To Do and Die

by Patrick Mercer

  ‘Corporal Pegg, where d’you think those mortars are?’ Pegg plodded along next to Morgan, supposedly acting as his guide.

  ‘Somewhere over there, sir, beyond the lip.’ Pegg pointed into the pit of darkness that marked the area beyond the plateau, where the land sloped at first gently, then steeply down into the floor of The Quarries where no light had yet penetrated. Just visible, silhouetted against the pearl-grey sky was a mast, sticking up beyond the lip where the ground rose on the far side of The Quarries. At the top of it were two, black wooden fingers, both pointing towards the ground.

  ‘D’you see that signal-mast yonder, Corporal Pegg? It’s likely to be close to the gun-line, did you see it last night?’ asked Morgan.

  ‘Couldn’t see anything in the dark, sir, except them mortars,’ Pegg replied.

  ‘D’you think they’ve been spiked or not?’ If the retreating Russians had dealt with their own guns then the situation wouldn’t be so critical, but if they hadn’t, three mortars firing right into the centre of the British attempt to take the rest of The Quarries could be disastrous. As Hume had said, this was the key to Sevastopol; so this attack must not fail.

  ‘Dunno, sir, we didn’t get down to ‘em, but all the crews and beasts was lying dead alongside on ‘em, hit by our guns.’ Pegg replied quietly.

  On they walked, the grass swishing off their trousers, weapons ready, the light just catching the features of the men. Morgan looked round him: there was McGucken, striding out, beckoning urgently, silently for the line to keep as straight as if on parade, his face expressionless, as if death before breakfast was what he’d been bred to. Sergeant Keenan, over on his left, full of nervous energy, mouthing silently at the men, scampering about gently nudging one young lad forward into line whilst Sergeant Ormond stumped along solidly, bayonet outstretched, his lips set in a thin, hard line. Almond who’d all but died of cholera last year, Duffy the boxer, Cattray the old soldier, Cooper who’d been with Ensign Parkinson when he’d been killed—boys whom hardship had turned into men. Morgan suddenly doubted his decision: he had decided to pitch these men against hugely superior forces, condemning them to another ordeal of blood and hurt.

  And here was the evidence.

  ‘The fuckin’ bastards, sir,’ Pegg hissed at Morgan as he looked down at a hump of clothes in the grass, ‘that’s out of order, that is.’

  The body was on its back, one arm thrown across its chest, the other pinioned by its own weight, the knees tucked up around the belly in one last attempt to ward off the agonizing blades. Its smock was blotched, blooms of rusty blood decorating the chest and stomach, but it was the face that was so shocking. The downy cheeks were smashed to a blue-jelly pulp, the nose banged flat and where the eyes should have been were two, swollen balloons of flesh, the lids gummed by dried blood. Even the sandy curls had been disfigured, for a flap of scalp had been scraped away by a rifle-butt, exposing the white, shiny skull. Where there had been a vibrant, handsome boy full of vim and energy, there was now just a bag of rag-dressed offal.

  ‘Aye, poor Mr Parkinson—he went down fighting, though.’ Morgan was sickened, not by the ghastliness of the sight, but by the lack of mercy that it showed. He should have been accustomed to such things by now, he supposed—but he wasn’t.

  Two rifle shots just feet in front of him jerked Morgan back to the present. Against the early light, one of his men stood on the edge of the plateau, rifle in the shoulder, a billow of smoke drifting away from his muzzle. The line paused, there was a fragment of silence, then, ‘Got ‘im,’ from the man and a series of shouts left, right and, invisibly, from in front.

  Morgan raced forward, Pegg behind him. As they came to the lip, a half-moon of earth had been eroded, leaving a natural shelter where wisps of wool showed that sheep normally gathered. The Russians had used it to collect the casualties from last night’s fighting: two bodies were laid out carefully, arms crossed on their chests, their equipment and weapons piled beside them, whilst another man clung to his bandaged leg, his eyes wide with fright at the British troops topping the ground above him. A party had obviously been sent up in the dark to collect and dress them—now one of their escorts sprawled on the ground having come off worse in the exchange of fire. The improving light betrayed three more figures fleeing down the slope in front of them.

  ‘Go on, knock ‘em down!’ Morgan shouted, all surprise having now been lost, as a crack near at hand, bowled a running rifleman over like a shot hare. But there was something odd about the other racing figures.

