To Do and Die

by Patrick Mercer

  ‘Where the devil have you been, Morgan?’ Waiting well to the rear, behind a bank of Guardsmen was Richard Carmichael—he’d kept well within earshot of His Royal Highness. A few of the Grenadier Company had listened to his commands and stayed close to him: now they looked down, shamefaced as their battle-weary comrades trailed back.

  ‘His Royal Highness and the Guards’ Colours have been in grave danger.’ Carmichael was bellowing, not just in an attempt to re-establish his own authority, but also, Morgan suspected, to let the duke know how devoted he was.

  ‘You think you command this goddamn company, well you don’t,’ Carmichael was furious. A fleck of spit landed on Morgan’s cheek. Fastidiously, he wiped it away with a hand covered in Russian blood. You’re so bloody scared, aren’t you? thought Morgan, as he stood silently to attention—there was chaos enough already and he wasn’t going to add to it by open insubordination.

  ‘Mr Carmichael.’ They had both been so distracted by their hatred that neither had seen the commanding officer trotting up through the gloom. He shouted down from his saddle. ‘Be so kind as to move your Company up to the right of Number Five; as quick as you can.’

  ‘But sir, His Royal Highness the duke wants us to stay here and help to protect his flank...’

  And it’s a damn sight safer here, thought Morgan.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Carmichael, that’s exactly what I intend to do and I’ll be grateful if you remember that I command this battalion, not you.’ Morgan smiled inwardly at Major Hume’s words—it was as if he had just heard their own altercation. Now Hume’s normal urbanity had quite gone and there was no mistaking the ice in his voice: the soldiers looked away in embarrassment.

  McGucken and the other non-commissioned officers sorted the Grenadier Company out as quickly as they could before doubling them a couple of hundred yards through the fog to join the other two companies. Captain McDonald was good at his job. He’d sited the Wing at the top of a steep ravine down which a great mob of Russians had retreated after their last assault on the Battery. Now words of command and drumbeats could be heard through the fog and gunfire and it was clear that any new attempt would come from here, plodding up the slope before falling on the Guards’ left. But the Russian guns on Shell Hill couldn’t plunge their fire into the depths of the ravine where the 95th’s adjutant had put them. Other than for the occasional shrapnel round, they were as safe as anywhere on this death-stalked field could be.

  Numbers Four and Five Companies stood easy, rubbing wet off their weapons, adjusting their equipment or smoking their pipes as nonchalantly as the constant symphony of death all around them would allow. Morgan half-expected a cheer from them when the Grenadiers came trotting up. It wasn’t to be, though, for the rest of the Wing had yet to be blooded in this fight and they all but ignored his men. But then, the other companies always thought that the Grenadiers—the 95th’s own elite—were a mite too pleased with themselves: ‘gallus’, as McGucken would say. A hero’s seldom honoured in his own land, he thought to himself, mangling the Bible ruefully.

  ‘Now then, Pegg, our kid.’ As the right-marker of Five Company stood Frank Luff, the lock of his rifle tucked snugly under his elbow to keep it dry, a pipe that refused to light between his yellow teeth.

  ‘Eh up, Luffy, youth. Fine old pickle this—meks the Alma look easy, don’t it?’ Most of the other troops had wiped their bayonet blades clean after the last fight—but not Pegg. Casually he let Luff get an eyeful of the gore before he asked. ‘Eard from yer Mam yet? Did she get Pete’s bit of hair an’ your letter?’ The two friends had hardly seen each other since Frank’s brother had been killed in September.

  ‘Aye she did. ‘Ad a couple o’ pages from ‘er since. ‘Ardly mentioned Pete, just reckoned that ‘e’d be in an ‘appier place now an’ told me to take care of meself.’ Pegg wished he hadn’t asked—things were dire enough without reminding Luff of his mother’s misery and constant worry. ‘I reckon that means she’s taking it really bad.’

  ‘Aye, well, Frank you’ll be all right, Number Five never does any o’ the rough stuff, does it?’ Pegg continued clumsily, looking at the depleted, threadbare ranks of his mate’s Company, knowing that he was talking nonsense.

