'We have a few hundred men to take the Quarries,' Elliot had another cheroot in his mouth but rather than smoking was chewing the end to a soggy mass. 'The French have…' he waved his cheroot toward them and shook his head. 'Thousands. Is that how they win their battles? By swamping the enemy with sheer numbers?'
'It could be,' Jack said, 'but let's leave the French to do whatever they do, and we will do our duty.' He looked away as Elliot began to shake.
As evening drew in the firing slackened.
'Giving Johnny Russ a chance to repair the defences then,' Coleman said acidly. 'General Raglan likes to be fair, you see.'
'But that means they will be able to fire at us.' Thorpe said.
'That's the gentlemanly thing to do,' Coleman said. 'It's like a duel, see; each side stands a few paces away and fires at each other, with seconds to make sure nobody gets an unfair advantage.'
'Oh,' Thorpe said. 'So who are the seconds in this war, then?'
'Nobody,' Riley said flatly. He rubbed at the partly-healed wound in his left arm.
'Look!' Coleman pointed upward as a rocket soared into the sky. That was the signal for the cannonade to begin again as the allies poured a nightmare of shot and shell toward the defences. For quarter of an hour every allied gun fired non-stop and then three rockets zipped into the sky.
There was no delay. As soon as the rockets lit up the heavens, the cannons stopped and the Zouaves led four brigades of French infantry out of their trenches.
'Look at them,' Logan said quietly, 'swarming like wee blue rats.' He looked upward, 'when do we get to go, sir?'
'When we get the order, Logan, and not a minute before. I don't want any of you rushing forward and getting yourselves killed.' Jack took a deep breath. Elliot was not the only man whose nerves were ragged. Prolonged danger and exposure in the trenches had that effect.
The French were to the right of the British, with five hundred yards to cover before they reached the Mamelon. After twenty-seven hours of near incessant bombardment, the Russian garrison should have been dead, wounded or stunned. However such cannon of the Malakoff and other fortifications that had survived the onslaught opened up the moment the French infantry appeared. Roundshot, canister and grapeshot raked great holes in the advancing blue-coated ranks.
'That's Colonel Brancion leading from the front.' Trust Elliot to know the names of even the French officers. He took a surreptitious sip at his flask and secreted it away inside his tunic.
'He's a brave man whoever he is,' Jack said. He watched as the French tide surged to the Mamelon. The few Russians who were left put up a brave resistance, killing Brancion as he waved his sword like the hero he undoubtedly was but after such a devastating bombardment and faced with overwhelming odds the defenders had little chance. The Mamelon fell within ten minutes of the attack beginning.
'There's the tricolour! Elliot's voice rose high-pitched in his excitement. 'The Frenchies have done it! They've captured the Mamelon!'
'Look!' Jack nudged him sharply. 'Raglan had fired a rocket: that's our signal!' He raised his voice. 'Here we go boys! Forward for glory! Come on the 113th!'
Split into two equal parties, the four hundred strong storming party leaped from the trenches and charged forward, cheering madly. The 77th, the 'old pot hooks' were prominent, with men of the 33rd and the 97th to the fore. Jack heard the yells of the 97th: 'Stick it to them, lads! Remember Captain Vicars!'
Jack knew what lay ahead; stubborn Russian infantrymen, well positioned artillery and rows of fougasses - mortar shells and improvised explosives carefully placed in the ground with trip fuses to catch the attackers.
'Get ye behind me. Windrush!' Colonel Robert Campbell of the 90th Foot, the Perthshire Volunteers pushed in front. Burly, bearded and tough, he was no youngster but gave the most devil-may-care grin that Jack had seen for some time. 'I'm pulling rank on you! You're not getting all the glory my lad!' Drawing his sword, Campbell dashed forward. 'Follow me my fine fellows!'
Rather than charge into the face of the Russian fire, Campbell led his men to the left flank of the Quarries, while Major Armstrong of the 49th attacked the right. Mixed up with men of these regiments were others from the Royal Malverns, very young soldiers of the 7th Fusiliers and Jack's own 113th.
'Johnny Russ has the front well peppered with fougasses,' Campbell explained as he ran, sword in hand. 'No sense in getting the men killed unnecessarily, is there?'
