Jack flew at the major, hitting his shoulder against Peacock’s back with such force that both men were knocked off their feet. Jack’s rage drove him on, the pain of the impact barely registering. He flung himself on top of the major’s body, flattening him and driving the breath from his body.
‘Sloames, no!’ Peacock raised his hands in terror. ‘Please!’ he begged. ‘Don’t kill me! I don’t want to die! Please!’
Jack slapped the major’s hands away in disgust and stood up. It would have given him great satisfaction to beat Peacock to a bleeding pulp. But to do so was to stoop to the level of someone like Slater. Jack had embarked on his long charade to lift himself out of the gutter, to prove that whatever the chance of his birth he was capable of so much more than society allowed. Beating Peacock would condemn him as the brutal ruffian the world expected him to be, the kind of vicious creature he so despised.
Jack reached down and snapped the buckle that held Peacock’s holstered revolver around his waist. He picked up the weapon and turned and walked away. He withdrew the revolver from its holster and snapped the gun open. The weapon had not been fired that day and Jack greeted the sight of the fully loaded chambers with a grunt of satisfaction.
He did not look back at Peacock lying on the ground. He thrust the revolver into his own holster replacing the one he had lost when he fled Smith’s devastating injury. He made his way back to the line of redcoats, the weight of the revolver against his hip reassuring.
He risked a glance towards the Russian column. He was relieved to see that they were still halted. The Russian officers were running around the flanks of the columns like sheepdogs worrying a flock of sheep. He had time to rejoin his men. The makeshift British line looked desperately feeble in the face of the two Russian columns but Jack’s mind was clear. He needed to be with his men, whatever their fate.
The captain from the Scots Fusiliers saw him coming and waved him in, a wry smile on his face.
‘Thought you might have left us, old man.’
Jack grinned at the plummy voice. It would once have caused him to bite his tongue with anger. Now it did not matter. The guards captain was willingly facing the same grim fate he himself was, his privileged birth no protection against the power of a Russian bullet. Here, at least, two men from vastly different backgrounds were equals.
‘Never.’ Jack smiled, ‘I wouldn’t miss this for the world.’
The Russian infantry stirred into life and the drummers at the centre of each column settled into the hypnotic rhythm of the march.
‘Here they come,’ Dodds announced.
‘Thank you, Dodds.’ Jack was glad of the chance to speak and break the foreboding silence that had gripped his company. ‘Aim low, men. Hit the bastards in the guts. Make them hurt.’
The officers of the westernmost Russian column, seeing what lay ahead, aligned their attack so that it would swamp the redcoats who bravely but foolishly contested its passage.
The second column, further to the east, bore to the left of the redcoats’ flank, ignoring their futile resistance, seeking an easier route to the Alma. It would keep them away from the fight, leaving the redcoats to concentrate their fire on the western column.
Jack prowled up and down the section of the line where the remnants of the Light Company waited for the enemy, offering his few words of advice and encouragement. His feet scuffed against discarded equipment, the detritus of the Light Division’s attack littering the ground. Mercifully, the bodies of the dead and wounded had been dragged to one side so at least he was spared having to walk over their torn flesh. The captain of the guards had moved to the left flank of the line, leaving Jack to command the right. The unspoken agreement to share the command left Jack absurdly pleased with himself.
There were less than sixty redcoats in the line, facing more than ten times their number in the Russian column. In the centre of the line the colours of the Scots Fusiliers barely stirred in the light breeze. The two colours added a touch of grandeur that seemed out of place in a scene of such appalling human devastation.
‘When they come, stick them with your spikes.’ Jack was still patrolling the line. ‘Make those bastards bleed.’
To the right, Jack saw Digby-Brown draw his sword. The bright afternoon sunlight flashed from its blade. The lieutenant looked dreadfully young, flecks of dried blood standing out like engorged freckles against his pale face. He offered a tight-lipped smile when he saw his captain looking at him, his young eyes reflecting a world-weary sadness more suited to someone much older than his tender age.
Jack would have liked to go to his lieutenant’s side, to offer a word of comfort or to show a shred of compassion. But the advancing Russian column made that impossible. All Jack could do was return Digby-Brown’s brave smile with a nod of encouragement.
‘At one hundred yards, volley fire!’ The guards captain’s voice was firm, every syllable enunciated with care, as if the officer was aware these could be the last orders he was ever going to give.
‘Present!’
The line of rifles steadied as the men braced themselves to fire.
‘Fire!’
The volley crashed out, spitting sixty Minié balls into the packed ranks of the Russian column. Many in the front rank crumpled, as did some behind them as the powerful bullets ripped through living flesh and on into succeeding ranks.
‘Reload!’
The guards captain called out the orders calmly, as if conducting a company drill rather than a desperate final defence that would likely see his whole command destroyed within minutes. The men obeyed without conscious thought. To Jack’s shame he realised that he had not taken the time to find out the captain’s name. He would fight this last battle under the command of a stranger.
‘Present.’
More than one redcoat fumbled his ammunition or dropped his firing caps, exhaustion and haste making his fingers clumsy.
‘Fire!’
