They had crossed the line.
In the melee, Jack was pitched unceremoniously forward. The river flowed over the tops of his boots, the water icy cold where it splashed against his legs. The fusiliers careered through the water, the ordered line forgotten, the men moving together in one amorphous mass. The wiser heads among the redcoats lifted their ammunition pouches and rifles away from a soaking in the river but they were few in number amidst the crazed, adrenalin-fuelled mob.
The gravel bed of the river was treacherous, the weeds and slime making the footing uncertain and twice Jack slipped and would have fallen if he had not been so tightly pressed into the pack of redcoats. Around him, his men cursed angrily as they forced their way across the river, elbows working furiously, fighting each other to reach the relative safety of the south side of the Alma. The south bank was far steeper than the north side, rising three to four feet before levelling out and forming a shelf above the river. The redcoats threw themselves up the slope with abandon, churning the ground to slick mud as they tried to find purchase with their wet boots.
On the ledge the fusiliers were screened from much of the Russian fire. Above their heads, the awful barrage continued. To move forward would mean walking straight into the enemy roundshot and musket fire.
For a second time, the advance halted. The wet, mud-splattered fusiliers caught their breath after the wild scramble through the river and steeled themselves for what was still to come.
‘You bloody idiot!’ Jack’s orderly, Tommy Smith, thumped into the ground beside his officer, ducking away from a flurry of musket fire that whistled past less than a foot above their heads. ‘You’ll get yourself killed if you carry on like that, Jack.’
‘It had to be done.’ The shock of walking into the open ground still coursed through Jack’s body and he shivered at the memory. He felt the cold hand of near death.
‘But not by you, you damn fool.’ Smith had to shout to be heard above the din. ‘You might be dressed as a bloody Rupert but that doesn’t mean you have to do it all by yourself!’
A flurry of activity prevented Jack from replying. Another officer was indeed taking control, showing his men what he expected of them.
General William John Codrington was fifty years old. He had joined the army thirty-three years previously, yet this was his first taste of action, the only time he had heard guns fired in anger. Codrington commanded the 1st Fusilier Brigade, part of the once famous Light Division. Although it was no longer made up from the same regiments that had marched to such renown and fame in the battles Wellington had fought in Portugal and Spain forty years earlier, Codrington was determined his command would live up to their high standards. He had watched his brigade march into the violent storm of the Russian barrage and he had witnessed their desperate plunge into the Alma. Now he had to show his men what he expected them to do next.
Mounted on a small white Arab mare, Codrington spurred his way across the river, encouraging the young horse up the far bank. The men of his command watched the grey-haired general charge straight into the terrible fire that was raging above them.
Jack looked on in astonishment. He flashed a smile at Tommy Smith and then, saying a silent prayer, he pushed himself up over the lip of the shelf, determined to be at the head of the attack.
With a huge cheer, the redcoats followed.
The steep undulating slope led up to the four-foot-high wall of the great redoubt, the fortified position that was the key to the Russian general’s right flank. The Russian skirmishers had moved back up the slope and were already re-forming on the crest around the guns hidden in the redoubt. It was up this slope that Codrington’s brigade would have to advance, into the mouths of the guns that waited to sweep the attackers away.
‘Forward the fusiliers!’ Jack screamed, leading his men up the slope. Around him, the fusiliers were horribly disordered, the different companies now hopelessly intertwined after the mad scramble across the river. The precise two-man line was gone and the redcoats moved forward bunched up in groups. The angle of the slope pulled at their already aching muscles. In the middle of the disorganised crush the young ensigns carrying the colours found the strength to wave their heavy ash staffs from side to side, forcing movement into the lifeless silk that refused to stir in the still, breathless air.
As the three battalions of Codrington’s brigade erupted from the confines of the river, the attack snarled back into life.
And read on for a taste of Jack’s latest adventure in
Coming Soon
Bombay, 1857. India is simmering with discontent, and Jack Lark, honourably discharged from the British Army, aims to take the first ship back to England. But before he leaves, he cannot resist the adventure of helping a woman escape imprisonment in a gaming house. He promises to escort Aamira home, but they arrive in Delhi just as the Indian Mutiny explodes.
As both sides commit horrific slaughter and the siege of Delhi begins, Jack realises that despite the danger he cannot stand by and watch. At heart, he is still a soldier . . .
Calcutta, May 1857
‘Good evening, sahib, welcome to the Circle.’ The doorman pressed his palms together and bowed at the waist. The namaste was delivered with perfect politeness, but the smile under the golden pagdi was fixed in place, and there was no sign of it in the man’s eyes as they ran quickly over the figure that stood before him.
The tall, dark-haired Englishman nodded in acknowledgement of the greeting. His lean face revealed nothing of what he thought, his grey eyes emotionless as they assessed the two guards who hovered behind the more elegantly dressed doorkeeper.
‘Is this your first visit to the Circle, sahib?’
The Englishman gave the slightest shake of his head. ‘No.’
