Windrush: Crimea (Jack Windrush Book 2)

by Malcolm Archibald

  'That's much heavier stuff than ours,' Dearden said. 'They are eighteen pounders at least.'

  The two British guns fired back, hopelessly outnumbered by more powerful artillery.

  'Here they come again!' O'Neill yelled; 'take it steady boys; mark your target and shoot low.'

  As the skirmishers melted away the Russians advanced in two columns, singing again, long coats flicking against their ankles and with the flags brave above their heads.

  'Did these lads not learn last time?' Hitchins said. 'They can't beat us this way.' As he spoke, he fired and loaded, sending shot after shot into the column, as his colleagues all along the line were doing.

  'How many are we killing?' Thorpe asked.

  'All of them,' Logan said. 'Come on you Russians!'

  Jack heard the noise of the oncoming ball an instant before it landed. He looked up in horror and saw as if in slow motion, the ugly black sphere coming towards him. It hit the ground twenty yards short of the parapet, bounced and rolled forward, ploughing up the ground in a deep furrow. It threw the stones of the parapet aside as if they were made of cotton wool and took both legs off a soldier who had been staring at it hurtling toward him.

  Jack looked away as the man reached for his legs as if to replace them before the pain hit him and he began to scream. More cannon balls descended, some falling short to plunge into the earth, others landing near the British artillery that still tried to return fire in a contest that was obviously uneven.

  'They've got our range now,' Dearden said. 'Our guns are only attracting fire.'

  While one of the British guns continued to fire at the Russian battery, the other returned to its original target and fired a charge of case shot that sliced into the left-hand Russian column. Jack saw men falling as though a giant scythe had whittled them down, and then the column closed up and marched on into the fire of the 118th Foot.

  'They're very stubborn men, these Russians,' Dearden raised his voice. 'Fire away boys; knock them flat.'

  Colonel Maxwell marched the length of the 118th position, shouting encouragement, giving advice, refusing to duck for the Russian cannonballs or the Russian musketry that crackled from the head of both columns.

  'As long as they remain in column, we muster more firepower than them,' Dearden said. 'We can start to worry if their commanders deploy into line because then they will be able to outflank us on both sides.' He paused to correct the aim of Fletcher. 'Aim low, Fletcher! Their weakness will be the moment they alter formation. The Colonel will see that.'

  The Russian artillery had found its mark, with shots landing among the 118th with terrible regularity, smashing the sandbags and rocks of the breastwork, flattening the trenches, tearing off arms and legs, smashing men into unrecognisable lumps of bone and blood and brains and intestines.

  'Get down! Lie down,' Maxwell ordered. 'You're just getting slaughtered there.' He stood erect to ensure the 118th obeyed his orders, taking to ground to lessen the target they made for the Russian gunners.

  The cannonballs continued to pound the lines as Maxwell slowly walked along the British positions. Taking a deep breath, Jack stood up. The regimental colours still stood, now smoke stained, ripped by shot and sodden with rain and mist. For a moment Jack saw Colonel Maxwell in silhouette with the flag behind him, looking like an image straight from a newspaper report on some heroic British victory that did not mention the screaming wounded and the rows of twisted corpses.

  'Here they come!'

  Rather than deploy into line, the Russians charged forward in columns, relying on sheer weight to break through the thin British line. However, they had only covered fifty yards when they blocked the line of fire of their own artillery.

  'Up, 118th! Up on your feet!'

  The men jumped up, perhaps surprising the advancing Russians who may have thought they had withdrawn.

  'Volley fire!' Maxwell's voice was calm. 'Fire!'

  The closer the Russians came, the more efficient the Minie as the bullets tore through two or three men at one time. The Russians faltered after the first volley and stopped completely after the second. After that, the attack began to disintegrate until a handful of surviving officers roared out orders.

  'Fire!' Maxwell shouted again.

  The 118th blasted out another volley. Maxwell checked the ammunition pouch of the man at his side and shouted.

  'Now, 118th, at them with the bayonet!'

  It was the first time Jack had seen a fully-fledged bayonet charge, and it was like nothing he had expected. It was exhilarating yet terrifying as nearly five hundred British soldiers swarmed over the lip of the breastwork to launch themselves, yelling and shouting, at the shaken Russian column.