  But before Frankie Luff could riposte, a lance-corporal and private of the Grenadier Company came bustling along the ranks pulling a pony that had wooden barrels strapped to both of its flanks. ‘Ere you are lads, tek ten apiece.’ Pegg reached into the tub and pulled a fistful of cartridges from it, hardly counting them before dropping them into his pocket. Luff held out his hand. ‘You an’ Number 5 don’t need ‘em, you ain’t fired a shot all day,’ Pegg—all solicitude gone—was now at his cockiest, ‘...it’s only the boys who do the scrapping that need more shot.’

  ‘No good anyway.’ Luff said quietly, dropping his hand. ‘Ain’t right for our weapons, they’re for the forty-two pattern.’ Pegg pulled a cartridge out and looked at the round ball at the end of the paper. They were for the old, smooth-bored muskets that most of Cathcart’s 4th Division still had and were no use at all with the Minie rifles. The stray horse had obviously been grabbed by some enterprising soul without first checking what it carried.

  ‘If you were with ‘Fighting Five’ you’d know about these things, Pegg, my son,’ said Luff smiling gleefully.

  ***

  There was no wind at all. Where the three companies stood at the top of the ravine the mist thickened, reducing any sight that the men might have of their enemy’s advance and, at the same time, hiding the middle of the line from its ends. The troops waited in three ranks, fidgeting, tense as the noise of the Russians drew closer. Their bugles were shrill and clear, the drums less distinct at first as the slopes sent their rattle echoing back, then more sonorous, beating the time of the slow, deliberate advance up the slope.

  Closer they came, closer, invisible in the mist, until the clink of equipment and scraping of boots on the earth could be heard clearly, menacingly. The 95th were silent, ears cocked, taking shallow, quiet, sips of air—ready for whatever the fog hid. Then Morgan saw them. The haze cleared a little no more than a hundred yards to their front, showing a great mass of infantry, ten, fifteen times the number of the men who waited for them, shoulder-to-shoulder, trudging up the slope.

  The front rank’s bayonets were levelled but the columns behind had theirs raised up like some great metal porcupine. At intervals came the drummers, their sticks rising, falling in time with each other, beating that same, rolling tattoo on their polished brass drums that Morgan remembered so well from the Alma. Above their white cross-belts every moustachioed face seemed identical whilst their soft, red-banded caps were worn straight and level. They even marched in step up the uneven glen. Morgan thought of the barrack square—no amount of drill and shouting could reduce British troops to this sort of mindless obedience. The great, unstoppable, steel-tipped wave came slowly on, holy flags and icons bobbing above their heads, sombre priests marching with them.

  ‘At one hundred yards, ready.’ The command from the centre was repeated down the line, floating through the fog. Rifles were thrown up to waist height: out of habit, the men looked down to adjust their sights, though there was no need—a round had yet to be fired at long distance in these conditions. Hammers were drawn back to ‘full-cock’, forefingers checking that the percussion cap was still in place on the nipple before returning to the right of the trigger-guard.

  ‘Preee...sent.’ The non-commissioned officers prolonged the syllables and one hundred and fifty rifles flew to the shoulder. Morgan looked around at the screwed-up faces. Some cuddled their cheeks more comfortably against their butts, here and there startlingly pink tongues wetted dry lips whilst everywhere fingers caressed triggers.

  He stole a glimpse along the ranks at Carmichael, his company commander. Standing, quite properly, at the centre and rear of the Grenadiers, he gawped over their shoulders, as pale as the chalky soil. At the last word of command he’d raised his sword: Morgan swore t
hat he could see the blade shaking.

  ‘Fire!’ must have been shouted though he didn’t hear it. The rifles crashed out in a great ripple, a swathe of powder-smoke darting down the glen, hiding everything.

  ‘Reload!’ he yelled, as right hands groped for pouches. All down the line men spat twists of paper away from the cartridges they had bitten open before ramrods were pulled from the wooden furniture below the barrels. Then, just as iron pushed lead down rifled steel, the enemy answered.

  No volley came, just the cracks of rifles. The blunt columns of enemy infantry were surrounded by a cloud of nimble sharpshooters—the 95th already knew to their cost how lethal they could be. After the Alma, the men had picked up any number of pointed, thimble-like rounds as souvenirs—now just the same lead hornets sang around them.

