Windrush: Blood Price (Jack Windrush Book 3)

by Malcolm Archibald

  Some of the officers nodded approvingly. So far the arrangements made sense; a methodical, professional approach to an assault.

  Maxwell continued. 'There will be a further detachment of the same strength from the 4th Division, with additional support of 800 men from the 7th, 33rd and 34th regiments. Once the initial attackers have stormed the Redan, working parties of another four hundred men from the Rifle Brigade, the 23rd Fusiliers and the 34th Regiment will follow.'

  Maxwell looked over his officers. Some scribbled notes on small pads of paper. 'Lieutenant General Sir George Brown will command the five attack columns.'

  'The Light Division bore the brunt of the attack on the Quarries, sir,' Elliot said.

  'I am aware of that, Elliot.'

  'They lost over six hundred men there, dead and wounded, and have lost many in trench duty as well.'

  'I am also aware of that, Elliot.'

  'After their casualties they will be a little short in experienced men for such an operation,' Elliot continued.

  'Do we have to be lectured by a child?' Snodgrass asked. 'We would all be obliged if you would keep your opinions to yourself, Elliot. Leave tactics to those of us who have served a few years longer and you concentrate on what is important to you, such as ensuring your men can salute properly.'

  Some of the older men laughed at Snodgrass's sally while others discussed the plan of attack in low voices.

  'Where do we fit in, sir?' Jack asked.

  'Major General Eyre is leading men of the 4th Division in a flank or Left attack along the Picket House Ravine in the direction of the Merchant Harbour. With the Rifles so heavily involved in the Right attack, and our skill for irregular warfare now known, the 113th are to furnish fifty men to spearhead this assault.'

  There was silence again, with the more eager of the officers pushing themselves forward in the hope of leading the skirmishers and the more cautious or more dispirited holding back.

  'Now, you all should know what the Great Redan is, but for the benefit of the newly arrived or the men who have been asleep the past nine months or so, pray indulge me with your patience while I describe the work that is before our army.'

  Snodgrass snorted again.

  'The Great Redan is that large Vee shaped earthwork you see with the point directly facing our most advanced parallel. The walls are fifteen feet high and made of earth so our cannon balls barely dent it. The salient, that's the sharp point, you youngsters,' Maxwell smiled to ease any insult, 'is seventeen feet high and the walls are seventy feet long, while the defending ditch is twenty feet wide and fourteen deep. The plethora of artillery inside the Redan includes some guns in double tiers and they are protected against rifle fire by rope mantelets.'

  The officers continued to make notes. Jack thought of the heavy rope that would swing in front of the gunners, making it difficult for even the most skilled of marksmen to shoot them.

  Maxwell continued. 'The guns also have traverses in the rear that protects them against near-misses; only a direct hit can knock them out. If we manage to kill the defenders by artillery, rifle-fire or the bayonet, the Redan is open to the rear, so the Russians can rush in reinforcements. Finally, there is heavy artillery on the top, backed by hundreds of riflemen on firesteps.'

  Maxwell stopped there, gauging the temper of his officers. Some were listening, a few still taking notes. Jack felt sick at the thought of William having to face these stern defences.

  'Are you ready gentlemen?' Maxwell spoke so gently he could have been discussing the racing at Ascot or a cricket match rather than the probability of the death and maiming of scores or hundreds of men.

  'The Russian infantry can fire down at us as we attack. The sides of the Redan are smooth, impossible to climb without a ladder, hence the ladder-men.' He paused. 'And we have to get to the Redan first. Before we mount a ladder any attackers first have to cross a deep ditch; hence the wool-packs. They are to be thrown into the ditch as a makeshift bridge, while the ladders can be lowered to help men down and back up. Even before our men get to the ditch they have to cross a glacis, a hundred yards of smooth ground without a single piece of cover, under cross fire from the Redan's guns and the supporting batteries on either side. It will be a killing zone, gentlemen.'

  The officers knew all this but having it explained to them a couple of days before an attack was having a sobering effect. Even Snodgrass was silent.

