The Scarlet Thief (17 page)

The King’s Royal Fusiliers stood in the centre of the Light Division, the 23rd Royal Welch to their left, the 7th Fusiliers to their right.

‘King’s Royal Fusiliers! Prepare to load!’ thundered the battalion sergeant major’s voice, dispelling the temporary hush. ‘Load!’

The waiting was over.

‘King’s Royal Fusiliers! Battalion will advance! Advance!’

It was a few minutes past noon.

To their intense disappointment, the Light Company had been ordered to fight in the main battalion line, behind the Greenjackets of the 95th Rifles. The Light Company were the trained skirmishers in the battalion, used to fighting on their own, strung out in extended order in front of the battalion, screening the dense ranks from the withering fire of the enemy’s skirmishers. But instead of advancing with the Greenjackets, the Light Company were expected to fire the disciplined volleys of a regular company, adding their rifles to the power of the massed battalion ranks. Jack would have revelled in the opportunity to lead his company forward on its own but for reasons he could not fathom the generals had decided otherwise.

The long red line moved forward at the command, each man’s heart beating a little faster. In the centre of the battalion line, the drummer boys beat out the time of the march, the young boys barely big enough to carry the huge instruments that hung heavily from the leather bands that held them pressed against their stomachs. To the front of the drummers marched the battalion colours, two huge squares of coloured silk which embodied the battalion’s honour and pride.

A pair of colour sergeants armed with fearsome halberds, a weapon that harked back to the days when all fighting was done hand-to-hand, guarded each colour. The sergeants were there to protect the colours at all costs; they would use their formidable weapons to hack and gut any enemy who tried to steal them. Two young ensigns carried the heavy colours with pride. To be chosen was a distinction, one that would be long remembered and cherished – if they survived. The honour came with a price, for the gaudy squares of silk were certain to draw the fire of enemy sharpshooters.

One ensign carried the Queen’s colour, an enormous Union Jack proudly emblazoned with the regimental crest in its centre. The second held aloft the battalion’s regimental colour of vibrant blue, with the crossed fusils of the regiment’s badge picked out in gold thread. The regiment’s battle honours were sewn in the same gold thread, in two columns, one either side of the badge. Each place name was highlighted by a rectangle of blood-red silk, in honour of the fusiliers who had gone before, who had fought and died under the same twin flags. The battle honours read like a chronicle of the British army. Deig. Corunna. Nive. Peninsula. Waterloo. The names resonated with history, and the six hundred fusiliers marching towards the massed ranks of the Russian army were about to take their place in it.

‘For the love of God!’ Fusilier Dawson exclaimed, echoing the sentiments of all the company as the enemy artillery opened fire.

‘Silence in the ranks! The next person to speak will find themselves the proud owner of a new arsehole.’ Sergeant Baker made his presence felt from his position behind the rear rank. His eyes roved over the company, ready to pounce on any lack of discipline.

From his place in the centre of the front rank, Slater laughed at the sergeant’s coarse words. He ignored the looks of disgust his fellow redcoats shot his way. He fed on their hatred, nurturing it, savouring it, adding it to the bitterness that burned inside him.

He felt no trace of fear as the company marched obediently into the barrage of fire but he was no fool, he knew the danger he faced. Fate was a fickle goddess but he trusted to her to keep him alive to deliver the justice he craved.

He had vowed that Jack Lark would meet his own fate today. Lark had dared to cheat his destiny, stealing a life and a place in the world far removed from that allotted to him. He would not cheat death.

High in the sky two black dots emerged from the cloud of smoke that enveloped the lines of Russian cannon. Every fusilier watched anxiously as the shot flew through the air towards them, covering the distance in a heartbeat. The roundshot smashed into the ground in front of the battalion, gouging a thick channel out of the earth before bouncing back high into the air and over the heads of the men.

A ragged cheer erupted from the redcoats, the men finding the breath to hoot their derision. Without breaking step, the redcoats treated the first artillery fire they had ever experienced with gleeful disdain.

‘Fusilier Trotter!’ Jack singled out one of his men who marched close to Slater. ‘I thought you were the battalion’s wicketkeeper. Why didn’t you take that one?’

‘Too much pace on it, sir. I thought I’d leave it for the long stops in the guards!’

It was not much of a joke but the company laughed as if the finest comedian from the Palladium was among them.

The fusiliers marched on, advancing as only the British advanced – devoid of fanfare, stoic and steady. The line moving forward with deadly purpose.