  ‘Fucking hell, can’t you be more...’ Pegg bit off his curse as Frank Luff banged into him. The lack of numbers meant that Pegg was having to wield a rifle rather than confining himself to a bugle. He’d fired at the same time as Luff to his left, then the pair of them had engaged in an undeclared race to reload faster than the other. Pegg was just ahead—he’d returned his ramrod to its holders and was just fumbling for another percussion cap when Luff quite spoilt his rhythm. But before he could utter another word, Pegg saw the top of Frank’s skull: it was cracked and oozing like some giant, too-softly boiled egg after the strike of the spoon. A rifle round had struck him high on the forehead, the bone distorting the lead and sending it furrowing through the thin shell. Even as he staggered he was dead.

  That’ll be another lock of ‘air for Frank’s mam, thought Pegg dispassionately as his friend jerked convulsively at his feet.

  ‘Preee…sent!’ Came down the line again, then ‘Fire!’ as the rifles bruised shoulders once more. This time, though, a gust of wind wiped smoke and fog away from their front. Mechanically they reloaded, but the Russians had stalled. Their rear ranks hesitated—a few tried to clamber over the bullet-torn bodies in front of them, but most just stood there staring as the British muzzles came up for a third time. Officers waved swords, sergeants and corporals urged the men forward but as the Russians faltered so the 95th ached to be at them. There were no drums or bugle calls, no preparatory orders, just the simple, single, delicious word, ‘Charge!’ that started with one voice somewhere in the fog and then was on everyone’s lips. Bayonets were already fixed, rifles reloaded and like hounds off the leash, the line bounded forward.

  ‘No, damn you, stand still. The duke has told us to stay where we are.’ But Carmichael commanded deaf men and no respect.

  McGucken looked to Morgan—Morgan looked to McGucken. ‘Charge’—that word was so easy to say: Carmichael was so easy to ignore—and that’s just what they did, leaping down the slope after the men in a murderous catharsis.

  A spatter of shots felled one or two of the 95th, but the sight of even a few dozen wild-men shouting, spitting to be at them was too much. The ranks in front turned to run but they were held in the funnel of the gulley by those behind. A cry went up from the Russians, a low moan from the British as the two sides met. Morgan saw at least half a dozen Russians lie down shamming death, whilst others fell to their knees, hands raised up in supplication bellowing the now familiar, ‘Christos, Christos!’ The quicker-thinking ones even held up crosses and icons to ward off their attackers.

  A handful resisted bravely, but didn’t last long. The other two companies had a point to prove to the battle-stained Grenadiers and fell-to with a will, lunging deep into the flesh of those who stood at bay, felling others with shots from the waist, whilst the crazy, cheering pack hurtled down the slope.

  ‘Leave him, Almond, get after the others.’ Morgan saw how the young soldier’s bayonet rose up starkly, aiming for the back of an unarmed Russian. Blood already stained the leg and skirts of the man’s greatcoat—he was no threat. Almond did as he was told, lowered his weapon and caught the fugitive by the belts instead, throwing him to the ground before a kick from his muddy boot curled the man up.

  ‘We’re driving them, sir.’ Morgan remembered how Almond had fallen out of the march to the Alma, utterly exhausted: how they’d all envied his pasty Thirsk face as Mary had poured water down his throat. That same boy now stood before him grinning, lips grimed with powder, blood on his bayonet blade, his whole frame alive with vim and warlike confidence. How these lads had changed—the ones that were still breathing.

  Sliding, skittering over the wet grass and grit came Hume and McDonald his adjutant still in the saddle—just. Even as he watched, though, the commanding officer’s horse stumbled badly on the slope, Hume being almost thrown over Charley’s head. It was too much for both horses and riders and they dismounted before the broken slope did it for them, taking pistols from their saddle—holsters and looping their reins over their arms.

  ‘Morgan, where’s Carmichael?’ McDonald had lost his spectacles. He squinted hard.

  ‘I don’t know, sir, last seen just as we charged.’ Morgan fought for breath; he could confess his casuistry later.

  ‘I ain’t seen him either—can’t see anything now. Is he struck? If you can find him in this damn haar, tell him to rally on us at the bottom of the slope. He’s to go no further than the level ground.’ McDonald led his horse back into the fog to tell the other company commanders the same, Morgan assumed.

