Confused or not, the Russians continued to prosecute the war, whatever the Allies intentions. With Prince Gortschakoff replacing Menschikoff in charge of the Russian army, and the new Czar determined to fight on, the Russians extended their defences further. With the Mamelon firm in their grasp, they energetically dug new rifle pits opposite the French right, which not only brought them closer to the French, but also enfiladed the most forward parallel of the British right attack.
'Bloody cheek,' Elliot gave his professional opinion. 'About time we showed the Ruskis who is in charge here.'
Raglan must have had the same thought, for shortly afterward, British artillery concentrated on the gun pits, blasting great holes in the parapets and scattering the defenders.
'I knew old Raggles would listen to me,' Elliot lit another cheroot. 'If everyone did as I said, this world would be a far better place.'
Jack nodded and drank a little of Elliot's store of spirits. He was not sure if it was supposed to be whisky or brandy, or even if it had a name, but it burned his throat all the way down and exploded like liquid fire in his stomach. He coughed. 'That could be true, Arthur, that could well be true.'
Elliot swallowed more of the kill-me-deadly spirits without hesitation. 'Wait until I am in charge of this army,' he said.
Jack nodded. 'I'd like to see that day.' He did not mention the twitch that Elliot had developed in his left eye, or the shaking of his hands that only dissipated when he had the flask to his lips.
On the night of the 22nd March the Russians came in earnest. With their artillery pounding the French lines and the British right attack, fifteen thousand infantry poured from the Mamelon on long, grey-clad columns. They hit the French first, capturing a number of trenches from the surprised defenders, and then they turned on the British.
In the confusion of battle, the British believed the approaching troops were French and allowed them to get close.
'That's not the bloody Frogs,' an observant Irishman shouted. 'It's Johnny Russ, begod!'
'Well don't just stand there,' an officer yelled, 'kill the beggars.'
And then the battle was intense. Afterward, the British called it the battle of Little Inkerman, but rather than volleys of musketry the fighting was mostly by rifle butt and bayonet. The result was the same: blood and agony and piles of wounded and dead as the Russian attack was repulsed. Once again it was proved that however difficult the British found it to take a fortified town, they could master a Russian army in open conflict.
At one stage of the battle Captain Vicars of the 97th Foot, the Celestials, ordered his men to lie down. When the Russians were close, he issued his most famous and final order:
'Now 97th: on your pins and charge!'
The 97th did exactly as ordered. They rose, fired a single volley and charged with the bayonet. Vicars died in the fighting. He was a popular officer so his men vented their anger and frustration on the Russians, giving no quarter to an enemy who was infamous for bayoneting British wounded.
'He knew he was going to die, you know,' Elliot said as he recounted the affair to Jack later. 'He told me that death was waiting for him.'
'Do you know everybody?' Jack asked.
Elliot smiled, gently swirling his infamous spirits around the bottom of his glass. 'Not quite everybody,' he said. 'But in this army, promotion is as much about being seen and recognised as being an efficient soldier.'
Jack grunted. Even although he had already worked that out, he had no intention of socialising with all and sundry. Then he thought of Helen, and wondered if Elliot had the right idea.
'Vicar's men loved him,' Elliot added, sipping at the colourless spirits. 'They were crying over his body. Imagine that, great tough Irishmen from Munster and Leinster, back-slum blackguards from Seven Dials and ponderous ploughboys from Kent all sobbing like children because their officer was dead.'
Jack grunted. 'Were they drunk?'
'Not a bit of it,' Elliot said. 'They were sober as an archbishop.' He looked up. 'Men are strange you know. We lead them to death and they love us for it, as long as we treat them semi-decent. The rankers recognise a good man when they see one, and can spot a fraud a mile away.'
'Maybe so.' Jack poured himself a generous helping of Elliot's spirits, took one sip and wished he had not bothered.
'They think the same of you,' Elliot's gaze never left Jack's face.
'Nonsense.'
'Your men would follow you through the gates of hell.' Elliot emptied his glass. 'The ability to inspire that loyalty is a precious gift, Jack. Better than gold or promotion. I envy you.'
'There is nothing to envy about me,' Jack said. 'And the men would follow any half-decent officer, why' he said, 'they even follow you!'
