all their cartridges had gone and many of their bayonets were bent or broken—now they fought with anything that came to hand.
‘Sir, give me a hand will you?’ Their own men were busy blazing away at the Russians, so McGucken was searching the pouches of the dead and wounded for cartridges. He’d taken off his cap and was filling it with the paper tubes: Morgan did the same. They pushed forward into the mass of Guardsmen, thrusting rounds and percussion caps into filthy, blood-stained hands.
What he saw at the Battery’s wall was to stay with him for ever. A tall Grenadier Guards officer stood on top of the stacked bags cheering for all he was worth. Like some ancient warrior he was hurling stones and boulders onto the heads of the Russians below, more brickbats being passed up to him by the sea of bearskins. Every so often a braver head would appear over the wall to be kicked squarely in the face by one of the officer’s boots.
So that’s what Eton teaches you, thought Morgan.
All the time shots and a rain of stones, branches, sods—anything that came to hand—whistled past this hero, but nothing touched him until a brick found its mark. The thrower was invisible to Morgan on the other side of the wall, but his aim was true, catching the officer full in the face and sending him staggering back, tripping and falling into the tumult.
A great shout went up from the defenders for their captain, whose bloody face was just visible being wiped by one of their bandsmen. Then from the crowd came another young officer. He straightened his great fur cap, took a cheroot from between his lips and bawled, ‘we must clear these rascals. Who’s with me?’ Pistol in hand, he climbed up and into the embrasure, paused, fired two shots and leapt into the thronging enemy.
But the British troops hesitated. Screams and shots came invisibly from beyond the wall, but still no one moved. Morgan pushed the cartridges he was carrying into the pockets of his coat, grabbed a rifle and bayonet from the ground and elbowed through the mob to the embrasure.
‘Come-on, then, I thought you were the Queen’s favourites...’ Even in this chaos the taunt stung the Guardsmen, ‘. aren’t you going to follow your officer?’ Turning, he clambered up through the gap in the hessian sacks, jumping down onto the rough ground and bodies beyond.
He braced himself for the pack that must attack him, but they already had another target. At least half a dozen Russians jabbed and stabbed at the young Guards officer who was now slumped against the bags. Bayonets rose and fell, piercing the man’s chest, face and neck endlessly. Each thrust pushed another gasp from his dead lungs, though his damp cheroot stuck to his bottom lip, wobbling with each stab. Morgan saw how the officer must have thrown up his arms to shield himself from the blows; one of his assailants’ blades had pierced his forearm right through and now the Russian was trying to drag it clear. The more the attacker tugged at the blade the more the Guardsman’s arm and torso followed like some ghastly marionette.
But the Russian was easy meat. Morgan had never attacked anything fiercer than sacks of straw before with a bayonet and he was surprised how little resistance he met as the needle-sharp steel met the nape of the man’s neck. The weight of the rifle made it easier and he tried not to dig the blade too deeply in case it stuck. The man dropped his own weapon and sagged to his knees, his hands scratching at the air, all fight gone from him.
Despite his caution, the dying man took Morgan’s blade and rifle with him, just as he had feared. But, with a quick stamp from his boot against the back of his victim’s neck and a sharp pull, the bayonet came clear—just in the nick of time. An expressionless Muscovite stopped prodding the Guards officer and whirled at him, his musket ready to strike. With a silent prayer, Morgan fell to one knee and squeezed the trigger. To his relief the rifle jerked back against his thigh, the round hitting his enemy and passing straight through his body to wing another behind him who hobbled away squealing.
Then they were with him. Guardsmen enraged by the slaughter of their officer, a shabby, almost blown bunch of his own men with Sergeant Ormond at their head then, also puffing hard, McGucken. It was difficult to judge how long this contest lasted. No one fired as both sides hacked and clubbed at each other. At first the Russians held their own until McGucken and two giant Guardsmen decided the matter with their rifle-butts. It was too much for the enemy who fled over the plate
au into the bushes below.
‘Come on, sir, we’ve got ‘em beat,’ Ormond beckoned the group off the ledge in pursuit.
‘No, there’s not enough of us, fall back into the Battery.’ Morgan was suddenly exhausted. All around him the men panted for breath, one or two pulling at their water-bottles.
‘Damn that, yous scunners, who said you could drink? Reload, get the cartridges from the dead and clean the fouling off yer locks, sharp now.’ McGucken’s anger pulled the men away from their own needs, corks being swiftly, guiltily pushed back into their big blue-painted canteens.
Morgan looked around at the horror. The ground was a sheet of bodies, a few moaning in pain, others in silent agony. Many just lay still, torn with bullets or pierced by long, deep wounds, some with faces that had been beaten to a bruised, bluish jelly by butts, boots or bricks.
Will you look at that, sir?’ McGucken lifted up his right arm, peering at the sleeve—the exertions of the fight had been too much for the seams, the scarlet of his coatee peeping out from below the grey serge of his greatcoat. ‘That’s cheap, bloody, Army contractors for you.’
***
‘Sir, sir, it’s the recall.’ Pegg was searching amongst the dead not, for once, for booty, but for a bayonet to replace his bent one.
In the relative calm, behind the Battery wall the mixed battalions of Guards and reinforcements from other Line regiments were being re-grouped by their non-commissioned officers, names being called and answered by the living—just silence from the dead and wounded. They were shouting to make themselves heard above the continuing thunder of the artillery and each other’s voices, but clear above the noise the distinctive bugling was repeated. The preliminary bars of the 95th’s own call came before the usual notes of the ‘recall’.
‘There, sir, off to the left, they want us back.’ Pegg had blown the same sequence often enough himself and there was no mistaking its urgency. So, the knot of 95th shuffled off from in front of the Battery’s walls, some limping, some supporting others whilst comrades took letters, rings and other personal belongings from the dead.
To Do and Die Page 24