To Do and Die

by Patrick Mercer

  ‘Jaysus, get after him lads!’ Keenan bawled as Morgan’s lonely, dark figure threw itself against the wave of riflemen.

  The cloying spell of fear broke. Almost as one, the men were up and running after Morgan, bellowing, shrieking, falling on their many foes with such ferocity that the Russian line checked and faltered. The flickering monochrome of the star-shell reduced the whole scene to slabs of harsh light and lakes of deep shadow. Rifles banged as the two sides met, flames jabbing from muzzles. Then just an urgent torrent of grunts and bloody coughs as elbows jerked and butts pistoned quickly, brutally—bayonets flashing, sinking through coats and yielding flesh.

  How many rounds did he have left in his revolver? Morgan didn’t know—it had jumped in his hand several times as he ran madly at the Russians, but now he was at the centre of the melee with nothing else to defend him. What had Colonel Kemp said all those months ago at Glassdrumman when he’d been given the pistol? Something about waiting until you could touch your foe before firing—well, now was his chance to see whether the advice was sound.

  A flat-capped serf was only feet away, the flickering light making his face look two-dimensional except for a great, black, snarling hole below his moustache. He came bounding forward then stopped and drew his rifle and long, broad blade back to strike—but just as he was about to thrust, Morgan punched his pistol forward, poking him hard under the chin with the barrel even as he pulled the trigger. The ball almost lifted the man off his feet. There was no colour in the spray of blood and brains that came from the back of his head, just a black geyser, his cap flying away into the dark. He fell with a clatter.

  From the pushing, slashing crowd another man came at him. Morgan didn’t wait this time, but raised the Tranter to fire right at the man’s nose—but there was just an empty click. Happily, the Russian paused as he glimpsed eternity. For less than a second they stared at each other, Morgan’s enemy not believing his luck, lowering his rifle, giving the young officer the chance he needed. As if he were handling a sabre, Morgan pulled the revolver back over his shoulder and swiped as hard as he could across his foe’s face, the steel rammer opening a great, bloody gash through his eyebrow and cheek as he fell away.

  Then it was just like that horrifying ruck when the enemy made their sortie last October. The Muscovites would come on full of piss and vinegar unless you went full tilt, meeting them toe-to-toe—then even a much smaller number might cow them and throw them back. As Morgan wheezed and panted in the dark, the Russians ran, leaving a litter of wounded. As the non-commissioned officers whipped the men in, Morgan half-stood, hands on his knees, lungs heaving just as he might at the Skibbereen Chase.

  With no warning all went black—the last of the star-shells had expired and the night looked even darker to their unready eyes. Just seconds later, the Russian bombardment ceased and the men found themselves milling around, dazed by the unnatural quiet. As Morgan was gathering his wits and trying to decide what to do next, the enemy did the job for him. The charge had pushed back one half-company of riflemen, but not the other and they announced their presence by a searing volley that lit the night for a fraction of a second, the rounds whistling high and wide with no star-shell to help their aim.

  ‘What now, your honour?’ barked Keenan.

  ‘Run, boys, just run!’ It was the simplest order he ever gave in battle and certainly the most eagerly obeyed.

  He jerked one arm of the wounded man over his shoulder whilst a faceless soldier did the same: then, stumbling and tripping, the three of them did their best to catch up with the rest who were going like hares. In the inky dark to his front a single voice boomed out, ‘here, Grenadiers, here,’ in best Glasgow.

  McGucken was guiding them back to their own lines whilst the lead still hummed overhead. Morgan was just conscious of a darker strip in the ground ahead from which black bundles emerged, one of which was frantically waving its arms and beckoning.

  ‘That yous, sir? Last man?’ McGucken bawled as the trio tripped over the bags on the parapet.

  ‘Aye, Captain Morgan and two. Think we’re the last. You seen Keenan?’ He panted as they half-fell and slid down into the trench.

  ‘Here your honour, all accounted for,’ a disembodied voice answered from the now crowded sap.

  ‘Enemy front, Left Half-Company...’ McGucken boomed to the rest of the Grenadiers who stood ready on the fire-step, ‘...fire!’ Half the rifles crashed right along the trench, spinning bullets into the face of the surging Russians. ‘Reload,’ ramrods rasped, ‘Right Half-Company...fire!’