‘Then I must thank you for your custom. This way, please.’
The doorkeeper took a half-pace backwards and bowed for a second time, this time sweeping his arm in a theatrical gesture of welcome before waving away the bearers of the palki that had brought the sahib to the door of the exclusive club.
One of the two guards stepped to one side and opened the single door to the building behind them. There was no prominent signage displaying the club’s name. Indeed, if it were not for the presence of the smartly dressed doorkeeper and his guards, it was unlikely any passer-by would notice the unassuming side entrance that now opened for the Englishman.
Yet the Circle displayed its status in other ways. It did not blend well into its surroundings. The building was grand, the four stucco columns in front of it mimicking the style of the Palladian mansions built by the British in their part of town. It stood aloof from its neighbours, a mismatched collection of drab mud and thatch buildings that clung to its skirts like so many peasants begging alms from a lord. But the entrance to the secretive club was hidden away so that only those who were aware of its existence would know where to request entry. The Circle was a respectable venue but an exclusive one, open only to the wealthiest locals and a select handful of British officers and senior officials who sought a more colourful flavour to their entertainment.
The Englishman walked through the open door without hesitation. It led to a tiny corridor no more than three yards long. He did not turn round as the door behind him shut to leave him entombed in the tiny space. He faced the far end, looking at the second door that waited for him, hiding his tension behind a facade of calm indifference. He took a pace forward, standing tall as he felt a hidden scrutiny. His hand fell to his side, the fingers twitching as they failed to locate the handle of the sword they had instinctively expected to find there. No one was allowed to wear a blade in the Circle, but that did not mean everyone was unarmed, and the Englishman had to resist the urge to reach inside his heavy black dinner jacket and caress the cold, hard lump of the revolver stuffed into his kamarband.
The seconds passed, the passage of time marked by the
slow tick of a clock on the wall of the corridor. For such a tiny space it was surprisingly elegant. The floor was of white marble, with the walls painted a dark crimson. A dozen small but fine paintings decorated each wall, but there was no window. The elegance was as much of a facade as the Englishman’s confidence, the confined space designed to hold a single guest whilst they were assessed through the gilded lattice grilles that were spaced at regular intervals along the walls.
The Englishman refused to turn his head to search for a flicker of movement behind the screens. Instead he waited patiently, standing stock still as he felt the hidden eyes roving over him. He tried not to think what it would be like to fight his way back through the entrance, telling himself that there had to be another way out, an easier escape route to be found away from the public entrance to the club.
The door in front of him opened.
‘Good evening, sahib, welcome back to the Circle.’ The keeper of the second door was dressed in identical fashion to his colleague outside, even down to the same faux-smile fixed on his face.
The Englishman grunted once in recognition of the second greeting. Without waiting to be invited, he marched forward, sweeping past the doorman and into the main reception room. He did his best not to show any emotion as he emerged into the graceful surroundings that welcomed guests after their temporary incarceration.
The room was spacious and bright, with elegant candelabra competing with vividly painted Chinese lanterns to fill the space with light. The rich decor reminded him of a maharajah’s palace. The walls were painted a neutral alabaster, with sweeping curtains of a simple white fabric smothering the dozen wide windows that were screened by grass tatties but otherwise left open; the cooling breeze that flowed into the room was circulated by the pankha-walas sitting silent in the corners. The door frames were of teak, decorated with elegant carvings depicting myriad flora and fauna, the intricate work the product of exquisite skill. The floor was of marble, the wide white expanse only broken by the fabulous splashes of colour provided by a single enormous and gaudy kelim rug positioned in the very centre of the room. It was a place of airy refinement and comfort, a haven of tranquillity away from the bustle and chaos of the teeming city of Calcutta.
‘This way, sahib.’ Another well-dressed servant arrived to usher the Englishman into the room. ‘Allow me to get you something to drink.’
The Englishman let himself be led through the first reception room and into another, decorated in the same elegant style. Unlike the first, it contained a long mahogany table decked out with a full and inviting banquet. He recognised little, the dishes of unidentifiable stews and biryanis a feast for any guest arriving with a hunger for more than the other entertainments for which the Circle had earned its reputation.
‘Would you care for a drink, sahib? We have the very best French champagne. Or would you prefer a whisky? We have Kinahan’s from Dublin or Encore from Leith.’
‘Beer.’ The Englishman pursed his lips before turning his back on the overloaded table and walking towards another doorway on the far side of the room.
The servant fluttered his hands nervously and scurried forward to keep pace with his much taller guest. ‘Something to eat, sahib? If you do not see anything to your taste, we would be only too delighted to prepare something more delectable for your palate.’
The Englishman said nothing. He lifted his hand and used it to lever the over-attentive servant to one side, then strolled into the next room, drawn by the gentle murmur of voices that echoed through into the elegant reception spaces.
The gaming room smelt of money. Not the kind found in the great houses hidden in the depths of the English countryside, or on ostentatious display in the fabulous surroundings of a maharajah’s palace. This room promised something much more fleeting. It smelt of rhino. It smelt of cash.