‘Open the ranks!’ Jack yelled, tracking the pencil-thin trace that marked the path of incoming roundshot. The Russian batteries were sending their fire into the advancing red line from all along the enemy’s position and one black dot was heading straight for his company. Jack screamed at his men to move, his heart in his mouth as he prayed they were quick enough to get out of its way.

The fusiliers in its path scattered. Like an express train roaring through a station, the shot sped through the opening, its horrifying passage startling in its violence. It smashed into the ground behind the company before flying over the heads of the Scots fusiliers who marched directly behind them in the ranks of the 1st Division.

The Scottish troops greeted the fusiliers’ desperate antics with loud whoops and catcalls of derision, gleefully mocking the undignified display.

Sergeant Shepherd manhandled the men back into the ordered ranks which had continued to move purposefully forward even as their fellows dodged the deadly missile. Jack scanned the sky, ever vigilant for danger aimed at the Light Company.

‘King’s Royal Fusiliers! Prepare to halt! Halt!’

The men had advanced close enough to the burning village of Burliuk to feel the heat. Dirty grey smoke swirled around the ruined houses. There was no cover for the redcoats but the smoke screened their movements from the Russian gunners and prevented the use of their range markers so that they were forced to shoot blind. But the British troops were simply too numerous to miss completely.

Captain Devine’s 3rd Company was hit, the roundshot ploughing through a file of redcoats in a gory shower of bone and blood. The fusiliers stood silent and still, stoic as two of their fellows were reduced to pathetic, twisted corpses in the blink of an eye.

Colonel Morris left his place in the centre of the battalion, urging his huge black horse forward. ‘Lie down! Lie down!’ He rode along the front of the fusiliers’ line, waving his hat over his head to emphasise the urgent order.

‘Good fellows! It won’t be long now. Well done, my boys.’ Morris turned his horse when he reached the battalion’s left flank, nodding a friendly greeting to Jack as he did so. He trotted easily back along the front of his battalion, repeating words of comfort, showing himself to his men, letting them see that he shared their danger.

The men lay on the ground, the heat from the sun and the burning village making them sweat in their thick red jackets. Their officers remained on their feet, stoically standing in their allotted positions, setting an example to their men despite the terror fluttering in their bellies.

It was impossible for the redcoats to avoid the enemy fire now they were lying down but it was also harder for the Russian gunners to hit them. Most of the roundshot bounced harmlessly over the prostrate soldiers, wasting their power on the clammy soil which erupted in spectacular fountains of earth.

Volley after volley hammered across the plain. The British soldiers lay on the ground beneath the cannonade and endured as best they could, many seeking solace in their God, their lips moving in silent prayers for deliverance.

There was nothing else to be done.

A roundshot struck the very centre of McCulloch’s company, decapitating one fusilier and taking the arm from another. Jack tore his gaze from the awful sight and tried to stand as still as possible. Despite his best efforts, he could not help flinching at every deadly projectile that rushed by. One came so close to his head that he felt the powerful rush of air as it flew past.

His terror was like a caged beast that prowled and fought for escape from deep inside him. Time crawled by, every second seeming like a minute, every minute like an hour. The barrage tossed and churned the ground around the company, the dark soil like spilt blood across the bright green grass. It was enough to drive a man to madness. Yet the redcoats endured the trial. They lay in their ranks and held their terror at bay, waiting for the order to move.

To Jack’s horror a roundshot struck one of his men. In front of his sickened eyes, it smashed down straight into Fusilier Trotter, ripping his arm from his body and sending a fountain of bright red blood into the air. Trotter screamed, a single, shrill cry that rang loudly in the ears of his fellow redcoats before he fell mercifully silent.

‘On your feet!’ Jack echoed the order he heard shouted somewhere to his right. ‘Lively now!’

The fusiliers pulled themselves to their feet, relieved to be moving yet terrified to be advancing.

‘Fix bayonets!’

This was it, the final preparation before the men closed with the enemy. The fusiliers pulled their long bayonets from their belts, locking them into place on their already loaded rifles. The officers drew their swords and pulled revolvers from their pouches. The bugles sounded the advance and the long red line jerked into motion, leaving their dead behind them.

The fusiliers marched towards the river where the 95th were already engaging the enemy. The far riverbank was crowded with Russian skirmishers who sniped at the advancing red line. Puffs of smoke erupted from the barrels of the Greenjackets’ rifles as the British skirmishers returned fire. They moved in extended order, fighting in pairs, like grasshoppers performing an intricate dance. One man from each pair dropped to one knee to fire at the Russian sharpshooters while the other moved forward, covering his partner until he was loaded and ready to move. Officers and sergeants choreographed the movement with shouts and whistles, ensuring their men fought with ruthless efficiency.