  His men blasted away at their foes whilst Morgan tried to wipe the blood from between his fingers. His whole body shook uncontrollably.

  THIRTEEN

  Out of the Line

  The hut smelt of new wood. Morgan was too tired to scrape the mud off his boots and stumped across the bare boards, leaving a trail of muck round each footstep. Belt, holster and sword were abandoned on a chair, his damp cap and coat draped over the back of it and his sea-smock pulled over his head before being dumped on the floor. The blankets on his truckle had been neatly folded back by Peters: now they sang like sirens, but not as loud as the bottle of brandy.

  The spirit burnt his throat most agreeably whilst he fought to get his boots off before unbuttoning his tight red shell-jacket. As he spread out on the bed, sipping steadily, one great yellow-horned toe showed from his worn grey woollen socks. How Mother would have hated that, not to mention the lice that made him itch at armpits and crotch. How had the wretched things got back on him so quickly? Pat the terrier sat at the foot of Morgan’s bed, scratching hard at his flank with a hind leg. Had he caught the damn things from the dog, Morgan wondered, or was this just some demonstration of misplaced, canine loyalty?

  One man wounded wasn’t too bad and two prisoners was better than any other company, but there was no getting away from the fact that he had failed to clear the rifle pits and hold that bit of ground. There was no getting away from the fact, either, that he’d dithered, that he’d buggered things up with that needless rocket. Had there been just a slight sneer on the 55th’s company commander’s face when they had handed over to them this morning? Morgan reached to refill his glass—he didn’t even notice the mud on his trousers, now. And who cared if his clothes made the blankets wet—nothing could stop him from sleeping. Except the account of the raid that he would have to give to the commanding officer. But that was later.

  There was a rap on the door. It opened immediately, daylight and the noise of the guns came flooding in. ‘Sir, just to tell you that we’re all accounted for, men fed and bedded down.’ McGucken saluted in the doorway.

  ‘Come in, Colour-Sergeant, how’s Duffy?’ Morgan rolled from his bed, conscious that he was half-undressed and in no fit state to be seen. He staggered as he stood.

  ‘Steady, sir,’ McGucken reached out to catch him, but he recovered just in time.

  ‘Sit down, man, d’you want a drink?’ Morgan flopped back onto his bed as the dog ran to sniff the new arrival.

  McGucken pushed the officer’s kit from the chair almost contemptuously, before grabbing the seat, sitting down and staring at him, ‘Duffy’s fine, sir.’ It was only after Morgan had helped to carry Duffy back to their own lines that he had recognized him as his opponent from Regimental boxing in Weedon. ‘His shovel took most of the sting from that round and he’s just bruised an’ a bit cut.’ McGucken paused. ‘At least he’s not half-cut like yous. What the fuck are you on, sir, you’ll have to see Major Hume the moment he blows for you: you can’t go lashed-up.’

  Morgan just stared at him.

  ‘I know what you’re thinkin’ sir, but you did just fine. Sergeant Keenan told me how you led that charge—saved the day he said. Besides, we could never have held those positions even if we had taken them. Bloody stupid idea.’ It was clear that McGucken had already had a full account from Keenan.

  ‘Yes, but I fannied around when the firing started like I’ve never done before...’
Morgan was treading right over the line of rank and position now, ‘... and I fired that rocket when there was no need.’

  ‘An’ you stopped the men from running an’ tore into them Muscovites all by yourself, sir—the men are talking about nothing else an’ Keenan reckons he owes you. Now get yer head down for a couple o’ hours before you’re called for.’

  Morgan was asleep almost before McGucken had finished. The Scotsman pulled a blanket up around his officer’s shoulders—not that he would ever have told anyone.

  ***

  Even through his exhaustion, Morgan was aware of the door opening and closing and Peters’s furtive movements. It was late afternoon when he was shaken awake.

  ‘Ere y’are, sir,’ Peters pressed a cup of sweet tea into his unreceptive hand. ‘Bloody guns, never give up, do they?’ He pulled back the bit of canvas that served as a makeshift curtain and stared gloomily towards the siege lines, ‘commanding officer wants you within the hour, sir, done yer kit as best I can.’