  Maxwell nodded. 'There is more; before our men get to this glacis they have to negotiate an abattis, or you may prefer the term chevuax de frises, which in this case is a horrible mess of trees and brushwood, yards high and thick; and all under fire. And even before that is reached, the stormers have four hundred yards of open ground to cover under cross fire from the Flagstaff and Garden batteries.' He leaned back. 'That, gentlemen, is the Redan.'

  There was silence in the tent. Snodgrass lifted a flask to his lips.

  'I will remind you that the British army does not excel at attacking defended towns. Even Wellington had trouble taking French fortifications in the Peninsula and the Americans gave us the right about turn at New Orleans. This will not be an easy task, gentlemen.' Maxwell looked around at the now silent officers. 'I know that we of the 113th will do our duty as we always do. Lieutenant Windrush; I want you to lead our fifty men in the left, supporting attack, with Lieutenant Elliot as your second. Ask for volunteers; if you don't have enough, choose the best men.'

  'Yes, sir.' Jack had mixed feelings about this attack on the Redan. While part of him wished he was in William's place, the focus of all attention and sure to win plaudits and recognition, another part was glad his men would not be subject to the hell of shot and shell with which the Russians would greet them.

  'I'll lay five golden boys that Windrush is killed within ten minutes of the assault beginning,' Elliot lit a cheroot.

  'I'll take that bet,' one of the newcomers, a laconic captain named Price said. 'He's fool enough to try anything.'

  They shook hands on it, and Elliot added. 'Done, then, but the bet's off if I'm killed too. My folk can't afford the tin.'

  There was silence at that; talk of money or the lack thereof was frowned on among officers and gentlemen.

  'Damned bad form,' Snodgrass said pointedly.

  'It is allowed to get yourself killed, Elliot,' Jack said loudly, 'but how dare you mention money!' He stood up, daring anybody to challenge him. There were times when the constricting atmosphere of the regiment, with its rigid rules and regulations, irked him more than he could endure. This time tomorrow he could be dead or a screaming, limbless wreck; what did it matter if he followed expected conventions?

  The bearded major stretched lazily. 'Speaking as a perennially penniless person,' he said, 'I will take your wager, young Elliot, and if you get your head blown off as well I will still take your money, and then send it to your people with the compliments of yours truly, Major Paterson.'

  Jack gave a half bow in recognition of an ally and for a few seconds both men surveyed each other as the gathering broke up.

  'Welcome to the 113th,' Jack said softly.

  'Thank you Lieutenant Windrush.' Paterson said.

  'Windrush!' Maxwell did not give them time to become better acquainted. 'You and Elliot better get your men together. Unfortunately ours is only a supporting role but still important. Better than playing hide-and-seek with the Cossacks though, eh? At least it will be daylight and you can see the beggars!'

  At dawn on the 17th June the allied batteries opened up again, firing everything they had against the Russian defences. This time the Royal Navy also joined in with the warships unleashing the terrible power of their broadsides against Sebastopol's coastal defences. Most of the British land based firepower targeted the Redan, although a number of mortars helped the French by firing at the Malakoff.

  'Here we go again.' Elliot had lost all his previous day's bombast as he chewed the butt of his cheroot. He tried to light it with a shaking hand, failed and covered his nervous
ness with a weak grin. 'Another bloody bombardment and another bloody battle. Let's hope it is not as costly as the last one.'

  'Let's hope not,' Jack agreed. He took a deep breath, remembering the blood and agony of the fight around the Quarries. Then he thought of William, leading the forlorn hope and wished him well.

  'This is the largest artillery bombardment ever known,' Elliot said. 'We have eight hundred guns: imagine, eight hundred, and Johnny Russ has around seven hundred and fifty. We'll batter down his walls this time.'

  'I hope so.' Jack could think of nothing to say. He watched the bombardment with a professional eye, knowing he was witnessing history. 'This is something to tell your grandchildren,' he said at last.

  'I won't live that long,' Elliot said. 'I won't live to see England again.'

  'Oh nonsense!' Jack said. 'This war will be over soon and then you'll be off on the first troopship with half the girls in England waiting to welcome you with a kiss.'

  Elliot did not smile. 'I'll die in the Crimea, he said, 'and the lizards will run through my bones.'

