To Do and Die. Patrick Mercer
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picked up the hysteria in Carmichael's voice and now they edged uneasily by, trying not to catch his eye.
‘Christ, Morgan, Eddington's dead … look.’ Morgan was as appalled by the decapitated horror that had been their Captain as Carmichael was, but he knew that they must not let the men see their officers' fear.
‘That would certainly seem to be the case.’ Morgan was surprised, impressed even, by his own sangfroid. ‘You're in charge now. What do you want me to do?’ He turned to encourage a young non-commissioned officer; ‘Corporal Aldworth, well done, get those men down the bank.’
‘Just… get on, just… get across to Major Hume and report to him. I'll … I'll go and look for the others.’ Carmichael slipped off to the rear, enveloped by the smoke before Morgan could remind him of his duty.
Hundreds of urgent feet had churned the bank of the river, making it hard to stay upright. He slopped into the mud, forced through the water, pistol, sword and haversack as far above his waist as their various straps would allow, watching Hume and the Colour party. The fall from his horse didn't seem to have unsettled Hume, for now he stretched his arms out behind the young ensigns' backs, gently urging them on, uttering calm words of encouragement to the knot of frightened men around the Colours.
With the two Colour-Sergeants alongside, the little band ducked their chins and braced their shoulders as if to face a gale as they slithered up the bank. The advance through the vineyard had been mild compared to this, for as the line of dripping troops thickened on the bare slope directly below the Russian guns, so their enemies increased the fire. A mixture of shell and canister whined from the guns ensconced in the Redoubt behind big, basketwork gabions that were full of protective packed earth: the whole position was carefully sited to cover the point where the British would emerge from the banks of the river.
‘Look there …’ Morgan pointed at a Russian who was desperately trying to set fire to a tar and straw-tipped pole in front of them, ‘… that rogue's trying to light a range-marker.’ Even Morgan's crude grasp of tactics told him that attacking into the face of an enemy that had prepared themselves well enough to have range-markers for the guns was unwise – hadn't someone said something about always seeking a flank?
‘Quick, Nixon, knock him down.’ The Russian struggled with flint and steel as one of the soldiers beside Morgan raised his rifle, squinted and squeezed the trigger as calmly as if on the butts back in England.
‘Damn me, the fucking charge is wet,’ Nixon cursed as the Russian scuttled off into a fold in the ground, whilst the marker spat smokily behind him.
The jumbled line of regiments sputtered up towards the Great Redoubt. Sometimes pausing to fire then reload, the men pushed on despite wide furrows being opened in their lines whenever the Russian guns belched, for at their most effective range the canister rounds were deadly even when fired almost blind through the clinging, grey powder-smoke. Above the tangled, yelling lines Morgan could see the blue Colours of the 23rd and the 7th, the deep green standards of the 19th and his own jaunty, canary-yellow beside the big Union flag, but in an instant they were down, swept away by another sheet of canister.
‘Sir, Major Hume's shouting for you.’ McGucken had seen the senior major hauling at the fallen flags, pulling the Queen's Colour from beneath its stricken ensign, passing it to one of the Colour-Sergeants before taking up the Regimental Colour and bawling for the closest officer.
‘Mother of God, he can't want me.’
‘Just get over there, sir.’
Morgan ducked past the levelled rifles of some of his own men, fumbling with his wet sash to find the scabbard for his sword. As he approached the muddied Hume, a ball hummed through the major's haversack, spilling biscuits and a razor – it was coolly ignored.
‘Ah, Morgan, why the deaf ear? Grab hold of this, get onto the high ground with the colour-sar'nt and for God's sake show front whilst I try to rally them.’
On a hillock, Colour-Sergeant Baghurst had dug the butt of his Colour pike into the ground whilst brandishing his rifle at the enemy entrenchment and shouting encouragements. Then Morgan saw the shot-holes and rents in the bright silk, realizing that he was about to become a magnet for every rifleman and gunner on the field. But with no belt to carry the Colour, he raised the pole that bore the six-foot silk square with both hands, immediately struggling to control it in the breeze.
As if to confirm his fears, no sooner had he drawn close to Baghurst than the Colour-Sergeant yelped, let his flag sag to the ground and grabbed his ankle, barging into one of the men who was hurrying forward. He wasn't alone for long, though, for his servant and fellow Corkman, Keenan, left the ranks and ran to be beside his master – quickly slinging his rifle and picking up the fallen Colour.
‘So, your honour, bet you never expected to see me doing an officer's job, did you?’ Morgan agreed: there were a number of things that surprised him about Keenan, not least his wife, Mary.
Death loved these sparse, scarlet files. No more than two thousand British had climbed out of the riverbed and now the guns were whittling at them so hard that it would be madness to pause to dress the line. Like a tangled piece of string, the troops plodded up the slope, the perfect target for Russian riflemen who were now forming to one side of the Redoubt.
The stolid slabs of Russian infantry were just visible through the smoke, their bayonets glittering above them, whilst hovering about their flanks was a cloud of riflemen. Active men wearing soft green caps, they sped into cover, kneeling behind the scrub, firing, disappearing to reload and then emerging from a different spot. One was handling his ramrod with fluid movements – he paused to adjust his sights then cuddled his butt into his cheek.
Keenan's tongue flicked quickly over his stubbled lips as the pair saw the rifle barrel deliberately swing up towards them. At two hundred paces, every detail of the Russian's uniform and features were clear and both men unconsciously drew their shoulders up to shield themselves as the marksman disappeared behind a cloud of smoke. The bullet snatched at Morgan's wing, holing the bullion and opening a gash in the scarlet cloth at his shoulder through which a pennon of white lining now peeped. Next to him Keenan, without a sound, sank to the ground, the great yellow flag shrouding him for an instant before it was snatched up. Morgan fancied that he saw a smile on the Russian's face.
‘He'll cook you with his next round, sir.’ Sergeant Ormond – one of those steady, likeable men, the backbone of the company – had appeared beside him, giving words to his own thoughts as the ramrod flew down the barrel of the distant rifle.
‘Thank you Ormond – you're a great comfort, you are. Luff, pass me your rifle … is it made ready?’
‘Sir, an' it's dry an' all. Sure you know how it works?’ It wasn't much of a joke, but Luff's words made them all smile amongst the danger and noise. Morgan, like most officers, had been brought up with gun, hounds and rod and took a pride in being more skilful with the new Minié rifle than the soldiers. Despite this, officers didn't carry such weapons in action; gentlemen were expected to arm themselves only with a chivalrous sword and pistol.
Now Morgan glanced at the sights and drew the chunky rifle into the shoulder. The Russian was just starting to kneel – he aimed at his belly and as the pale disc of his face swam above the foresight, he squeezed the trigger. He was always surprised at the kick of the new weapon; a few rounds would leave your shoulder black and blue.
Even above the din, Morgan recognized the sound. He'd first heard it as a boy when shooting seals off Bantry with his father's heavy rifle – the solid, meaty thump of a soft lead ball tearing flesh. The Russian jerked forward onto his face, invisible now amongst the low scrub and the young officer marked the spot as he would for his dog and a downed pheasant.
Had Morgan been able to hear above the pounding of his heart, he would have sensed that the din was less. As they'd raced up the lethal slope splinters and balls had sliced the