Windrush: Crimea (Jack Windrush Book 2)

by Malcolm Archibald

  Despite his memories of the battles in Burma, despite the horrors he knew would be unleashed in a few moments, Jack still wanted to be in the attack on the Russian positions. He looked down on the 113th and his own thirty men and wanted to lead them forward, knowing some would die, some would be horribly maimed, but he was a British soldier. He belonged here as he belonged nowhere else. This place, for all its ugly, sordid monstrosity, was home.

  'Look at that,' Haverdale pointed to a new-built structure in the rear of the Russian positions. 'Can you see that?'

  'I see it,' Jack borrowed the telescope again. 'What is it?'

  'That is an observation platform,' Haverdale said. 'So the officer's wives and the high officials from Sebastopol can watch the Russian artillery decimate us.' He lowered his voice. 'It is free entertainment for the civilians.'

  Jack nodded. 'I see.' He focussed the telescope on the platform. 'I have never seen a full-scale battle,' he said, 'but what I saw in Burma was gruesome. I would not wish to expose a woman to such sights. Women don't belong in wars.'

  Haverdale's laugh was as bitter as anything Jack had ever heard. 'Oh, there speaks a man with no experience of women! They can be every bit as callous as men, young Windrush, and more calculating. If it were in their interests, they would watch the butchery of ten thousand men without turning a hair.' He took the telescope back. 'Just look at them, laughing and joking together and positively drooling at the prospect of seeing our men diced, sliced and slaughtered. What an evil set of she-devils to be sure! Look at that one with the sunbonnet on, quaffing champagne no doubt! Go on, look!' He handed over the telescope.

  Jack examined the Russian lines; the Russian left flank was closest to the sea so would be vulnerable to the guns of the Royal Navy if the Admiral deployed them properly. The bulk of the Russians were in the centre, behind a redoubt of some dozen or fourteen cannons, and on the right. Also in the centre ran the road to Sebastopol, which marked the boundary between the British and French armies.

  'Can you see her?' Haverdale insisted.

  'I was looking at the armies, sir,' Jack said.

  'Oh forget the armies; let the generals worry about the armies,' Haverdale pointed to the stand that held the civilians. 'Look at the women and that one in the hat in particular. See? She is beside that fellow with the eye patch.'

  'What?' Jack's attention shifted from the formations to the spectators. Ignoring the women, he searched for the man with the eye-patch. 'Dear God; there he is again!' The man was quite distinct, half a head taller than his companions and carrying his telescope. As Jack watched the eye-patch man altered the direction of his gaze, so he looked directly at Jack; they examined each other: English-speaking civilian and British officer across the field when thousands of men were about to face each other in unimaginable slaughter.

  'You see her?' Haverdale sounded quite excited.

  'I see her,' Jack confirmed. 'Sir, I must speak to the colonel.'

  'There is no time, Windrush. Can you not hear the bugle? We are moving!'

  'Oh sweet Lord.' Handing back the telescope, Jack ran down to join his command. The man with the eye-patch would have to wait. He had more important things to do than chase after a one-eyed civilian.

  'We have our orders,' Murphy's voice was faint as he sat on his horse. 'We are to move in support of the left flank of the Light Division.' He looked over his men. 'This is our opportunity to prove ourselves, men. Let's make the 113th a regiment that all others aspire to!'

  'That man lives in a different world,' Haverdale said. 'We are behind the Highland Brigade with orders not to move forward unless required. Does Colonel Murphy think the Sawnies need our help? They'll massacre anything that moves and then take the bayonet

  to whatever is left.'

  'Right men, form up!' Ignoring Haverdale's cynicism, Jack tried to control his emotions, with excitement and apprehension struggling with his fear. Compared to some of these men he was a stripling; compared to others, he was a veteran.

  Still in the rear of the army, the 113th marched forward, rank after rank of misfits and hopeless cases. These were men who should be in jail and men who the jail would reject; the scum of the British Army, the maladjusted outcasts of society clad in bright scarlet and sent to face the Queen's enemies.

  'Look at them; bought for a shilling a day and Her Majesty should get ten-pence change.' Haverdale shook his head. 'God I hate the thought of this rubbish marching behind me, and we allow them muskets too.' He shook his head.