He thundered on, with his men behind him, jostled by the veterans of the 113th. Jack ran, with his left leg still giving him some trouble as it jarred on the hard ground. Realising that many of the infantrymen were ahead of him, he lengthened his stride, trying to push to the front, gasping with a mixture of fear and excitement. It was only a few hundred yards from the British trenches to the Quarries but it felt like miles, exposed to the Russian guns of the Redan and other fortifications.
'Come on boys!' He heard O'Neill's voice. 'Come on the 113th!'
Despite the long artillery bombardment, the attack seemed to take the Russians by surprise. Jack saw the startled white faces of the Russians at the first of the series of earthworks, and then Campbell leaped up onto the sandbag and gabion parapet, sword in hand. Jack pushed through a crowd of cheering redcoats to be next, and then he was within the Russian defences, firing his revolver at white Russian faces, slashing with his sword, pushing his fear away with a mixture of aggression and adrenalin.
The four hundred British soldiers crashed through the succession of earthwork defences with musketry, bayonet and boot. Scorning danger, O'Neill and Logan ran along the top of the sandbags, shooting at the Russians within. Any Russians that resisted were killed, with Jack aiming and firing until the hammer of his revolver clicked on an empty chamber. Thrusting the pistol back into its holster, he drew his sword and ran on, stumbling over a sandbag as his left leg complained of this ill-usage.
'That's the way, sir!' Thorpe was immediately behind him, kneeling on a pile of sandbags as he fired at a staring Russian officer. The British flooded into the Quarries, using the bayonet and boot as much as the bullet, chasing the panicked Russians out of the open rear of the earthwork.
Jack looked up to check the progress of the French. They had taken the Mamelon and pushed on in a blue flood toward the much more formidable Malakoff. But the Russians were fighting back. Even as Jack looked, the surviving cannon on the Malakoff opened up, sending swathes of grape and canister that scythed through the French, while riflemen manned the defences and fired repeated volleys. The French attack faltered, halted and turned into a rout. Columns of Russian infantry surged from Sebastopol to pursue the now fleeing French, chasing them into the so-recently captured Mamelon and beyond. All the French losses seemed to be for nothing.
'So much for the Froggies!' Riley said. 'All show and no bottom when it comes to it.' He hefted his rifle. 'The Russians will be after us soon, once they've kicked out Johnny Frenchman.'
'Don't discount the French,' Jack remembered the bravery of Colonel Brancion. 'They are good soldiers and courageous men.' He pointed. 'Look!'
More French poured out of the French lines, column after column of blue coated soldiers. They stopped the Russian counter-attack, turned it and sent the Russians in headlong retreat back over the Mamelon and toward the Malakoff.
'Follow the Russians!' Campbell and Armstrong shouted simultaneously. 'And listen for my orders!'
'Sir?' O'Neill looked at Jack. 'Colonel Maxwell said to capture the Quarries and sit tight.'
Something of the old devil-damn-you Jack of the Burmese days returned as he saw an opportunity to win glory, promotion and Helen all in one swoop: provided he survived of course. But that was all part of the soldier's bargain; a soldier's life was death gift-wrapped in glorious scarlet.
'Come on 113th!'
The British moved on, chasing the retreating Russians, killing those they could, leaping over the crumpled dead and writhing wounded. Jack glanced over his shoulder. Men of the 62nd had follow
ed the main storming body and were now busy within the Quarries, tearing down the gabions and sandbags from the side facing the British trenches and re-erecting them to act as a barrier against the Russians. Others were frantically hacking at the ground to connect the Quarries defences to the most forward of the British trenches.
'Get down!' Campbell shouted. 'Down on the ground; fire at the embrasures and keep the Russian riflemen busy.'
Jack slumped to the ground, ensuring that his men did likewise. Now they had a chance to prove the skills that MacRae had taught them as they aimed and fired at any Russian who showed himself.
'That's one less!' Logan said.
'And another,' Coleman grunted.
Jack hid his satisfaction. His men, once the most despised regiment in the British Army, had proved themselves the equal of any. Now he had to lead them to victory against this brave and stubborn foe.