  ‘No, stop!’ Morgan pushed away another barrel that was just being raised into the aim.

  Thin as a pencil, skirts and haversack flying with the urgency of her fear, ran a young Russian nurse, sprinting with every ounce of her strength: like Mary, he hoped, she was no mark for a bullet.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked another voice nearby. A third figure pelted down the slope, dressed in a short black coat and long, sombre scarf; his muddy legs pumped almost as hard as his square beard wagged, sucking for breath.

  ‘It’s a priest, don’t...’ But Morgan was ignored as a rifle kicked and smoke drifted across in front of him.

  The priest fell hard. He’d been struck squarely in the back by the ball: his face skidded into the dirt, he shrieked, he clutched at the soil as his conical black hat bounced away before he jerked and lay still.

  Lance-Corporal Pegg lowered his rifle, wiping some imagined dirt off its long, walnut stock; ‘Teach the bastards to murder my officer, that will.’

  ***

  Now was the moment. Morgan hesitated, trying to see beyond the bodies of their victims, but surprise had been lost and the enemy would either be ready for them as the company pitched over the lip in the half-light, or caught unawares. There could be only one decision.

  ‘Charge!’ Yelled Morgan and all around him the corporals took up the command, the men raising a cheer as they launched themselves down the gritty slope. In an ecstasy of release, he bounded, tripped and ran to be at the front of the sweeping line as grass and mud flew from their boots. A rifle banged: one of his men fell and rolled as two figures rose from a clump of scrubby gorse and took to their heels a few yards in front of them.

  Sergeant Keenan skidded to a halt just to Morgan’s left, fell to a crouch and raised his rifle in one fluid movement, the butt no sooner touching his shoulder than the weapon cracked, gouted smoke and one of the Russians fell in a tangle of belts.

  ‘Get the other bastard,’ shouted Keenan, and a crackle of bullets sent the second sentry sprawling.

  ‘Come on, come on, lads.’ Morgan had to keep the momentum going as a trench line loomed out of the half-light almost at the bottom of the slope.

  ‘Look yon, sir, we’ve caught the bastards napping.’ McGucken had seen what Morgan was hoping for.

  The Russians had been curled at the bottom of the trench, wrapped in their blankets, hands thrust deep into the cuffs of their coats, caps pulled low over ears, seizing every bit of rest before their counter-attack. But the friend of instant sleep—the hall-mark of experienced infantry in any army—was now their enemy. Some groped for weapons primed the night before, one or two managed to draw their short swords, but most were too slow.

  With a gasp of grim satisfaction, the company was upon them. Jumping from the parapet, kicking at faces and heads of those who stood or crouched, nailed boots landing hard on others who were still dozing, the men went to their brutal chore. Shots banged occasionally, but bayonets did most of the work, elbows and butts rising, falling like hammers as the breath was stabbed and pricked from Russian lungs all the way along the trench.

  In an instant it was over. Morgan looked around as the men cleaned their blades on the blankets of their foes, or went through the pockets and haversacks of the dead.

  ‘What d’you want us to do with these ‘uns, sir?’ Sergeant Ormond was hustling a trio of bruised, ragged prisoners between the earthy walls of the trench. This part of the defences was only three of four feet dee
p and Morgan turned to study his enemies.

  ‘By God, I wonder they expect any mercy at all, Sergeant Ormond, after what they did to Mr Parkinson.’ They were all mature men, probably in their mid-twenties, moustachioed and with a couple of days’ stubble, clasping their hands together around tiny crucifixes and beaded rosaries. Their coats hung loose, undone, whilst their eyes pleaded for mercy. ‘Send them back under escort of a couple of our wounded, if you please, Sar’nt...’ But Morgan was cut short by the fizz of a green rocket and an almost simultaneous ripple of fire that sent them all to the floor of the trench.

  ‘That’s the rest of the buggers come to life, sir.’ McGucken expressed what they all knew. As the light improved, another dark trench-line could just be seen, from which muzzles spat and flickered. ‘An’ there’s yer mortars.’ Eyes just peeping above the sandbags, McGucken and Morgan could now see the three squat guns, two hundred yards away and in front of the second line of trenches. Their great bronze barrels, pointed at the sky whilst men leapt down from their big, wooden bases as rounds started to fly about them. Scared by the gunfire, eight horses in harness plunged and reared, hooves clawing as their drivers tried to control them.