  Morgan peeped from under his blankets at his clothes that his batman had laid out. His baggy spare trousers, the ones he’d bought from Eddington’s effects after his death, would do and at least most of the mud had been scraped off his soaking boots whilst he slept.

  ‘Thank you Peters, you saved my skin, again,’ Morgan mumbled through tea and sheets.

  ‘S all right, sir,’ Morgan just saw Peters tip the bottle of brandy, inspect its depleted contents and frown.

  ‘Aye, bloody guns, they could give you an ‘eadache, they could,’ he remarked, before bustling out.

  ***

  Morgan did his best to keep out of the mud and manure as he hurried to the Orderly Room. He was concentrating so hard on the ruts and drying puddles that he would have missed Corporal Pegg’s antics had it not been for the noise he was making.

  Pegg, still muddy from the trenches, was shouting at two men who had their rifles above their heads, doubling for a few paces to the time that Pegg called out before, on his shrieked word of command, marking time, knees pumping. It was a sight that would have been common enough back in Weedon, but here? Certainly, on campaign, men received punishment for a number of offences, but they had to be serious and merited hard labour or even a stroke or two of the cat. Petty punishment like this was taboo. Pegg saw him, brought both men to a halt, ordered their arms and saluted.

  ‘Good morning, sir.’ There was something slightly guilty in the way that Pegg spoke and the salute was over-punctilious. ‘Caught these two using sand to clean their barrels, I did, sir.’ Pegg offered an explanation before one was demanded.

  ‘I see, right, you two, fall out, back to your duties.’ Morgan beckoned Pegg into the lee of a hut where they couldn’t be seen. ‘Look, Corporal Pegg, I know that what they were doing was wrong, but at least they were trying to keep their weapons clean, weren’t they? Would have been better to save punishment for when they’d not bothered to clean their rifles, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Sir.’ Pegg was clearly unimpressed with Morgan’s clemency.

  ‘Well, don’t you remember how Colour-Sergeant McGucken dealt with you and the rabbit-shooting drama before the Alma? Sure, you had a strip torn off you, but nothing else because he had a pretty damn good idea of what lay ahead. Treat the men better, Corporal Pegg: they need every bit of leadership that you and I can give them.’ That last bit of advice was in danger of being over-used, thought Morgan.

  ‘Aye, sir, yer right.’ Pegg cocked his head a little as if weighing-up Morgan’s words. ‘It’s just that these sprogs can be so daft, sometimes.’

  ‘And that’s just what we were saying about you not many months ago, Corporal-bloody-Pegg.’ Morgan smiled. ‘You’ve had no sleep yet after last night, have you? Get to your blankets now—and well done on the raid, by the way, Sergeant Keenan was talking very highly of you.’ Morgan lied—for he’d hardly spoken to Keenan—but it was a lie worth telling.

  ‘Thank you, sir, you didn’t do bad yersen.’

  ***

  The new adjutant was positively deferential to Morgan. There was none of the growling criticism that he would have had from McDonald about the length of his whiskers, lack of a sword knot or any of that peacetime rot. Instead, he was quickly ushered into Hume who was hunched over a chart of the trenches and parallels, making notes with a well-chewed pencil. His boots, spurs and trousers were covered in mud and his shell-jacket hung open: Morgan had no need to worry about his own appearance.

  ‘Ah, Morgan...’ There was a long, tense pause whilst Hume looked him over. He deserved whatever was coming for he’d failed to do what he was told—he braced himself. ‘Well done last night,’ said Hume, apparently without any sarcasm, ‘those prisoners are singing like good ‘uns at Brigade, telling us all sort of things about The Quarries.’

  Morgan sighed inwardly.

  Now look at this.’ Morgan joined Hume poring over his maps. ‘I know you know all this, but just humour me for a moment.’ There it was again, Hume putting his subordinate at ease, wrapping him in confidence. The major pointed out the series of earthworks and forts that were holding the besiegers of Sevastopol at bay.