'Forward, Royal Malverns!' That was a very familiar voice. William Windrush was on his feet with a sword in one hand and pistol in the other.
'William! Don't be a fool!'
The memory came back. They were boys on the grassy ridges of the British Camp on the Herefordshire Beacon, running up toward the summit with eager legs and gasping breath.
'Come on William!' Jack was in front by virtue of his two years seniority in years and three inches in height.
'Wait for me, Jack!' William had said, had always said as he strove to keep pace with his older brother.
'Keep up!'
William had tried his best but his legs were too short and his stamina lacking. He had fallen, to tumble end over end down the steep grassy slope.
'Come on Jack,' William Windrush said. 'Keep up!'
Had those simple childhood words rankled for so long?
'Don't be a fool William!'
William Windrush was not alone. Another officer, Lieutenant Webb joined him, together with a number of men, the bolder, the more stupid or the more crazed by excitement. For an instant Jack remembered the wild attack he had led at the White House Picket in Burma and shuddered at his impetuosity. He had been very young then.
'Keep firing, 113th!' Jack watched as William led the handful of British infantry against the Redan itself. He was not sure how he felt: William was his brother despite their differences, yet he was responsible for the lives of all these men of his regiment, his platoon. They knew and trusted him; he could not let them down. If he supported William some of his men would undoubtedly die.
'Sir!' O'Neill was watching him through narrow eyes. 'Are you all right?'
'Keep firing,' Jack ignored the question. 'Keep the Russians' heads down.' He swore silently. 'And do the same to the Redan, damn it! Try and make it easier for those crazy fools.'
'We charged like that once' O'Neill reminded.
'I remember,' Jack loosed three shots in quick succession at the embrasures of Sebastopol. 'O'Neill; your section concentrate on the Redan. The rest of you, keep firing at the rest of the city.'
'All of it, sir?' Thorpe asked.
'If you see a Russian, shoot him,' Jack said patiently. He watched William and Webb lead their score or so of reckless men toward the Redan. Even from this distance Jack could see that it was a hopeless endeavour. The Redan was second only to the Malakoff in terms of strength, a wedge shaped fortification with the sides bristling with cannon, the interior packed with men and the outside protected by a deep ditch and an abattis of cut timber that would be hard to climb and impossible to remove.
A man behind Jack gasped, and looked stupidly at the blood oozing from his shoulder. Another jerked backward as a Russian sharpshooter put a bullet through the centre of his forehead.
'Keep firing!' Jack shouted, 'keep these blasted Russians under control.'
William was at the abattis now, tearing at the ragged timbers with his bare hands as the surviving defenders of the Redan, freed from the torment of British artillery, concentrated their fire on this foolhardy handful of attackers.
'Sir!' O'Neill shouted, 'the Russians are coming out!'
Jack did not see from where the attack came. One minute the no-man's land between the British and the walls of Sebastopol was empty, the next it was full of Russians, giving the moaning yell that normally preceded an attack. There were hundreds of them, far too many for the thin British line to stop in the open.
'William!' Jack looked up, torn between getting his men back to safety and looking after his young brother. There was already a scattering of red-coated bodies around the abattis including one with the distinctive uniform of an officer. For a moment Jack felt sick; although he and William were not on good terms, he had no desire to see the Russians kill him.
The fallen officer was not William: that must be Webb lying there, for William was retiring, still bravely facing the Russians, brandishing his sword and firing his pistol like a hero from a boy's story, and then other things demanded Jack's attention as O'Neill shouted in his ear.
'The Russians are getting close now, sir!'
Jack looked up. 'Time to retire, lads! Come on Elliot!'
They pulled back slowly, using the skills MacRae and Halloran had taught them, covering each other, looking for cover, firing and moving until they got back to the Quarries where the 62nd were working like scarlet-coated Trojans to build up the defences.
'Stand to!' Colonel Campbell took charge. 'Man the sandbags! Guard the gabions!' He seemed to be enjoying himself as his force of mixed regiments slammed down on the partially completed barricades and opened fire on the approaching Russians.