  Shattered by repeated volleys of rifle fire and with the nine-pounder having ripped into them with blasts of canister, the men of the left-hand Russian column refused to face this new threat of a long line of gleaming bayonets emerging from behind the battered breastwork. They scattered and fled. Seeing they were alone, the right-hand column shredded as well, despite the efforts of the officers.

  'Follow them, boys!' Fletcher yelled, 'chase them all the way back to St Petersburg!'

  Jumping over the bodies of the Russian dead, Jack ran forward with the rest. He saw Logan duck under the thrust of a terrified Russian soldier and impale the man with his bayonet, twist and withdraw as the army had taught him. He saw Hitchins and Thorpe chasing a dozen men, roaring in excited triumph; he saw Fraser and Raeburn hammering at a giant Russian with the butts of their Minies, and then the mist closed in again, and everybody vanished in the clinging grey.

  'Back to the redoubt!' Maxwell shouted, 'back to the redoubt; God only knows how many Russians are out here!'

  Jack echoed the command, hearing his voice distorted and lost in the mist. A trumpeter sounded the recall, again and again, the sound tinny at times, intense at others as the grey blanket swirled and closed and shifted again. In ones and twos and dozens, the men of the 118th began to drift back, some reluctant to relinquish their victory, others glad to seek the shelter of the Fatal Redoubt.

  As the British pulled back, the Russian artillery began to fire, its efforts redoubled after the rest and its targets exposed. Now it was the British turn to take casualties as men fell under the pitiless iron balls and the vicious hail of canister.

  'Back men, get back!' Maxwell ran forward into the mist, waving his sword and shouting as he urged his men back to shelter. Jack joined him, hunting for stragglers, looking in particular for the men who had transferred from the 113th, feeling the vulnerability of a man on a plateau swept by a dozen large pieces of artillery.

  'Here we are, sir,' Logan was slouching back, rifle slung across his back and with Riley at his side. 'All safe and well.'

  'Get to the redoubt,' Jack ducked as a roundshot screamed overhead. 'The Russians will be back soon.'

  'That's all right, sir,' Logan unslung his rifle and wiped greasy blood from the bayonet. 'Then we'll kill more of the bastards.'

  'Come on, Logie,' Riley took him by the arm and pulled him toward the redoubt. He flinched as a roundshot landed a few yards away, to roll across the ground. 'We'll get killed ourselves here.'

  Turning around, Logan made an obscene gesture toward the Russians. 'Come on then you bastards! Try and kill wee Donnie Logan!'

  'I'll kill you if you don't get to the redoubt!' Jack promised. 'We need your rifle and bayonet, Logan and you're no good to the queen if your brains are splattered all over the ground.'

  'There's no problem about that sir,' Coleman said. 'He doesn't have any brains to get spattered!'

  'I'll do for you, Coley!' Logan made a lunge at Coleman until O'Neill and Riley held him back.

  'Only in the 113th would I be stopping two of my own men fight in the middle of a battle!' O'Neill shouted. 'Come on you two!'

  'We're not in the 113th now,' Jack reminded, 'we're in the 118th!'

  'Bugger the 118th,' Logan said, and Coleman nodded.

  'You're
right there, Logie, bugger the 118th.'

  They withdrew together, with Coleman and Riley jinking in an attempt to avoid the Russian fire and Logan walking slowly, defying any Russian to shoot him. 'I'm not bobbing for they bastards!'

  'Roll call!' Colonel Maxwell shouted. 'Come on lads! Answer to your names.'

  The men took their positions, ducking as the Russian artillery continued its now desultory bombardment. The roll call began, with too many gaps and a few comments added:

  'A cannon ball took his head right off, sir.'

  'Pounded to smash, sir.'

  'I haven't seen him, sir.'

  And then the Russian artillery fire increased, hammering at the 118th and the two British guns that continued their outmatched duel with the Russians. There was a concerted wail from the 118th when a salvo from the Russians found its target and landed square on the British nine pounders. Jack shuddered as he saw the wheels shot away from both guns and the ammunition waggon shattered; he saw two brave gunners trying to drag the vehicle further away as flames licked around it. Both men fell as what remained of the wagon collapsed in a burning frenzy.