  But to rally the men he would have to catch-up with them. Their victors’ cries were now ahead of him in the fog, and he stumbled as fast as the ground would let him. Dead and wounded Russians littered the earth, marking the Grenadiers’ path and off to one side, using the mist to shield themselves, sneaked an unarmed party of the enemy, intent upon getting back to their own regiments. He let them alone. Then booming through the mist came the unmistakable tones of Colour-Sergeant McGucken.

  ‘Hod yerselves there. Yous two, stop there, God rot you.’

  He’d read the battle better than anyone else, instinctively obeying orders that he had never heard. The men were now tired, they’d slaked their thirst for blood and needed to be taken in hand before they over-reached themselves. The Russians had run, for sure, but there were plenty more lurking in the folded ground, re-grouping for the next assault.

  ‘Ah, there you are, sir, thought you’d gone back to keep Mr Carmichael company.’ McGucken grinned at Morgan before breaking off to chivvy the men who’d stayed together.

  ‘The adjutant said we’re to rally on the rest of the Wing, about here, Colour-Sergeant. D’you see anyone else?’ Twenty or so of their own men were there and a few from the other companies, but there was no sign of the main body.

  ‘No one, sir...Pegg, stop fannying about before I put the toe of my boot up yer arse.’ The drummer was going through the haversacks of the dead and dying Russians, taking the flat, round loaves of black bread that they all carried and impaling them on his bayonet as a snack for later. ‘Get those damn things off yer blade, we ain’t finished yet. The rest of you, search pouches, re-distribute ammunition and caps: an’ get water whilst yer at it.’

  Pegg, for once, did as he was told, but as he turned over a dead Russian to get at his canteen, he noticed a great, scaly-pink scar running up the man’s neck. ‘Bloody hell, sir, this ‘un’s seen some fighting before. We did for ‘im, though, din’t we?’

  ‘Aye, Pegg, these are veteran troops; probably picked that up from the Turks,’ replied Morgan.

  ‘Pegg, stop distractin’ the officer.’ McGucken’s snap was meant as much for Morgan as for the drummer, but just as some calm was returning a hail of balls swept over them from behind. They all ducked into the brush.

  ‘There’s the answer, Colour-Sar’nt, I guess that’s Number Five Company giving us a wee salute.’ Morgan tried to sound nonchalant. Mercifully, no one had been hurt and at least they now knew that the rest of the Wing were behind and above them.

  ‘Got to be Five, sir, their shooting’s shite,’ Pegg offered helpfully, peeping from behind a stout tree trunk.

  ‘You two
,’ Morgan spoke to a couple of lads who had attached themselves to his band, ‘go and tell your mates to save their powder for the Muscovites. We’ll join them directly.’

  The pair set off into the fog, hooting and hallooing to identify themselves in the thickets. But there was another sputter of shots and in a flash, they were back, one without his hat, both wide-eyed.

  ‘Sir, that ain’t Number Five.’ Morgan’s bladder tightened—he knew what they were going to say. ‘It’s Russ, sir, dozens o’ the fuckers.’

  What was he to do? The charge had cleared all of their enemies—hadn’t it? The field was theirs, wasn’t it? ‘Fucking dozens’ of Russians had no right to be behind him and obviously ready to cut them off, had they? More to the point, now that the attack was spent, who was there to tell him what to do, what decision to take? He looked at his men. All of their exhausted eyes, even those of the battle-wise corporals and sergeants, were turned on him, expecting a decision. He reloaded to buy himself some time and as McGucken approached he pulled out his flask and offered it to him.

  ‘No, sir, thank you, I don’t need that and...’ the colour-sergeant’s voice dropped, ‘...neither do you.’ Morgan was ashamed of himself he put it away, but the big Scot’s very presence helped him.

  ‘Right, we’re going back up the hill to find the rest of the regiment.’ He was surprised by how confident he could make his voice sound. ‘Get into single file, try to avoid these goddamn Muscovites, use the fog. All loaded and got some shot?’ The men nodded. Where they’d been noisy, clamorous in victory they were now quiet, shrunken in greatcoats that seemed too big. They all looked to him, suddenly conscious that the riotous charge had gone sour and that they were in a tight corner.

  ‘Colour-Sergeant, bring up the rear if you please.’

  And with McGucken’s grave ‘sir,’ the band set off uphill, weapons forward and eyes scanning the bushes for their enemies.