They came with the same desperate courage that they had shown at Inkerman, the tall, white faced men in grey uniforms, chanting their discordant war song as they advanced into the hail of Minie bullets that cut them down in twos and threes at a time.
Jack stood in the centre of his men, ordering them to fire by volleys and then individually, so the quicker reloaded and fired three shots to the two of the others. Powder smoke clung to the sandbags, diminishing visibility, stinging eyes and noses, rasping in throats and clogging ears. Muzzle flares penetrated the smoke and growing darkness as night crept in, and still the Russians pressed on, ignoring their losses as they marched to defend their land, their home, their Holy Russia.
'Fight them, lads!' Colonel Campbell yelled, his voice high above the crackle of musketry, screams of the wounded and hoarse cheers of the British defenders.
Jack reloaded hastily; he could not remember firing his revolver but the barrel was hot to his touch and his ammunition pouch was already depleted.
In front of him, the Russians were withdrawing, leaving their dead and wounded as a gruesome sacrifice to the god of war. He saw their faces, white, set and determined, and heard their collective wail of despair as they were pushed back from the battered sandbag wall.
'They're running!' Hitchins said. He turned toward Jack, his eyes red-rimmed from the powder smoke, wild and unfocussed through excitement.
'After them!' Williams yelled. 'Chase them to bloody St Petersburg!'
'Stand fast!' Jack roared. 'Hold the walls; they'll be back!' He looked around. His 113th were all there, panting, shaking with nervous reaction, powder-blackened and exhausted but alive. Others were not so fortunate. There were British dead among the gabions; there were men with fearsome wounds who looked up with eyes that begged for release from pain, a youngster who could not be more than seventeen sobbing for his mother as he held onto the intestines which were slowly sliding between his fingers.
Who said war was glorious?
'Get back to work!' Campbell shouted. 'The Russians won't be away for long. We need the gabions filled with stones and earth and the sandbags in place. Working parties! Keep digging and filling. The rest of you, keep watch for the Russians. Windrush; come here.'
'Sir,' Jack said.
'I hear that you are something of an expert on Russian night-time tactics.'
'I am hardly an expert, sir.'
'Don't bandy words with me!' The strain of battle was o
bviously telling on Campbell's temper. 'You know damned well that your 113th are the best we have at countering their blasted Cossacks. Now, I want you and your rogues to ensure there are no sneak attacks tonight.'
'Yes, sir,' that was all that Jack could say.
'The massed attacks we can deal with; man to man the British soldier is still the best in the world. If you ensure that their underhand Cossack tricks don't weaken us, we can hold the Quarries until daylight.'
'Yes, sir.' Jack said. 'I'll have to take my men out beyond the Quarries then, sir.'
'Go wherever you damned well please,' Campbell said.
'Yes, sir. We better have a safe word so your men don't shoot at us by mistake.' Jack thought quickly. 'We used Rule and Britannia once before.'
'That will do.' Campbell said, and swore as the cannon in the Redan opened up, with the Barrack Battery off to the left joining in a moment later. 'It looks as if it will be a hot night,' he said as the first of the Russian cannonballs bounced among them, scattering a pile of sandbags and undoing work in a single second that had occupied five men for fifteen minutes. 'Good luck, Windrush.'
'Thank you, sir.'
Crawling among the Russian dead in the harsh ground outside the walls of Sebastopol, Jack had a grandstand view of the night's events. The Russian cannon were soon joined by shell fire, so the British garrison of the Quarries was subjected to the same treatment as the Russians had been on the previous day.
'Keep to the folds of ground, lads,' Jack warned. 'We don't want anybody shorter by a head.'
He hugged the stony ground as the cannon balls whined overhead and Russian shells arced and fell with the same pyrotechnic displays as their British counterparts had so often shown. Each explosion shook the ground, rattling the small stones together and with the shock sending a furnace-hot blast of air over him. In the intermittent flashes of light Jack watched the progress of a small lizard as it crawled from one rock to the next, seeking insects in this land it knew as home. He wondered if it understood what was happening or if it had been born during the siege and knew nothing except explosions and loud noises; this may be normality to that lizard; it may live and die knowing nothing but warfare.
Windrush: Blood Price (Jack Windrush Book 3) Page 14