  Jack nudged him. 'You bloody croaker, you!'

  Elliot looked away and produced his flask. He did not offer Jack a drink.

  By mid day it was obvious that the guns were having an effect. The Russian reply was lessening and wagons full of straw were seen rumbling into the city.

  'They're preparing to set Sebastopol alight.' Elliot slurred his words. 'They're beat.'

  Jack nodded. 'Oh God I hope so.'

  'At least I'll see a victory before I die.' Elliot said. Ignoring him, Jack watched the guns pound the Redan.

  After a day of concentrated artillery, the allied cannon ceased firing, leaving only the mortars to continue a night-time bombardment. Their lit fuses created pretty patterns as they arced through the sky, to explode with terrifying crashes behind the outer walls of Sebastopol's defences.

  'Poor buggers,' Riley said.

  'All they have to do is surrender and it will all be over,' Williams was less sympathetic. 'Just remember what they did to our wounded at Inkerman.'

  Jack nodded. The British soldier could be as callous as any in the world, but there was often a soft heart for a respected enemy. By repeatedly bayonetting the British wounded, the Russians had killed that tender streak.

  'Aye, blow the bastards to hell.' Logan snarled.

  'Johnny Russ will be working like Trojans behind their walls,' Elliot said. 'They'll be replacing the guns we disabled, carrying away their dead and wounded and preparing for our attack. They'll know about the anniversary of Waterloo as well as we do.'

  'We should continue the cannonade throughout the night,' Jack said. 'For God's sake, the gunners know where the target is now; they've been firing at it for months.'

  'There must be a reason,' Elliot's fingers were tight around his flask. 'I just can't think of one.'

  When the bombardment had preceded the assault on the Quarries, Jack had been unable to sleep the previous night. On this occasion he found he could blank out the thought of tomorrow; worrying could not change the future and the more sleep he got the fresher and more alert he would be. Or that was the theory.

  Helen was walking along their beach, with her hair sleek and flowing free and her hips swinging fit to turn his heart inside out. She was holding a man's hand and he hurried up, hoping to see if it was him, but the closer he got, the faster Helen seemed to walk. He followed, seeing her footprints in the sand and smelling her perfume. She turned around to face him, with the Tartar pendulum catching the morning sun in a triangular blaze of reflected light. She opened her mouth to speak and he reached out…

  At dawn the British cannonade began again, hundreds of cannon hurtling their iron balls against the walls of the Redan, splintering stone, smashing the bone and flesh of the disciplined Russian gunners and the patient infantry who waited in their thousands to repel the allied attack.

  'Raggles is out early,' Elliot pointed to the rear of the trenches, where Raglan and his headquarters staff stood, watching the progress of the bombardment through long telescopes.

  Other heads turned as men craned to see the army commander of whom they had heard so much but had never met, and seldom seen.

  Elliot took off his forage cap and raked clawed fingers through his hair. He forced a smile. 'Well, Jack, we'll soon be in Sebastopol.' His breath smelled of stale alcohol.

  'I hope so, Arthur, I really hope so.' Jack watched the Light Division prepare for the assault. He picked out William amongst his men, checking their equipment like a good officer should. Jack nodded; William would be a top class soldier.

  The British bombardment continued, hammering at the Russian defences as the storming party made their way to the front, checked their weapons, had a last pull at their pipes or exchanged crude jokes with one another. William spoke to another officer, shook his hand and marched to the head of his men.

  'God go with you, Will,' Jack muttered.

  'Sir,' Riley had to shout above the hammer of the cannon. 'The French are ready to move but their artillery has not fired a shot.'

  Jack checked his watch. 'Seven o' clock,' he said. 'Poor beggars: the Russians have had all night to repair their defences; they'll be waiting for them.' He watched a rocket soar into the air above the French positions, so pretty and so significant. That simple sign would signal the death and mutilation of hundreds if not thousands of men, French, Russian and probably British.

  'That's not the correct signal!' Elliot said. 'The French are advancing too soon!'

  Jack said nothing, lost in his own thoughts. War was mankind's most hideous invention, yet it was the life he had chosen, or which had been chosen for him by the heritage and bloodline of his family.