  'Get your heads down!' Jack roared. 'It's going to explode!'

  The men nearest to him, the men of the 113th, glanced at the tower of smoke from the waggon and threw themselves to the ground as Dearden repeated Jack's order as loudly as he could. Some of the 118th heard others did not so, a few stood up to stare at the carnage. The flames reached the gunpowder.

  The explosion sounded like the end of the world. Jack felt the force of the blast lift him and then drop him back to the ground, half blinded and deaf. He lay there, stunned as the world around him moved in slow motion and entirely without sound.

  Somebody was shaking him by the shoulder. Jack looked up; saw O'Neill standing over him with his mouth moving but no sound coming. He shifted, counted his arms and legs; all were there and all attached to his body. He tried to sit up, took hold of O'Neill's hand for support and knew his legs had answered although he could not feel the ground beneath his feet. He slid back down, holding handfuls of rocky dirt for support.

  'What happened?' Jack knew that he spoke although he could not hear his own words. He saw O'Neill's mouth open and shut but heard nothing.

  'Never mind,' Jack pulled himself to a sitting position and looked around. The explosion had caused devastation. Both guns were destroyed, their barrels pointing skyward, their wheels detached and their crews lying in lifeless, smouldering bundles at the edge of a black crater. There were casualties among the 118th as well, men lying in crumpled heaps, others as blackened horrors, writhing and screaming as their clothes and skin burned.

  Jack stood up, staggered and ducked. The Russian artillery, encouraged by the success of their attack on the British guns, was now concentrating on the Fatal Redoubt. He saw a ball smash into the breastwork, sending sandbags flying and a man sprawling. Other men lay in the bottom of the shallow trench, groaning or fighting their agony. Despite the barrage, the Regimental Colours were still in place, brave above the carnage.

  Jack realised that a buzzing had replaced his deafness, an insistent sound that was irritating amidst this battle. He shook his head to clear it, swore as a cannonball smeared overhead and ducked as it landed on the back of the trench, spreading savage splinters of stone. A man fell, clutching at his throat; blood spurted.

  Maxwell was gesturing, waving his hand and shouting. Jack could not make out the words but saw the men leaving the trench to move forward, out of the direct line of Russian fire. The dead and wounded remained; and the flag, now limp, proclaiming that the 118th held this line.

  Dearden grabbed Jack's arm and said something, then repeated it, obviously louder. Jack shook his head and pointed to his ears. That buzzing continued, now loud, now lower. Dearden gestured backwards, presumably ordering Jack to retreat out of the fighting. Jack shook his head vigorously and pushed on; looking at Maxwell to see what he wished them to do. He could not retire; he must fight and be seen fighting; he must regain his position in the world. That was more important than death.

  And Helen?

  About a hundred yards forward of the breastworks Maxwell ordered them to lie prone and face their front. Jack followed his lead, lying on the damp ground among the splintered oak trees and underneath the arc of Russian shot. That buzzing in his ears was fading now as the effects of the explosion wore off and he could hear intermittent sounds. There was musketry all around, either in distinct volleys or non-stop crackling, as well as the heavier boom of artillery. It was evident that they were only one part of a major battle but with the drifting mist and the problematic, broken terrain, he could never see more than a hundred yards and sometimes less than ten.

  'Sir!' That was O'Neill. Jack looked up, delighted that he had regained at least some of his hearing. O'Neill spoke loudly and slowly. 'Colonel Maxwell's compliments, sir and could you take some men forward and see what is happening?' O'Neill handed over a telescope. 'Colonel Maxwell says you may borrow this sir.'

  Jack nodded. 'You'd best come too, O'Neill. Bring Coleman, Raeburn, Kelly and Fletcher.' Coleman would complain, but he was steady under fire, while the other three seemed good men. It would not do for him to be seen favouring the men from the 113th all the time.

  The mist seemed thicker the further forward he advanced, while the ground was littered with the dead and wounded from the previous two Russian attacks. Some of the oaks were utterly shattered by artillery, most scarred by musketry.

  'Vahda,' one young, handsome young Russian pleaded, 'Vahda.' He lay on his side with a smashed thigh and an open wound in his chest.

