The Maharajah's General (30 page)

The noise started just before dawn. The impenetrable blackness of the night still wrapped its heavy arms around the tired redcoats in Dutton’s temporary fortress when the wild blare of trumpets split the quietness asunder.

The sounds rose in a crescendo, the chaotic medley denying the defenders the sanctuary of sleep. Underscoring the frenzied orchestra was the deep, visceral chanting of hundreds of voices, which came and went in waves of sound, throbbing and pulsating with a nerve-jangling tremor.

The violence in the air was palpable, and every redcoat shivered as they listened to the mob that had arrived and was now preparing for the battle to come.

The defenders greeted the dreadful cacophony in silence. Each man was left alone with his fears, forced to endure the last of the night wrestling with his demons unaided. It was the time for silent prayer and superstitious ritual. For each redcoat to find a way to face the peril they knew would come with the dawn.

‘Stand to!’ The two surviving buglers sounded the rising notes as the first enemy troops were sighted. The defenders took their places in the bayonet-tipped perimeter, which would have to stand firm if they were to survive the day.

Dutton’s sepoys manned the outer wall. Just under one hundred and fifty men had answered the roll call in the cold air before sunrise, less than half of the three companies left after the previous day’s massacre. Their ranks had been swelled by a number of servants who had stayed loyal to their masters and who had been given hasty lessons in how to reload a musket. The extra bodies and the shortness of the perimeter allowed Dutton to keep back fifty men, whom he organised into a flying column, ready to pounce on any part of the wall that started to give way.

The 24th were left to defend their barracks and the storerooms that formed the easternmost wall. The long, airy barrack block had been transformed into a stronghold, allowing the redcoats to bring as many guns as possible to bear on the narrow pathway that made straight for the pair of wide double doors facing the east. Any attack on this side of the fortress could be made under cover, the attackers only having to break into the open when they were no more than fifteen to twenty yards away. The 24th would have to fight the Maharajah’s men in bloody hand-to-hand combat, the power of their muskets diminished by the lack of an open field of fire.

The rest of the cantonment’s population was crammed into the largest room in the 24th’s barracks that did not have a wall or window facing to the east. There the wives, children and clerks would have to endure the battle, sweltering in the heat as they willed the defenders to hold out.

It was a time for prayers, for the faithful to beseech their God with pleas for deliverance. It was a time for hopes to dwindle and for men to place their faith in seventeen inches of cold steel.

Jack peered out of the window. The fresh breeze was cool against his skin, the layer of grime and sweat congealing to leave his face feeling as stiff as dried parchment. The bugles were calling for the defenders to be ready, the first sighting of the enemy stirring Dutton’s men into action. The proud notes sounded defiant, the clear rising call a challenge to the bewildering hubbub that summoned the Maharajah’s men to readiness.

‘Hold your fire.’ Jack pulled back from the window and walked down the centre of the barracks. He had over half his men at the eastern wall, their bayonet-tipped muskets pointing out of the windows or loopholes, ready to fire as soon as the first enemy soldier dared to show his face. He had stationed another fifteen on the roof to act as sharpshooters under the command of Colour Sergeant Hughes; he hoped they would be able to fire down on to the heads of any enemy troops milling around outside the barracks. The final dozen waited as a reserve, ready to plug the inevitable gaps, Jack’s final throw of the dice should the Maharajah’s men force a breach in his defences.

‘Shoot the bastards in the guts.’ Jack stalked behind the men pressed to the wall. ‘Make them bleed.’ He offered his advice in the even tones of an instructor on the firing range, as if they faced stuffed woollen dummies rather than men bent on their destruction. ‘The more you kill, the fewer you will have to fight.’

He caught the eye of Corporal Jones. The Welshman stood at the head of Jack’s flying squad, looking as composed as if the 24th faced nothing more than a routine drill.

‘Be ready for my signal, Corporal.’

‘We’ll be ready, sir.’ Jones risked a smile. ‘Feels right to call you “sir” again, sir.’

Jack paused in his pacing. ‘Thank you, Corporal. I’ll do my best not to be a cock.’

Corporal Jones coloured as the other redcoats smiled at Jack’s choice of language. Jack looked into the eyes of the men now under his command. He saw their fear, the waiting pulling at their courage. But he recognised their determination to get the job done. His hand fell to the talwar at his hip. He ran his fingers over the coarse sharkskin grip, the knowledge that he would soon draw the blade in anger for the first time adding to his own anxiety. On his other hip he could feel the reassuring weight of his revolver. He had borrowed the gun from Major Dutton, unwilling to fight without one. He was still dressed in the red coat of a private soldier but now he at least carried the weapons of an officer. Like his men, he was prepared to fight.

‘Sir! Here they come!’

Jack whirled on the spot. ‘Company! Ready!’

He shouted the needless order, his men already bracing themselves for the attack. Those stationed at the windows and loopholes pulled their muskets into their shoulders, aiming the weapons outside. The men in the flying squad hefted their muskets, or reached for their bayonets, reassuring themselves that the seventeen inches of steel was attached securely.