  'Look at them; there are thousands of them!' Hitchins said with wonder. 'Thousands and thousands of them.'

  Hitchins was correct. Where the British planned their attack on the Redan with hundreds, the French had ten times that number in the initial assault. They filled the two hundred yards or so between the French lines and the Malakoff with blue-clad bodies, and the Russians met them with a torrent of fire.

  Despite the hours of bombardment, there seemed to be a surfeit of Russian infantry remaining. They lined the Malakoff, the Gervais battery and the curtain wall, manned the artillery and swept the French away in tens and dozens and scores. Bodies piled up, men and pieces of men littering the ground as roundshot and grape shattered the advancing battalions, knocking them down, sending arms and heads and legs spinning through the air, scattering the screaming wounded among their comrades. The attack faltered as the casualties mounted, as dead and shattered Frenchmen filled the plain, as honest French blood drained into the soil of Mother Russia. The survivors hesitated, cursed and struggled forward until they reached the deep defending ditch in front of the Malakoff.

  'They won't do it,' O'Neill watched dispassionately. 'They're broke.'

  Jack saw that O'Neill was correct. Faced by the ditch and with their dead and screaming wounded all around, even the élan of the French, as brave as any soldiers in the world, failed. They faltered, stopped, turned and ran back the way they had come, with the Russians firing and cheering as they slaughtered these invaders of their land.

  'Poor buggers had no chance,' O'Neill said. 'The Russians must have thousands of men in the Malakoff. Even if the French managed to scale the walls, they would have been outnumbered.'

  There was a shocked silence as the allies surveyed the few hundred yards of bare ground, littered with dead and writhing wounded.

  'Bugger that,' Kelly said.

  'Amen.' Logan, the cynical, bitter warrior added.

  'They're trying again,' O'Neill said. 'Whoever said the French were not brave soldiers has never met them. They are brave as the word itself.'

  But Jack already knew that bravery was not enough. Once again the French swept forward and once again the Russian artillery and riflemen sliced them down by the score, by the hundred. The survivors limped back, sullen, angry, tempo
rarily defied but definitely not defeated.

  'Well that's that then,' Elliot threw away his cheroot in disgust. 'Blasted French can't do anything right. Why could they not hammer the Malakoff with artillery for another hour before they attacked? They allowed Johnny Russ the whole night to repair the damage. Now the whole thing's off. With the Malakoff intact there is no possibility of us taking the Redan.'

  'Raggles seems to disagree,' Price murmured. 'There's the flag up; the signal for us to attack.'

  'What?' Jack stared forward. 'We've just seen what happened to the French for God's sake! With the Malakoff not subdued we'll be slaughtered in a cross-fire!'

  Elliot bit through the stem of another cheroot. 'Raglan's a bloody fool!'

  Paterson shook his head. 'Raglan's no fool, Elliot, He's a gentleman; he thinks the French will think us cowardly if they attack and we don't.'

  'I hope the spectators enjoy the fair,' Elliot jerked his thumb at the crowd who had gathered to watch.

  'Bloody ghouls,' Jack gave his opinion. 'Burke and Hare would be proud of them.'

  As part of the supporting Left Attack, Jack could only watch as the main British assault force rose from their positions in the Quarries and surged forward the 450 yards toward their objective. He opened his telescope, searching for William amidst the hundreds of red-coated soldiers, but with so many men facing a sudden torrent of Russian fire, he could not see him. The British advanced through the waving long grass, some stumbling in the half-seen shell holes, others carrying the eighteen foot long ladders for scaling the ditch and walls, with the blue jackets of the Naval Brigade to the fore.

  'Jesus; they're being murdered.' O'Neill chewed the end of his pipe. 'These poor buggers.'

  O'Neill was correct. Advancing across the open without artillery cover, the British were exposed to grapeshot and cannonballs as well as musketry from the Redan. The Russian infantry stood four deep behind their walls, with men in the rear loading for the front ranks so there was no let- up in the firing. With the French attack repelled, the guns of the Malakoff and all the flanking batteries also joined in to hammer the attacking British. After enduring the allied cannonade, the Russians had their opportunity to strike back and they took full advantage.