  Jack looked to his right as they marched, noting the topography of the Heights of Alma, with a sheer cliff near the sea, then a series of ravines allowing access to the hills. Even before the army reached the Heights, they had to descend a slope and cross the river that swept broad and blue and deceptively innocent between them. And all the time under the fire of massed Russian musketry and well-sited Russian artillery.

  'I've never seen anything so formidable as that,' Haverdale gave his opinion in a low voice. 'I was through the Peninsula with the 52nd as a young ensign, even younger than you are now, Windrush, and I don't think that Wellington would try a frontal assault on that. Raglan, however, does not have the Duke's perspicacity.'

  Jack saw the spurts of white smoke from the Russian batteries a second before he heard the rumble of the cannon.

  'They've opened fire!' He said.

  Haverdale fumbled for his watch. 'The battle begins at half-past one,' he said. 'May God help us all.'

  'We're not spectators here,' Snodgrass shouted. 'Keep marching! You're not watching some blasted theatre show!'

  Again Jack felt the collective change in the 113th as they marched, with officers and NCOs urging the men on and the boots thudding across the rough grass and newly cropped fields. Jack glanced over his men. The Bishop was staring stolidly ahead, expressionless; Coleman was chewing something, probably tobacco; Logan wore his habitual pugnacious scowl as if he hated the world and all in it; Hitchins looked nervous, as did the muscular Ogden; Thorpe was humming something he recognised. It was one of the songs they had sung in Burma, two years and a lifetime ago … These were his men, his responsibility, and his care.

  'They're all lying down!' Thorpe stated the obvious as the Light, and First Division of the British Army took to the ground.

  'New tactics,' Haverdale murmured. 'If we all lie down the Russians might copy us, and then we will rise suddenly and take them by surprise.'

  'Is that right, sir?' Thorpe said until the hurtful laughter of Coleman caused him to look away.

  Out of range of the Russian cannon, the 113th had an excellent view of the battlefield.

  'Make way for the guns!' The shout was loud and clear as a battery of British nine-pounders clattered forward and unlimbered on the left flank of the Light Division. Some men of the 113th cheered as they opened fire, with their lighter calibre guns adding higher pitched cracks to the deeper grumbles of the Russian artillery.

  'Look to the right!' Snodgrass shouted and every available telescope trained on the seaward side of the Heights. The French had swarmed up to the Russian left flank but had halted there to wait for artillery, and the Russians had taken the opportunity to move batteries of their guns to counteract the threat.

  'We're moving!' Elliot sounded very excited. 'Our lines are advancing!'

  Jack watched as the men of the Light and Second divisions rose to their feet and, as the Russian artillery increased their rate of fire, carefully dressed in line, with the officers, on foot or horseback, walking along the ranks as if on parade.

  'Look at them go!' Elliot said, 'oh how I wish I were with them!'

  'Don't we all,' Jack said softly.

  Two miles wide and preceded by the green uniforms of the Rifle Brigade, the British Army moved forward in its first European battle since Waterloo. There was a dip to get to the River Alma, and Jack watched as the Rifles plunged down, heedless of the Russian fire. He felt the hesitation in the 113th as men and officers watched the battle unfold. The ent
ire Light Division was now swarming down the slopes, plunging into the vineyards around the village of Bourliouk.

  'We'll have that village in a few minutes,' Fleming managed to sound gloomy.

  'Look!' Haverdale shook his head, 'what devilry are the Russians up to now?'

  Flames were bursting from the houses of Bourliouk as the Russians put torches to the thatch. They must have stuffed each house with straw first, to judge by the speed with which the flames took, and a dense cloud of smoke drifted across the lower slopes.

  'It's a smoke screen,' Jack said. 'The Russians have made a smoke screen!'

  Hitchins grunted. 'Bloody fools; the wind's about to change. The smoke will blow back in their faces in a minute.'

  The British pushed on to the Alma River, the green uniforms of the Rifles ahead of the massed red ranks and already both were taking casualties. Men fell in ones and twos and small groups, their bodies crumpled and sad.