The tramp of footsteps rolled down the pathway that led away from the barracks. It was the rhythmic thump of men marching in formation, the regular tempo of disciplined troops manoeuvring into position.

‘Prepare to fire!’ Jack peered anxiously into the bright sunlight. The path was empty but he knew the enemy was close. He let his hand fall to his hip, undoing the flap of his holster so he could withdraw the heavy revolver. The solid lump of metal was cold to his touch, but it felt good to have the weapon in his hand.

The pounding stopped. The ears of every man stationed in the barracks strained to hear the sound of the attack beginning. The red-coated soldiers waited anxiously, their nerves screwed to fever pitch as they endured the last moments of peace. Loud voices echoed around the remains of the cantonment, the last shouted orders as the defenders prepared for the assault.

Yet not one enemy soldier was in sight.

Jack could barely breathe as he stared out of the barracks window. He could sense the enemy soldiers were close by, but they remained stubbornly out of view.

‘Come on now. This ain’t bleeding fair.’ The redcoat to Jack’s right muttered the words under his breath as he continued to peer down the barrel of his musket.

‘They’re coming.’ Jack reached out and patted the redcoat on the shoulder. He pulled back and quickly moved to a window near the centre of the barracks, seeing if the new viewpoint would reveal the enemy.

Nothing.

And then they appeared.

They came in a rush. One moment the pathway was empty; a heartbeat later, the enemy infantry rushed forward, erupting around the corner in a wild mob.

‘Company!’ Jack’s voice was steady despite his heart hammering in his chest. He had a moment to realise that the men swarming towards the 24th’s barracks were dressed in the splendid red and blue uniform of the Maharajah’s guards, the familiar sight sending a tremor of guilt through his soul. ‘Fire!’

The muskets fired in unison. The enemy were close enough for Jack to hear the grotesque sound of the balls slapping into living flesh, followed by the screams of those struck down.

There was no time for the men to reload before the enemy reached the walls, and for a dreadful second there was silence as the appalled redcoats witnessed the destructive power of their volley at such close range. The musket balls had cut a bloody swathe through the leading ranks. Many guardsmen had been struck by more than one bullet, their bodies shredded by the disciplined fire. Dozens of the enemy had been cut down, the storm of musket fire gutting the attack.

Jack nearly choked on the foul-smelling powder smoke that filled the room, his eyes watering as the rotten egg stench filled his mouth and nose.

‘Kill them!’ He screamed the order, breaking the spell that the sudden lull had cast over the redcoats. Through the smoke he could see the enemy charging at the walls, the Maharajah’s best soldiers clambering over the dead and the dying, callous in their desire to reach the hated redcoats.

The men Jack had stationed on the roof opened fire as the enemy stormed forward. He could hear Hughes marking the targets for his sharpshooters. Half a dozen of the blue-coated guardsmen fell to the well-directed fire, their bodies tumbling to the ground, trampled underneath the boots of their fellows.

The first enemy soldier reached the wall. His talwar keened as it sliced through the air, the man behind the blade screaming like a fiend as he tried to strike at the redcoats who waited behind the window.

The killing began.

More and more of the enemy pressed up to the windows. Blade after blade was thrust forward, reaching for the flesh of the defiant redcoats. A dozen or more guardsmen packed against each of the openings. Each rammed his weapon forward, striving to be the first to break into the heart of the foreigners’ stronghold.

The redcoats held their ground. Time and time again they punched their bayonets forward, using the point of the vicious seventeen-inch blade just as they had been taught on the drill square. They plied their trade with dreadful effect, taking advantage of the height of their position to hack down at the faces of the enemy horde. The men at the loopholes loaded as quickly as they could before thrusting their weapons out once more, the cough of their muskets cracking out every few moments.

‘Hold them! Hold them!’ Jack screamed his encouragement, his voice straining with the effort.

More of the enemy were falling to the shots coming from the roof. Hughes was controlling his sharpshooters well, directing an effective fire that was striking man after man from the Maharajah’s ranks. Still they pressed forward, ignoring the dead and the dying underneath their boots, the ruined bodies trodden thoughtlessly into the dust as the guardsmen strove to batter their way into the barracks.

The redcoats were fighting hard but the enemy were relentless. Each redcoat faced a dozen blades. As quickly as they struck one man down, another two took his place. Sharp talwars were thrust forward from every direction and the redcoats were reduced to a desperate defence as they were forced to block again and again, the enemy blades reaching for them with dreadful persistence.

‘Hold them!’ Jack threw himself forward as the first redcoat fell to the ground, his hands clutched to the ruin of his throat, ripped open by a fast-moving sword edge. He snapped his left hand forward, thrusting the barrel of his revolver into the thickly bearded face of the first enemy soldier to reach up and try to scramble through the window.

‘Fuck off!’ he screamed as he pulled the trigger.