A few of its occupants turned, acknowledging the presence of the stranger before quietly returning to their games, the lure of the cards of so much more interest than the arrival of a firangi. The Englishman smiled. The familiarity of the scene was reassuring, the gentle voices of the croupiers calling out the score echoing those he had heard in the more respectable clubs of Calcutta, the muttered phrases the same as in any room where French hazard was played. The focused stares of the players did not change, no matter what the colour of the gamers’ skin, their silent concentration adding intensity to the room so that a tense atmosphere simmered just beneath the cool air and graceful elegance.
Servants lined the walls, standing like so many bronze statues as they waited to cater to their patrons’ every whim. A dozen or more young boys sat in the corners, their heads bowed low as they pulled on the thick silk ropes that controlled the huge sail attached to the ceiling. Other servants glided past, moving silently around the periphery to douse the grass tatties that covered the open windows. The fibres were kept wet, cooling the hot breeze that billowed in and adding a delicate scent that helped to mask the smell of sweat and over-ripe flesh. The sweet-smelling air flowed around the room, making the chandeliers chime, their glass droplets coming together to create a gentle melody that underscored the hushed voices of the patrons and the staff who served them.
A servant appeared at the Englishman’s shoulder, a single glass held up on a silver salver. The crystal was misted, its sides lined with fine droplets of moisture, the promise of the cool drink it contained written in the thin ring of water around its base. The dark amber liquid within tantalised the Englishman and he reached for it gratefully, immediately taking a deep draught, his eyes closed in silent ecstasy.
He felt the girl’s gaze rest upon him before he saw her. He looked across the room and caught the mocking stare sent in his direction. The look sent a shiver down his spine and he lowered the glass, the bitter taste paling against the spark of excitement that the single glance had aroused deep in his being.
The girl turned away, her eyes flickering over the cards she flipped from the heavy wooden shoe beneath her wrist. It was as if she had not seen him, his presence as unremarkable as that of any of the eager-eyed babus seated at her table. But the Englishman had seen the glimmer of fear in the fleeting contact, and he felt it spark the kindling of anxiety that had been building deep in his gut.
‘Another beer, sahib?’
The question was innocent, but there was a wry amusement in the words. The drinks-wala had seen the target of the Englishman’s stare, and he acknowledged what he believed to be the white-faced foreigner’s desire with a knowing smile.
‘No.’ The Englishman turned away. The heat of his fingers had caused the moisture on the crystal glass to run, and he felt it cold and wet on his palm.
He walked quickly towards the table where the doe-eyed girl was at work. His free hand strayed unconsciously to the bulk of the revolver pushed hard into the waistband of his black dress trousers. He stopped and swept his eyes round the room. His hand left the hidden weapon and ran over his close-cropped hair.
He lifted the glass to his lips and drained the last of its contents. For a moment he contemplated the bottom of the glass, as if trying to discern his future in the frothy residue left behind. Then he placed it on the green baize of the table and smiled.
‘Let’s go.’ He said the words with the calm authority of an officer; the clipped, urbane tone of a man who expected to be obeyed without hesitation.
The girl looked up, her eyes wide in surprise. She gazed at the Englishman as if seeing him for the first time. The grey eyes that stared back at her were composed, the man’s face, with its thin growth of beard and the tiny silver scar that ran under the left eye, betraying nothing but indifference.
Then she moved. She slammed the wooden card shoe on to the table and came to the side of the man who had interrupted the game, slipping her hand into his. She barely reached his shoulder and was forced to crane her neck as she contemplated the tall Englishman who had arrived to throw
her life into turmoil.
The mismatched couple walked briskly across the room. The Englishman’s foot caught a spittoon placed close to a fat babu who chewed unceasingly on betel. The china vessel cracked as it hit the man’s chair leg, the sound echoing like a gunshot. As if on cue, the place erupted into noisy confusion. The first voices were raised as the players at the girl’s table saw their croupier leaving on the arm of the firangi. Servants rushed forward, eager to subdue the sudden hiatus, their soothing voices adding to the noise that had destroyed the tranquillity of the room.
The Englishman and the girl he was rescuing did not stop to admire the chaos they had caused. It was time to make good their escape whilst they still could.
You can also follow Jack Lark’s adventures as
Jack Lark barely survived the Battle of the Alma. As the brutal fight rated, he discovered the true duty that came with the officer’s commission he’d taken. He grasps a chance to prove himself a leader once more. Jack will travel to a new regiment in India, under a new name . . .
And catch up with Jack as
Bombay, 1857. Jack Lark is living precariously as an officer when his heroic but fradulent past is discovered by the Devil – Major Ballard, the army’s intelligence officer. Ballard is gathering a web of information to defend the British Empire, and he needs a man like Jack on his side. Ballard takes him to the battlefield to end a spy’s deceit. But who is the traitor?
Jack Lark: Redcoat (A Jack Lark Short Story) Page 9