  Cannonballs raised tall fountains of water, and musket bullets fell like hail; redcoats and green coated men fell, to float downstream as greasy blood swirled on the surface of the water. A tall officer was first to reach the far bank, and then the Rifles were on the lower slopes of the Heights, climbing the hill known as Kourgane, with the massive defences of the Great Redoubt in front now partially masked by thick powder-smoke.

  'Look at the dog!' Coleman pointed ahead, where a greyhound pranced through the open formation of the Rifle Brigade, its sharp barking distinct above the deeper boom of the cannon.

  'The silly bugger is chasing the cannon balls!' Elliot had a telescope focussed. 'It thinks it's a game.'

  'It will be some blasted game if it gets its fool head blown off,' Haverdale said.

  As the artillery blasted at them, the leading men were clambering up the hill and advancing on the Russian positions in a series of scarlet snakes that wrapped around the lower slopes of the Alma Heights.

  Then they stopped.

  'What the devil?' Elliot asked.

  'God only knows,' Jack said.

  'At the double!' Murphy's voice sounded, hoarse but determined. 'Now the army is waiting; it is our chance to catch up. Forward the 113th!'

  'We're going the wrong way,' Thorpe's voice was quite distinct. 'The Ruskies are over the river, and we're going along it.'

  'We're going behind the First division,' Coleman told him. 'So we are out of the way and have a clear field behind us when we run.'

  'Oh,' Jack was aware of the pause. 'Are we going to run then?'

  'The officers think so,' Riley did not keep the bitterness out of his voice.

  'They're firing! The Rifles are firing!' Elliot's voice rose to a high-pitched squeal as he pointed at what everybody could already see. The Rifles were pushing upward with minuscule puffs of smoke marking where the individual men fired. In front of them the darker-clad Russians withdrew, muskets busy as they retired.

  The British artillery was firing in support of the advance as the Light and Second Division strode up behind the Rifles. Jack saw the Russian artillery bowl over man after man; saw great holes torn in the ranks, only for the redcoats to close up as neatly as if they were on parade. Stricken by cholera, weak, tired, hungry and exhausted, the British infantry marched on to a position as well-defended as any they had faced in the Peninsula or India.

  'What the deuce…' Haverdale shook his head again as one regiment formed square as if to repel a cavalry attack, then reformed into line and continued the advance. Others halted in the vineyard as the Russian artillery, supported by sharpshooters, made deadly practice of the now confused British. Regiments merged, some men losing their courage as they sheltered behind the stone walls of the vineyard, others eager to rush forward and close with the Russians.

  'They're just a blasted mob,' Haverdale did not hide his bitterness, 'and they castigate our regiment! Look at them: where is the leadership?'

  'The First Division is moving!' Major Snodgrass' sudden shout diverted attention from the battle as both the First and Third divisions also formed into a long double line and began an immaculate march down to the river.

  They crossed without breaking formation, with the guardsmen who made up the right flank of the First Division halting as they reached the vineyards.

  In front, the massed mob of the Second and Light Division charged out of the smoke and on to the Great Redoubt. The Russian artillery fired, tearing great holes in the ranks, bowling men and files of men over, and then suddenly ceased fire as the British infantry entered the redoubt, colours proudly displayed and with the sun prickling reflections from the tips of bayonets.

  'They're running!' Elliot yelled. 'The Russians are running! We've captured the Great Redoubt!'

  'We've won,' Snodgrass sounded incredulous.

  'Aye,' Haverdale said, 'and the 113th just sat and watched.'

  'At least we did not run,' Riley's voice floated from the ranks.

  'It's not finished yet, boys!' Colonel Murphy's telescope had never wavered from the battle since the first shot had been fired. 'The Russians are counter-attacking.'

  Two ponderous columns of infantry were moving downhill, slowly approaching the disorganised Light Division.

  'They're not Russian,' Fleming said. 'They're French. If it were an attack, they would move faster.'

  'They're Russian,' Murphy said.

  Faced with this massive new force, the Light Division began to withdraw. A sudden lull in the firing brought the shrill bugle call of 'Retire' across the Alma to the 113th, as their cheers abruptly stilled and they watched through rents in the smoke as triumph turned to disaster.