  'The poor bugger wants water,' Kelly was a hard-faced man from Lancashire. 'Here, son.' He knelt at the Russian's side and tipped his water bottle into the man's mouth. 'Your stretcher men will be here for you soon.'

  The Russian lay back with water trickling out of his mouth.

  'Come on Kelly,' Jack said. 'We can't care for all of them.'

  Kelly replaced his water bottle. 'Yes, sir. This young lad looks a lot like my brother.'

  They had not gone ten steps when a shot rang out. Kelly yelled and slid to the ground with a wound in his back. The young Russian he had helped was sitting up, holding his musket; smoke drifted from the barrel.

  'You bastard!' Coleman stared for a second and then ran back, stabbing the Russian with his bayonet, 'you dirty murdering bastard!'

  'Kelly!' Fletcher held him. 'He's dead sir.' He looked up. 'Why? He was trying to help the man!'

  Jack shook his head. 'I don't know why Fletcher. I don't know. Kelly was a good soldier and a good man.'

  Coleman stood up, his face taut and bayonet bloody. 'Why did he do that? Kelly was helping him!'

  'I don't know Coleman,' Jack repeated. 'I only know it is a warning for us to be even more vigilant. Move on lads.'

  Fletcher dragged Kelly to the lee of a tree and removed some items from his pocket. 'It's a letter to his mother, sir,' he explained, 'and his watch. I'm not going to keep them sir; I was going to send them back to his mother.'

  'I know that Fletcher,' Jack said. Although he would not trust any of the 113th as far as he could reach, the men of the 118th, in common with most British soldiers, would do anything for their colleagues. Thieving from a fellow soldier in the same regiment, or a dead or wounded man, was beyond their pale. They had their own code and stuck to it.

  They moved on. Nobody suggested taking Kelly's body with them or even burying it. Already by this stage of the war practicalities had overtaken the British soldier's habitual sentimentality.

  About quarter of a mile ahead of the Fatal Redoubt the ground dropped in another of the many ravines that seamed the Inkerman Ridge. Jack stopped at the edge and peered over.

  'Oh good God in heaven.'

  All he could see were Russian troops, thousands of grey-coated soldiers with flat caps and long muskets, with a body of men moving through them wearing the uniform of Cossacks.

  'Cossacks,' O'Neill
said quietly. 'That can only be trouble.'

  'Yes indeed,' Jack rolled out Maxwell's telescope. He scanned the infantry, watching their mouths move as they sang, and the swing and thrust of their shoulders. Despite their recent reverses, these men had high morale; they would not be easily defeated. Swinging the telescope around, he focussed on the group of officers who led the Cossacks. In front, riding a small, sturdy pony, was Major Kutuzov. 'I think we had better get back,' he said. 'That's Kutuzov, the Russian who captured us a few weeks ago.'

  'What's he doing here?' O'Neill wondered.

  Jack thought of the regimental flag in its prominent position and wondered if that had lured Kutuzov out of Sebastopol. The major would undoubtedly know that Colonel Maxwell commanded the 118th, and he would probably be aware that he had worked for Joseph Bulloch. 'I am not sure,' he said, 'we'd best report that to the Colonel.'

  They did not stop on the return journey, closing their ears and minds to any thoughts of sympathy for the wounded men. The Russian guns were still busy when they returned.

  'Sir,' Jack handed over the telescope. 'There is a deep ravine about quarter of a mile ahead, with thousands of Russians mustering in it. Most are ordinary line infantry as best as I could judge. Others are Cossacks.'

  'Mounted?'

  'No sir; on foot. They are led by Major Kutuzov.' He saw Maxwell's head jerk up at the name.

  'Kutuzov! Then we must ensure the good major gets a suitable reception. Thank you, Windrush. Now get you back to your position and prepare your men. I think this war is set to get very interesting indeed.'

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Inkerman Ridge

  5th November 1854

  They came forty minutes later, dense columns of Russian infantry emerging from the mist, preceded by a host of skirmishers and with the Cossacks in the centre. The infantry was singing, a low rhythmic growl that stirred something deep within Jack.

  'They are still advancing in column,' Dearden said. 'Don't these Russians learn anything?'

  'I'd expect more from Kutuzov,' Jack said. 'I thought he was cleverer than that.'