A second volley exploded across the slope, following by the crackle of tardy shots form the men who had not been ready.
The front of the column had been butchered. Dozens of Russian soldiers had been struck down, their bodies blocking the way of the men behind them.
‘Charge! Charge!’
This was the time for the exhausted and bedraggled redcoats to unleash their terror on the stalled enemy. A ragged cheer erupted from their parched throats and they surged forward, sixty men emerging from the cloud of powder smoke to charge six hundred like the very hounds of hell.
Jack drew his sword as he ran, the long steel edge rasping from the scabbard, its balanced weight snug in his hand. The blade felt alive, as if a vital force of energy was flowing into him, filling his aching muscles with a new strength. With his sword held high in his right hand, he tugged Peacock’s revolver free from its holster with his left.
The redcoats closed on the Russian ranks, their wild screams freezing the blood of the enemy conscripts. The Russian officers yelled orders, the air full of their foreign words and unintelligible commands. The column jerked into motion once more. The leading ranks hefted their own bayonets and braced themselves for the impact of the charge. Their movements were ponderous, the Russian conscripts clearly terrified of the screaming redcoats.
The redcoats closed the distance quickly and hammered into the leading Russian ranks. The first Russian conscripts died in an instant, wholly unable to deflect the violent assault. The leading redcoats pulled their bayonets out of the flesh of their first victims and moved on to the next, pounding forward, stepping over their victims, stabbing and gutting without pause.
Jack went with his men, his whole body thrilling to the insanity of the charge. There was a wild joy in the madness that he savoured even as the terror and the fear cascaded through his soul. Nothing mattered except the desire to smash his sword into the enemy, to fight and h
ack at anyone who dared to stand in his way. It was irresistible.
A gap appeared between Dodds and Taylor, the two redcoats fighting directly in front of Jack. He pushed into the opening, thrusting his sword forward eagerly. Its razor-sharp point pierced the flesh of a Russian soldier who had been about to stab an unsuspecting Fusilier Dodds in the side. The Russian’s head whipped round with a scream as Jack’s blade slid between two of his ribs. Despite the agony of the wound the Russian twisted his hands on the musket so he could bring it round to stab his attacker. The bayonet snagged on the corner of Dodds’s jacket, which gave Jack an opening. He raised his left hand and jammed the barrel of his revolver into the face of the wounded Russian.
Without hesitation, Jack pulled the trigger.
The Russian jerked backwards as if an invisible rope had tugged him. The bullet punched his body free of Jack’s sword and sent him flailing into the soldiers behind him.
Jack steadied his wrist, changed his point of aim and fired again, repeating the action until all five chambers were empty. The storm of bullets struck home with appalling violence and cleared a space between him and the nearest Russians. Without a second thought, he stepped forward, relishing the opportunity to flay his sword at the enemy, heedless of the risk. As he moved, he threw the now empty revolver into the face of a Russian conscript and swung his blade wildly. To his frustration the sword sliced into the wood of a Russian musket. Jack’s arm rang with the impact but he recovered quickly and swept the blade forward once more. This time the tip took the throat of the Russian whose musket had blocked the first wild attack.
The enemy were all around him, his mindless attack had driven him deep into the Russian ranks. Bayonets thrust at him from every angle and it took all his speed to bring his sword round in a desperate, sweeping defence. One bayonet slipped past his blade and tore into the hem of his jacket where it stuck fast. The horrified look in its owner’s eyes barely registered in Jack’s mind before he swept his sword across the Russian’s face, taking the man’s sight in a heartbeat.
Jack’s men pressed forward and were soon fighting close around him once more.
The redcoats had thrust hard and fast into the Russian ranks but the column was deep and the wedge of redcoats converged into an ever finer point. At its tip, Jack and the men of the Light Company fought like men possessed, dozens of Russian conscripts dying under their dreadful assault. Yet redcoats, too, were falling. Steadily their numbers dwindled and the assault slowly ground to a halt against the sheer number of enemy soldiers.
The Russians moved round the point of the attack, forcing the British soldiers on the flanks to give ground, bending the attacking line back on itself. It was only a matter of time before the redcoats were surrounded.
On the far right of the attacking line, Digby-Brown was desperately trying to stay alive. His left arm bled from where a bayonet had pierced the flesh to the bone and the limb hung uselessly at his side as he fought against the horde of men pressing in on the flank. Many of the redcoats that had stood nearest to him lay dead or dying. The entire right flank was collapsing around him.
Digby-Brown slashed his sword to his left, beating back bayonet after bayonet. He was forced to step backwards, giving yet more ground, compressing the attacking line still further. He had no concept of what was happening elsewhere. He could not risk turning round to see if the other flank was also moving backwards.
He slashed the pitted and notched edge of his sword forward, enjoying a brief surge of joy as he sliced into the neck of a Russian. It was short-lived. He recovered his blade only just in time to beat aside a bayonet that had threatened to slide into his unprotected ribcage.
He took another step back as more bayonets came at him, stabbing at the spot he had just vacated. His quick feet saved him for a moment longer, the sharp points ripping his clothes but stopping short of reaching his flesh. So far he had remained silent but finally a howl of frustration and building terror escaped through his gritted teeth as he swatted aside yet another bayonet and then another. His desire to live was so very strong. He did not want to die. Not here. Not now.