  ‘They’ve got them beasts hooked up to that mortar, by the looks of it...’ McGucken jabbed a finger at the left-hand gun, ‘...trying to drag it round to fire on the other storming party, sir.’

  ‘Aye, Colour-Sergeant, that means that they can’t have been spiked. If they get them into action, we’ll never hold the place.’ Morgan’s legs were wobbling again, all the vigour and decisiveness of a few minutes ago utterly gone.

  ‘Right, you lot...’McGucken’s voice galvanized four riflemen who were busily reloading next to him in the trench, ‘...two hundred, horses in open, two rounds on my order.’ But rather than adjusting their sights and crouching over the parapet into the aim, all four hesitated, looking at him blankly.

  ‘Come on then, what’s got into yous?’ The men were clearly not going to obey the order.

  ‘Colour-Saent, I’ll go an’ get ‘em, so I will,’ the nearest soldier answered in a deep brogue.

  ‘Jesus save me from soft-hearted fuckin’ Paddies...’ McGucken never doubted his Irish soldiers’ willingness to kill other men, but the slaughter of horses was different, ‘...I’ll do the job meself,’ and rising from the crouch, he thumbed his sights forward, took careful aim and sent a bullet thumping into the leading horse.

  The animal whinnied and fell instantly on its side, kicking hard, pulling the traces taut as the other horses bucked and tugged. One of the drivers ran for his life, dodging from the rounds behind a mortar base.

  ‘Now do as you’re told, for God’s sake,’ and under McGucken’s eye, the rifles spat, till every horse lay twitching in the dirt. Their reply was unexpected, though, as a great shower of canister shot ripped the dirt and grit up all along the parapet, whipping a puddle into foam and sending two of the soldiers into the bottom of the sap, cursing and clutching at wounds.

  ‘What in the name of all that’s holy was that, Colour-Sar’nt?’ Morgan stooped low under the bags, almost face-to-face with McGucken who had done the same.

  ‘They must have a wee gun sited to cover the mortar line, sir.’ McGucken and his officer raised their heads just far enough to see above the bags. ‘I saw its muzzle flash over by the base of that signal mast.’

  Morgan looked across the level ground to the next line of trenches that were now quiet as the garrison reloaded. The three mortars sat menacingly on their vast wooden bases whilst he saw a flick of movement amongst a line of gabions off to their left, just where the Colour-Sergeant was pointing.

  ‘We’ve got to stop their counter-attack, Colour-Sar’nt and spike those goddamn mortars.’ Morgan licked his lips as a covey of bullets swept over them. ‘Tell Sergeant Keenan to get ten men together with spiking nails, they’ll need covering fire from the rest of the company to keep the Muscovites’ heads down yonder,’ he nodded towards the opposite trench line, ‘...and a party of five to storm your ‘wee gun’.’

  ‘Very good, sir. We’re doon to about thirty rounds a man, but I’ll get Sergeant Ormond to redistribute what we’ve got.’ McGucken stared at Morgan. ‘I’ll pick four men to take with me to nail that gun, if you please?’

  What on earth did McGucken mean, thought Morgan? Who the hell did he think would take that gun—it was bloody dangerous and clearly the duty of an officer. Did McGucken suspect that he’d run out of pluck; had he detected his trembling hands and rubbery knees? And did he have some suspicion that he was sending Keenan off on some job that would get him conveniently killed?

  ‘No, Colour-Sar’nt, you’ll organize the covering fire and be ready to bring the company forward on my orders. I’ll take the gun. Be ready in...’ Morgan thought for a moment, ‘...twelve minutes, please.’

  ‘At your command, sir.’ Was it a look of relief that crossed McGucken’s face? wondered Morgan. ‘I’ll get Corporal Pegg, Duffy and Cattray ready for you.’

  Jesus, thought Morgan: Pegg—was McGucken determined to get him killed?

  Half the company fired a volley and Sergeant Keenan’s party leapt from the trench, taking advantage of the rolling smoke. Morgan watched intently from the top of the parapet.

  ‘Right lads, just wait for that gun to fire and then we’re at ‘em.’ Morgan tensed, ready to move.