  ‘The key to the whole siege is the Malakoff; that, and the outer work, the Mamelon have got to be dealt with by the French. There’s a whole series of lunettes and, of course the White Works just there,’ his pencil tapped the map, ‘but they’re the Frogs’—I mean our gallant allies—problem. However, they won’t succeed unless we can silence the bloody Redan...’ Hume placed his finger very deliberately on the smaller fort off to the east of the Malakoff, ‘...and the Redan won’t fall unless...’ Morgan knew at once what was coming and that there was a place for him in the inevitable blood-letting, ‘...The Quarries are taken. Now, it seems that our Staff have a plan to mount a co-ordinated series of attacks with the Frogs to take all these outlying works simultaneously. You can see the sense of that.’ Morgan nodded slowly.

  ‘But they’ve come up with some knuckle-headed idea to launch two columns of about six hundred apiece—one column from our Division and one from the Light Div—of mixed regiments, so that everyone gets a slice of the glory, I suppose. Obviously, it should be done by a couple of complete regiments from each Division, so much easier to command, but no, too many ministers’ nephews wanting promotion, I guess. Now, this is where you come in.’

  More like, This is where you go out in a box, thought Morgan.

  ‘You and your Grenadiers will be under Major Armstrong of the Forty-Ninth—you know him and the whole affair will be commanded by Colonel Shirley of the Eighty-Eighth. You won’t have come across him, he wasn’t out here during the rough stuff last year: frightful snob—he owns half of Birmingham.’

  Hume continued with more details about conferences that he would have to attend, reconnaissances, special trench-fighting techniques that they would have to master, co-ordination with the artillery; everything, in fact, except the proposed date.

  ‘Sir, when’s all this planned for?’ Morgan was already trying to draw up a mental timetable.

  ‘Coming to that. I’ll get you some reinforcements to bring you up to about seventy strong and you’ll be left out of the line to train and prepare for the next two weeks or so—the other companies will hate you for it. So, you’ll need to be ready by no later than about the sixth of June.’ Hume fixed him with his dark, pebble eyes, whilst Morgan tried not to quail too obviously.

  ‘And Morgan, you’ll need to keep this whole affair tighter than Scrooge: we don’t need the Muscovites to be on the qui vive.’

  ***

  Private Duffy sat up perkily on his plank bed, a bandage around his shoulder.

  ‘Hello, Duffy, how’s the wound?’ Morgan, head still spinning from lack of sleep and an overdose of Major Hume’s instructions, had decided to visit their only casualty from last night’s action.

  ‘Eh up, sir.’ Duffy grinned at Morgan showing gums missing most of his front teeth. ‘Surgeon says it’s a contusion, sir, me shovel took most of the p
ower out o’ the bullet.’ Duffy was delighted with the exotic word. ‘Worse thing is, sir, I lost me false ‘uns: couldn’t send a patrol out to find ‘em for me could you?’

  ‘Well, I never knew you was missing all that ivory, Duffy.’ Even when Morgan had inspected Duffy, he’d never noticed his teeth. ‘How do you bite off your cartridge paper?’

  ‘With great fuckin’ difficulty, sir. But I was all right until you loosened me last two in the ring back at Weedon, sir.’

  Duffy grinned gappily—Morgan could almost feel his stinging punches. ‘Mind you, sir, I’ll be all right for this big attack on The Quarries.’

  Morgan stiffened and tried to shush Duffy. ‘Keep your voice down, Duffy, there’s a good man.’

  ‘No, sir, serious, one o’ the Forty-Ninth lads was ‘ere visiting, said ‘is major was going to lead an assault in the next couple o’ weeks—special training an’ all.’ Duffy continued at full volume. Morgan wondered how the men learnt about these things so quickly.

  ‘Now, Captain Morgan, sir, it’s no good you sending your men to me half-kilt if you then try to talk the poor fellers to death.’ Mary Keenan had arrived silently behind Morgan. Now she stooped, tucked Duffy’s bedclothes in, looking straight into the officer’s eyes, betraying nothing. ‘Peter Duffy here’s coming on fine, your honour, only a wee wound...’

  ‘Contusion, Mrs Keenan,’ Duffy added quickly.

  ‘Aye, contusion. Anyway, you’ll need to excuse the Captain and myself, we have all the news from the Big House back home to discuss,’ and she turned on her heel, expecting Morgan to follow.

  ‘Look, Duffy, for God’s sake keep quiet about any attack, we don’t want Russ to be waiting for us, do we?’ Morgan was more than anxious to follow Mary, but he had to make Duffy hold his tongue.