His attempt to lighten the mood failed as Elliot re-filled his glass. 'I'm going to die, Jack,' Elliot said. 'Out here, thousands of miles from home. I'm going to die a lieutenant, and be thrown into a cold pit in the ground and be forgotten.' The kill-me-deadly spirits had made him morose. 'I think we are all going to die here in this siege. It will last forever, drag out until the entire army wastes away of disease and cholera and Russian shot.' He put a hand on Jack's sleeve. 'Don't let me die alone, Jack. I don't want to die alone, so far from home. Promise me that you'll stick by me.'
'You won't die here, Arthur.' Jack could see the genuine worry behind the words. The spirits were not speaking for Elliot, it was only loosening his tongue so the fears he held within him were released.
'Promise me, Jack.' Elliot was pleading now, his eyes bright with tears.
'I promise,' Jack said. 'Now get to bed and stop talking nonsense. We have men to care for and Johnny Russ to defeat.'
'Thank you Jack,' Elliot began to undress, a process so unusual in the camp that Jack knew the drink had taken complete hold. 'Good night Jack.' Naked as a new-born baby and so thin that Jack could count all his ribs, Elliot slipped onto his straw bed.
'Good night Arthur,' Jack caught his glass before it fell onto the ground, poured out the dregs and lay on his own bed. He knew sleep would be long in coming as he lay with his hands behind his head, listening to the intermittent barking of the guns. He relived the horrors of battle and wondered what Helen was doing and when Anderson would strike next. That man seemed to dominate this siege, stalking the trenches as he pervaded Jack's dreams, transforming into an ogre with near supernatural powers.
Chapter Fourteen
The Quarries: 6 June 1855
'So here we are again,' Elliot sucked at his cheroot and blew a long column of blue smoke into the air. 'Standing in a trench opposite Sebastopol, wondering if we will survive the day.'
'Things are not quite the same,' Jack said. 'The weather is far better and we are going on the attack at last.'
Elliot stood up to scan along the length of the front line. 'We've been here over eight months and we're about a hundred yards closer than we were. We've hammered at their walls with our artillery, and ever bit damage we've done, they've repaired that same night.' Removing the cheroot from his mouth, he used it as a pointer. 'And still there is the Malakoff, that great circular fortress that dominates everything. The Malakoff remains the fulcrum of the defences. Whatever we do is really pointless as long as the Russians hold that.'
'Thank you for the update, Your Excellency.' Jack checked his watch. 'Ten to three; we will open fire soon.'
'There is some hope,' Elliot said. 'This new French fellow Pellisier knows how to fight. In Algeria they called him L'homme brutal, and he has ninety thousand men and a professional reputation to keep. He will be after the Malakoff, mark my words.'
'Not today he's not,' Jack said. 'The French will have to carry the Mamelon first, and we will take the Quarries.'
'Minor targets,' Elliot dismissed both sets of formidable outer defences in two words. 'It is only the Malakoff that counts. Once the French capture that, they will be able to take the Redan and that whole section of defences from Dockyard Creek to the Point Battery. If the Malakoff fal
ls, the Russians will have no choice but to evacuate Sebastopol.' He emptied the contents of his flask into his mouth.
'Yes, Field Marshall Elliot. Five minutes to go.' Jack watched the larger hand of his watch jerk to the eleven. 'Let's hope that this day's work gets us closer to capturing this damned place.'
Elliot looked at him curiously. 'You are out of temper today, Jack. What's the matter?'
Jack frowned; he had not thought his feelings were so transparent. 'I am fine, Elliot.' He could not help the glance over his shoulder. Officers for the British force were quietly gathering for final instructions on the forthcoming assault on the defensive works known as the Quarries. Led by Colonel Robert Campbell of the 90th and Major Armstrong of the 49th, the force was made up from the Light and 2nd divisions, but also included a detachment of the Royal Malverns, with Lieutenant William Windrush in command. Jack caught his eye and quickly looked away; he had no desire to work close to his half-brother.