Jack watched the Greenjackets at work, impressed by their skill. The line of redcoats marched steadily forward, forcing the riflemen to move quickly to screen the progress of the battalions. Jack was convinced his company would have performed as well, his fusiliers at least the equal of the grasshoppers. The thought that, had he had his way, he would already be in action sent an icy wave of fear flushing through his veins. He had never expected to be so terrified.

He led his men forward into the shattered remains of a vineyard. Long lines of vines lay twisted underfoot, decades of careful tending and growth trampled under the careless boots of the advancing redcoats. A handful of vines survived and the fusiliers snatched bunches of ripe grapes as they passed by, gorging on the juicy fruit even as they marched into the storm of fire.

A fusilier from the left flank of McCulloch’s company fell to the Russian fire, his face a mask of blood that spilled over the grapes still in his mouth. He toppled silently to the ground, his death ignored by the men either side of him. The closest sergeant ordered the ranks to close up. There was no time for compassion, sympathy or grief. The advance could not falter.

Rifle bullets fluttered through the vineyard, flicking the branches and buzzing past the ears of the fusiliers, as if the crop was under attack from a plague of deadly insects. The Russian fire was heavy; it was worse, far worse, than Jack could ever have imagined. It seemed inevitable that all the redcoats must surely be struck down. Yet by some miracle only a man here and there fell to the enemy fire. The redcoats continued to advance.

Then Jack was shot.

A solid object thumped hard against his body, a stab of pain flaring in the very centre of his chest. His free hand clutched at the pain, his shaking fingers feeling for the tattered flesh that would reveal a horrific wound.

His fingers closed over a solid lump that rested against his ribs. With a shaking hand, Jack pulled the musket ball from where it had lodged in his jacket. Fired at long range the bullet had not had the force to pierce his flesh, its power already spent. Apart from a neat hole in his coat, it had done no damage.

Shaking with a heady mix of fear and relief, Jack hurled the musket ball away. If the Russians had been armed with Minié rifles, Jack knew he would now be dead. It was a sobering thought and he silently offered his grateful thanks to a beneficent God that had denied the majority of the Russian army modern weaponry.

The Russian infantry on the slopes to the south of the Alma were wasting their powder; their ancient muskets lacked the power to inflict much damage at such a distance. Fusiliers gasped and swore as the spent bullets struck them, the stinging blow was painful but it did little except shred the men’s uniforms and their already strained nerves. But the Russian skirmishers were armed with modern rifles. They were starting to exact a high toll on the line that snaked towards the Alma. Sergeant Shepherd fell, his shoulder smashed and two more fusiliers from the Light Company went down under the withering fire.

The British wounded were abandoned to their fate. Some picked themselves up, bravely rushing forward to catch up with their company, cursing at the pain, staunching their wounds as best they could. Others walked, crawled or pulled themselves to the rear, desperate to get out of the line of fire.

The continual order to close the ranks was all that marked the passing of the fallen.

‘Come on!’ Jack roared, urging his men forward. He sensed the pace of the advance begin to falter. The men were still moving forward but the steady, rhythmic pace of the march was gone. The long red chain was breaking up. The men were moving towards the river in small groups or on their own, their instinct to find cover becoming ever more powerful as more of their mates fell to the enemy fire.

‘Leave him!’ Two fusiliers had paused to help one of their mates who had taken a bullet in the thigh, the blood pulsing over the fingers he clasped desperately to the gaping hole in his leg. ‘Come on! Move!’

‘Move, you sluggards! Get moving!’ Digby-Brown, too, was driving the men forward, physically pushing any fusilier who hesitated. The young lieutenant mimicked his captain, grabbing any who stopped to help a wounded man and sought to use the charitable act as an excuse to stop advancing into the merciless fire.

Step by faltering step the redcoats edged to the far side of the vineyard. The bank of the Alma River was now just a few short yards ahead.

At the edge of the vineyard, the fusiliers staggered to a halt. They stared in fear at the open ground that led down the gentle slope to the riverbank. The dozen yards taunted them, daring them to leave the meagre sanctuary of the shattered vineyard. The enemy fire seemed to redouble as they stood there, refusing to advance despite the roars of the officers.

Jack screamed at his men to advance, thumping his fists against the backs of the terrified fusiliers. He could see their fear in their faces, and the flashes of anger as he tried to drive them into the horrific fire that flensed the open ground in front of them.

‘Fusiliers!’ Jack’s voice was huge. ‘Advance, damn you! Move! Move!’

But the fear of the enemy fire was too strong. The British advance had stopped.