  The Scots Fusilier Guards were in the van as a runner reached General Bentinck, begging his support for the retreating Light Division. The Scots Guards surged forward, lost their formation as they scrambled over the vineyards but continued onward while their two sister Guard regiments halted to dress their ranks. As they Scots Guards advanced unsupported, the 23rd Fusiliers in front of them broke and scrambled downhill. Somebody ordered that the 'Fusiliers should retire' and the Scots Fusilier Guards obeyed the order, so there was a confused mass of Guardsmen and Fusiliers withdrawing before the Russian advance.

  'What a blasted shambles!' Haverdale said.

  On the left flank of the First Division, Sir Colin Campbell's Highland Brigade was moving forward, kilts swishing above the ground and Minie rifles held ready. Campbell rode in front, his cocked hat distinctive above the feather bonnets of his Highlanders.

  'I hope we are to follow the Sawnies!' Murphy said.

  'Was there a galloper?' Fleming asked. 'Were there any orders?'

  'Who needs orders? We're British soldiers: there is the enemy; what should we do but advance toward them?' Snodgrass seemed to have forgotten his contempt for his own regiment.

  Murphy looked around. 'Windrush! Ride ahead and inform General Campbell that the 113th is waiting to support the Highlanders.'

  Jack started. 'My men…'

  'Your men have other officers and their NCOs. Give the general my compliments and my message.'

  'Yes, sir,' Jack had one last glance at his men, 'look after them, Elliot,' he shouted, mounted his horse and spurred toward the Highlanders.

  Chapter Six

  Alma River

  20 September 1854

  Jack had often heard of the Highland regiments; most people reckoned them amongst the best of the British Army, and in his mind, he considered them as nearly equal to the Guards or the Royal Malvens. Today was the first time he had seen them close up. Expecting mature, bearded warriors of herculean stature as in the novels of Walter Scott, he was surprised to see that save for their exotic uniforms they appeared little different from men from other regiments. The men of the 93rd, the Sutherland Highlanders, looked even younger, if anything, with only a few mature men scattered through the youthful ranks.

  General Sir Colin Campbell was the opposite; a man of vast military experience, he had a lined, wrinkled face and the shrewdest eyes that Jack had ever seen.<
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  'We're moving forward, Windrush. You'd best stay with us for now, and I will use you as a runner if we need the 113th.'

  'Yes, sir.' Jack glanced behind him, where the 113th was forming up.

  'Loose cartridges!' Campbell gave the order and the Highland Brigade obeyed. Jack watched as the kilted regiments prepared for war. Then more orders cracked across the brigade:

  'With ball cartridge, load!'

  The sounds were curiously loud, blotting out the more distant rumble of battle; the rattle of equipment, the soft clicking of the elongated bullets dropping down the barrels of the new Minie rifles and the subdued mutter of conversation. The Highlanders were preparing for their first battle against European opposition since Waterloo, nearly forty years before.

  'We are going into battle, men,' Campbell said, 'for most of you it is the first time. Pay no attention to your wounded comrades; let them lie until the bandsmen and stretcher parties come for them. Don't be in any hurry to fire; wait for orders and then aim low. Keep steady and keep silent.' He rode along the front of the men with his wrinkled face concerned. 'The army will be watching you. Make me proud of the Highland Brigade.'

  As a psalm arose from the Highlander's ranks, Campbell gave the order to advance. They marched three regiments abreast until they reached the river at a spot where it altered course to the north-east.

  'Cross in echelon,' Campbell ordered at once, and Jack watched as the regiments reformed and forded the river one after the other.

  'That's the result of months of training, young Windrush,' Campbell said; he looked up as a staff officer galloped up to him. 'Here's the Duke himself.'

  Jack watched as Campbell spoke to the Duke of Cambridge about the stalled advance of the Guards. He heard the Duke say 'there will be a disaster unless the First Division is withdrawn, Sir Colin.'

  'No, Your Grace. A disaster is certain if there is a withdrawal.'

  When the Duke rode away, Campbell raised his voice. 'It were better that every man of Her Majesty's Guards should lie dead upon the field of battle than that they should turn their backs upon the enemy.' He looked across the battlefield, 'while the Guards recapture the Great Redoubt, Windrush, we will advance in echelon up the east shoulder of Kourgane, take that smaller Russian battery of the Lesser Redoubt and hit the enemy in the flank. Remain at my side in case we need your 113th.'