He fought on, beating aside the enemy’s bayonets with a desperate strength, his duty tying him to his position as firmly as any physical tether. The nothingness of death terrified him. The tears coursed down his cheeks as he fought. Digby-Brown faced his death but he refused to accept its approach.
A Russian officer was screaming orders behind the closest conscripts, his frantic gestures summoning more men from the body of the column, bringing even more numbers to bear on the creaking flank. Digby-Brown was forced to give ground again, his faltering defence barely keeping the countless thrusting bayonets at bay.
The heel of his right boot caught on the body of a fusilier. It was a corpse from the Light Division’s first assault on the great redoubt. It still lay where it had fallen, a great hole torn in the dead man’s stomach, eviscerated by a Russian shell.
Digby-Brown was thrown off balance and he fell on to his back across the dead fusilier, his shoulders and back lying on blood-soaked ground and spilt intestines.
The bayonets were reaching for him before he even hit the ground. The blades met no resistance as the first two slipped into Digby-Brown’s flesh. There was no pain as the bayonets pierced his body, no searing agony as the Russians leant down on their blades, driving them into his torso so that the tips emerged through his back.
But his terror bubbled through, the horror of knowing he was to about to die forcing a scream from his lips.
He still held his sword and he thrust the blade upwards into the ribs of one of his assailants. The Russian let go of his rifle and grabbed Digby-Brown’s sword with both hands, tearing the blade from his weakening grip.
It was Digby-Brown’s last act of defiance.
Another bayonet stabbed into his thigh, immediately followed by many more, the sharp blades rammed home with enthusiasm. The pain came now, a terrible wave of agony that flared and built until mercifully he lost consciousness. Digby-Brown died, unaware of the last terrible ravages wrought on his body. The Russian conscripts vented their fear in a frenzy of stabbing and hacking, the young officer’s body torn to bloody shreds in their rage.
Jack fought with wild abandon. He had no idea what was happening around him. He saw nothing but the next blow, sought nothing but more victims for his blade, its edge now blunted by countless blows that had landed against muskets or bayonets that blocked it from finding its way into Russian flesh.
The men at his side fought with ruthless efficiency and a merciless professionalism that had the Russian conscripts backing away rather than face them. Jack and his men walked on the bodies of their victims, occasionally ramming their weapons down into the ruined flesh beneath their boots, quenching any last resistance from the men they had struck down. They were surrounded by the dead and the dying, the stench of blood and opened bowels thick in their throats. The very depths of hell were exposed on the Russian plain.
Their arms were leaden, their muscles protested at every movement, yet they fought on, their rage sustaining their bodies far beyond the point of exhaustion. Jack sobbed as he fought, the pain in his battered body an unrelenting agony. Fusilier Dodds still fought at his side, uttering an unceasing stream of obscenities as he killed the men who stood against him, his curses the last sound they would ever hear.
Less than half the redcoats who had formed the makeshift line still lived. The Scots Fusilier captain who had brought them together was dead, his body surrounded by the corpses of the men he had slain. The two lieutenants who carried the colours still lived, protected by the colour sergeants who ferociously beat off any Russian who sought fame and fortune by capturing their enemy’s pride.
The surviving redcoats were being pressed ever closer together. The flanks had long since folded and the British were reduced to a desperate huddle, surrounded and alone. The pre
ssure on the small knot of men was unceasing; wave after wave of Russian soldiers rushed forward, urged on by their officers or dragged into the fight by a sergeant.
Jack blocked another bayonet that was thrust at his stomach, punching the hilt of his sword into the attacking Russian’s face, bludgeoning the conscript to the ground. A Russian sergeant immediately moved to take the man’s place. He thrust his bayonet forward with rapid professional jabs that took all of Jack’s wavering strength to counter and left him no opening to counterattack. Jack blocked and blocked, each blow jarring his agonised muscles. The Russian sergeant sensed his superiority and pressed forward relentlessly.
Then everything changed.
The deafening bark of a battalion volley crashed out to the right of the Russian column. Jack heard crisp British voices immediately issuing orders to reload, their clipped tones more suited to the parade square than this sordid butcher’s yard of a battle.
Russian soldiers on the right of the column fell to the ground, scythed down like stalks of wheat cut by a threshing machine. The dense Russian formation shuddered, and then emitted a dreadful groan, like an enormous wild animal fatally wounded by a hunter’s well-aimed shot. The shudder became a spasm as the Russian conscripts were thrown into confusion. A second British volley shattered any vestiges of cohesion as the shocked conscripts clawed at each other in their sudden haste to escape.
The pressure on the small knot of redcoats eased instantly.
The Russian sergeant facing Jack rammed his bayonet forward with one last, half-hearted thrust that Jack easily knocked aside. The two men stared at each other, each astonished at the sudden change in circumstances. Neither moved to attack. For a moment, there was an unexpected bond between them, a fleeting notion of comradeship. The Russian looked at Jack then shrugged his shoulders, turned and made his escape.
The Scarlet Thief Page 23