  If McGucken was right about the position of the gun, Keenan’s party would only be exposed for about half the distance that had to be covered before they were masked by the mortar bases. The volley and its smoke should help, but Morgan’s group would have to depend on sprinting across the exposed ground only when the artillery piece was being reloaded—now they all prayed for cack-handed gunners.

  Keenan’s troops were almost in cover when the gun spoke again, throwing a great cloud of dust up around the runners at the rear, knocking two of them over. But then they were behind the high, solid wooden bases of the mortars, sheltering from bullets that clanged and whirred off their tilted bronze barrels.

  ‘Come on, lads, follow me!’ There it was again, thought Morgan, that ‘follow me’ phrase that one day—perhaps today—would be his last.

  The two hundred yards felt like a mile as three of the men vied with each other to get into the cover of the left-hand mortar. As they ran, Keenan’s lads were already firing steadily from the bases of the other two guns, one man, high up at a mortar breech, knocking a spiking nail firmly into its touch-hole with a vast mallet. Blown, their lungs aching for air, the men threw themselves down behind the bodies of the dead or dying draught horses or snuggled tightly against the mortar’s woodwork.

  ‘Corporal Pegg...’ Two eyes, wide with fright, looked back at Morgan, ‘...see if you can spot that gun from your side of the mortar, I’ll take a look from this side.’ Pegg nodded his understanding, whilst Morgan dropped onto all fours and inched round the angle of the base.

  He’d expected a clear view towards the next trench line, about a hundred yards or so, hoping to get a glimpse of the gun somewhere below the signal mast. But all he saw was the terrified profile of a Russian driver, just inches from him, who was crouching, eyes closed, terrified, with his back pressed against the wood. Morgan pulled himself back.

  ‘Corporal Pegg...’ Morgan tried not to shout too loud, for he didn’t want to alert the Russian, even above the din of rifle fire, ‘...there’s a bloody serf just round there.’ Morgan stabbed the air with his finger.

  Pegg looked confused. ‘So what d’you want me to do about it, sir? Just shoot the sod.’

  Pegg was right, of course, but he flinched at the idea. Ridiculously, his mind went back to when his father had given him the Tranter that he now had in his hand, how Colonel Kemp had drooled over its lethal lines and how Amelia Smythe had told him to search his conscience before taking another man’s life. So, Morgan thumbed back the hammer, scrabbled forward on his knees, rounded the timber corner, held the muzzle no more than six inches from the boy’s temple and f
ired. The pistol jerked, the Russian fell sideways, the far side of his skull torn out, without ever realizing that Morgan was there. He glanced at the driver: as a red puddle spread under his twitching face, Morgan saw a wide, damp patch in the crotch of his trousers.

  Then a twirling rammer caught his eye almost exactly where McGucken had said it would be. Two gabions framed a patch of shadow flanked by piles of sandbags, but he could just see frantic movement as, he guessed, the gun was being run out to fire again.

  ‘Corporal Pegg, see that pair of gabions...’ Morgan bellowed at Pegg, pointing urgently, ‘...fire between them, then be ready to attack.’

  ‘Aye, sir.’ Pegg—for once—cottoned-on quickly and the three rifles, all resting on the flanks of dead horses, barked together as the smell of singeing hair caught their nostrils.

  Keenan’s group sweated at the next mortar. The first had been spiked with no further casualties but now they were gambling with the courage of the crew of the gun. If the Russians braved the bullets that both Keenan’s and Morgan’s men were flinging at them, then the next discharge of grape would sweep the spiking party away, yet Morgan stood no chance of taking the gun unless he attacked whilst it was being reloaded.

  So, they crouched, trembling, whilst Keenan’s men sheltered behind the mortar’s barrel, braced against the hail of shot. But as the British waited so did the Russians: they had no need to fire their gun until they had a target—Keenan and his spikers or Morgan and his stormers: whoever moved first would die.

  ‘Ow, Jesus and Joseph!’ One of the men in cover behind the next mortar yowled with pain as a musket ball caught him in the knee and sent him hopping into the open, both hands clasping his damaged leg. But no sooner had he straightened up with pain than a rifle bullet hit him in the cheek, throwing him to the open ground between Morgan’s and Keenan’s groups: there he lay, still and bleeding.