'Three o'clock.' Exactly as Jack snapped shut his watch, the allied batteries opened up. Five hundred and fifty cannon and mortars fired simultaneously, sending a tornado of shot and shell against the outer defences of Sebastopol. The sky was salmon-pink with artillery fire and the noise so great that it was impossible to hear the crack of individual cannon.
'I heard that this is the heaviest bombardment the world has ever seen.' Elliot had to put his mouth close to Jack and shout the words to be heard.
'We are witnessing history,' Jack said. Despite his growing cynicism, he was impressed by the volume of allied fire, from the rapid outpouring from the French to the slower and arguably better aimed crashing of the British guns.
'Yes.' Despite his need for alcoholic stimulation, Elliot had not entirely lost his initial enthusiasm for battle. He stared as the shells exploded behind the walls of Sebastopol and cheered the massive impact of solid shot on the battlements of the Redan and the Malakoff.
'That's the stuff to give them!' Elliot shouted. 'Go on, lads, stick it to Prince Gortschakoff!'
Jack watched with a now-critical eye as hundreds of orange muzzle flares marked the position of the allied artillery and the Russians began a measured reply. Round shot and shell crossed and counter-crossed the tortured air between both armies, with the smoke of mortar rounds leaving wispy white trails as explosions shattered both the fabric of the city and the bodies of the Russian soldiers who waited in patient, disciplined masses for the allied assault to begin.
'We are in the midst of Hell,' Elliot had found another bottle of kill-me-deadly. 'We are condemned forever.'
'A panoramic view of hell's in training, as Byron said.' Jack saw the nearest of the Royal Malverns duck as a Russian shot bounced over the top of their trenches. William was first to reappear; that man could not be faulted for pluck, damn his bravery.
'Please God the gunners do their job well,' Elliot lit another cheroot as Jack checked his own men. Veterans all, they watched the bombardment through jaundiced eyes, judging on results rather than appearances.
'They Froggies are firing fast,' Thorpe said. 'I wonder if they are even bothering to aim.'
'They're scared of their cannon balls,' Coleman said seriously. 'You see, French cannonballs are different from ours. You have to load them quick or they explode- boom – like that. So the French gunners have to poke them in the cannons bloody fast or they are dead.'
'I didn't know that,' Thorpe said. 'Why is that, Coley?'
'To encourage them,' Coleman explained. 'The French officers don't trust their men; see, so they have to make them work faster.'
Jack looked away, hiding his smile. Thorpe was a good soldier but he never knew when Coleman was pulling his leg.
The cannonade continued until dark, hammering at the walls of Sebastopol, knocking out gun after Russian gun. Gunsmoke lay like choking fog around the British positions, hiding the artillery so that the orange muzzle flares acted like the devil's beacons through the fogs of Hades.
Night brought some relief as the cannon ceased fire and the smoke gradually drifted away, but the huge thirteen inch mortars kept the battle alive. Jack watched the passage of the shell of one of these monsters as it arced through the air, its route marked by a succession of red sparks from its fuse. There was an obscene beauty in the red curve of the shell, something uneasily disturbing that death could paint such vibrant colours in the night sky.
'There it goes,' he said quietly as the sparking trail disappeared into Sebastopol. After a terrible second's delay a massive flash appeared above the walls and for an instant everything was silhouetted, light and darkness combining in a vignette from Gehenna. That was followed by blackness so intense it hurt Jack's eyes.
'These things are amazingly powerful,' he said. For a moment he tried to vision what it must be like on the receiving end, watching that huge explosive device slowly descending, knowing it would cause death and terrible suffering but not being able to escape. What did the Russians think as that monstrosity hurtled toward them? Or were they so paralysed by fear that they could only stand, watch and pray?
The distant rumble of thunder added to the noise of the night, with lightning flickering across the sky to the north east.
Elliot wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and sipped at his flask. 'Even God's adding to the horror,' he said.
'Try and get some sleep,' Jack shouted to his men. 'We will be busy tomorrow.'
Huddled in the bottom of the trench, Jack closed his eyes and tried to forget about the constant crash of explosives and the knowledge that in a few hours he would be putting himself in the way of danger again. After an afternoon and night of bombardment, the Russians would know the allies planned an assault. They would be bitter after taking casualties and the 113th would be in the first wave of the attack, ahead of the men of the Light Division. Yet when he tried to sleep, it was not Russians that filled his mind, but images of William in his younger days around the Malvern Hills, and his final sneer as he bowed to his mother while accepting his commission into the Royal Malverns. It was a memory that was seared into Jack's consciousness.
There was no let-up in the cannonade the following day, with the Russian reply fading as time wore on.
'Johnny Russ is running out of guns,' Elliot gloated through a haze of alcohol.
'Or conserving his ammunition,' Jack said. 'Waiting for our assault.'
Elliot gave him a twisted grin and poured spirits into his mouth with a shaking hand. 'Don't say that, Jack; please don't say that.'
Behind the British lines, the uplands began to fill up with non-combatants who gathered to watch the forthcoming assault. Jack remembered the Russian women sitting in state to watch the battle of the Alma and shook his head.
'Vultures,' he said. 'We're no better than the Russians.' He remembered the song he had heard the soldiers sing and chanted one of the verses:
'A picnic party Menschikoff had asked to share the fun,
The ladies came at twelve o'clock to see the battle won;
They found the day too hot to stay, & the Prince felt rather sore,
On the Twentieth of September, Eighteen hundred fifty-four!'
As well as officer's wives and some soldier's wives, there was a bevy of what were known as travelling gentlemen.
'I hate these travelling gentlemen,' Elliot's words were slurred as the raw spirits took effect. 'Blasted TGs; they only came to the Crimea to watch men suffer, as if we were putting on a display for their entertainment and sick and wounded men are some sort of circus freak show.'
Jack nodded. 'I agree with you, Arthur.' He glanced behind him at the colourful crowds with their parasols and bottles of wine, who made loud 'ahs' of delight when a shell landed on the Russian positions and cheered when pieces of parapet and Russian soldier were seen flying through the air. 'I sometimes hope that Johnny Russ would land a cannon ball right in the middle of them. See if they cheer when it's their legs and arms that are knocked off.'
Elliot grinned sourly. 'You are a wicked man, Ja
ck Windrush, a wicked, wicked man.' He had another sip. 'I hate the audience worse than the Russians. Johnny Russ is only doing his duty, the same as we are. And he is a brave man. These…' he jerked his thumb at the spectators, 'are no good to anybody.'
As well as the women and TGs, there were journalists from various publications, off-duty officers who should have known better and a few lounging railwaymen. It was a surreal scene as the uninvited audience exchanged polite conversation to the delicate airs of the band of the Rifle Brigade only a few hundred yards from the ear-battering crack of cannon and the hellish whoosh of mortars and while Russians suffered agony under the lash of the bombardment.
'Hieronymus Bosch could not have painted anything so hideous,' Jack murmured. 'Real life is much worse than the most vivid imaginings of an artist.'
'Get yourselves ready lads,' Colonel Maxwell appeared from a bank of smoke, cheroot in mouth and his eyes bright. 'We're going in soon!'
'Yes, sir.' Jack passed the word along to his men. 'Check your rifles, lads; eighty rounds apiece, make sure your bayonet slides free; water and biscuit for a day in case we end up beyond the walls of Sebastopol.'
'Remember, Windrush, and you men as well,' Maxwell raised his voice so all could hear him. 'Your objective is the Quarries, the rifle pits that the Russians have dug and that harass us daily.' He ensured that he looked at each man individually. 'Once you have taken the Quarries, you must hold them. The Russians are sure to counter-attack. That means we need every man we have, so I don't want any over-bold attempts to storm Sebastopol itself. We take the Quarries and we hold the Quarries. Any questions?'
There were none, so Maxwell nodded to Jack and moved on, stopping only for a word with Major Snodgrass.
The assaulting troops began to gather around and behind the 113th; red-coated men carrying light equipment, with faces pale under their outdoor tan. They prepared for the terrible dash across open ground swept by whatever Russian cannon had survived the bombardment. Far over to their right, huge numbers of French were gathering to storm the Mamelon, preparatory to taking on the Malakoff itself. While the British clustered in their hundreds, the French gathered in their thousands; brigade after brigade led by the Zouaves, the spectacular light infantry.
Windrush: Blood Price (Jack Windrush Book 3) Page 13