The man’s face disappeared as the heavy bullet punched through skin and bone, a nauseating explosion of blood and offal splattering both Jack and the two redcoats who were still desperately defending the window.

Jack pushed into the gap the fallen redcoat had left. The blue-coated infantry were pressed tight against the window, and now they were reaching up to haul themselves into the opening. Jack got a blurred impression of the hatred in the bright eyes of the dark, bearded faces as he raised his revolver once more and fired into the pulsating mass that screamed its horrifying war cry in the faces of the defenders. The four bullets left in the revolver punched into the closest bodies. Jack steadied his aim after each shot, making sure each one counted. The dreadful salvo cleared a space, each bullet striking a man to the floor, easing the pressure on the route into the barracks.

Jack saw the opening and reacted without thought. The madness was irresistible. As soon as he had pulled the trigger for the first time it had overwhelmed him. Nothing mattered save the dreadful urge to fight, to hack at the enemy.

He put one arm on the ledge and leapt through the window.

He landed on the balls of his feet, the small drop down from the window barely registering in his mind. His beautiful sword whispered from the scabbard, the bright gems encrusted on the hilt flashing in the bright sunlight. The wild call of battle surged through him, the same soul-searing madness that had driven him into the Russian ranks at the Alma coursing through his veins.

He flailed the sword forward, sweeping its sharpened edge in an upward arc, slashing it into the astonished face of the closest enemy soldier. The talwar scoured through the man’s heavy beard, gashing a wide channel that immediately filled with blood before the man fell to the floor, his hand clasped to the dreadful wound.

Jack recovered the blade, punching the hilt forward, driving the heavy guard into his next target. He screamed as he fought, a terrible snarl of animal anger. He moved fast and the blade sang as he threw himself at the enemy. He thrust the point hard into a man’s guts before recovering the blow and flashing the blade away, using the sharpened rear blade to slash the throat of another blue-coated soldier who took the first pace towards his left side.

‘Come on!’ He challenged the enemy to attack him. He twisted on the spot, sliding his hips to one side to let an enemy talwar whistle past his body before countering with his own blade, skewering the man who had tried to kill him with a single thrust to the heart.

He stamped forward, moving away from the window and into the space he had cleared. He did not feel the bodies under his boots, the flesh that slipped and pulsed under his callous tread. He felt nothing save the urge to fight.

‘Forward the 24th!’

The loud cry barely registered in Jack’s mind. He saw the eyes of the man to his front widen as more redcoats threw themselves from the window, Corporal Jones leading his flying squad in a wild charge after their captain.

The dozen redcoats drove into the packed ranks of blue-coated soldiers, firing the shots saved for this moment. The close-range volley butchered the nearest enemy soldiers, knocking them over like skittles at the fair. The redcoats did not hesitate. They stormed forward, thrusting their bayonets at any stunned guardsmen left standing. They forced their way through the men who milled around the window in an onslaught of bloody violence that had the enemy soldiers backing away in horror.

In the face of the counterattack the enemy ranks broke. The press of bodies eased as the Maharajah’s men turned and ran, pushing and pulling at each other in their eagerness to get away from the red-coated devils who had charged with such madness. The men from the 24th that Jack had stationed on the roof kept up their fire as the enemy fled, picking at the retreating mob, adding impetus to the rout.

Jack’s lungs heaved as he tried to suck in mouthfuls of the scorching air. He sank to his haunches, suddenly exhausted, his battle rage vanishing as quickly as it had appeared.

‘Sir.’ Corporal Jones appeared at his side, his gory, blood-splattered bayonet held inches from Jack’s nose. ‘Time to get back inside.’

Jack wiped his face with the dark green facing of his jacket. ‘Thank you for coming after me, Corporal.’

‘My pleasure, bach. We couldn’t lose our only officer, now could we? Right careless that would be.’

Jack nodded his thanks. A sea of blood surrounded him, the twisted and torn bodies of the men the redcoats had struck down littering the ground. Some still moved, living on despite the dreadful wounds they had taken, their pitiful groans and whimpers loud in the sudden lull.

A fresh round of musket fire broke out. Jack sheathed his sword, ignoring the blood that was smeared on the beautifully decorated steel. The 24th had driven off the Maharajah’s first assault, but the rest of the tiny fortress was still under attack.

‘Corporal Jones, leave half the men here. Give me the rest. We’d better see if we are needed outside.’ Jack snapped off the order within moments of climbing back into the smoke-filled barracks. There was no time to take stock or to rest on their laurels. Dutton and his sepoys were still heavily engaged, and Jack would not let them fight on alone.

‘Very good, sir.’

‘And well done.’ Jack raised his voice so that the watching redcoats could hear his words. Three of their number lay stretched out on the ground, whilst many others nursed cuts and wounds caused by the sharp sabres that had tried so hard to strike them down. They had been lucky.

‘Sergeant.’ Jack called to one of the company’s sergeants, whose name he still did not know. ‘Stay here. Make sure the men are loaded and that they all have a full pouch of caps and cartridges.’

‘Sir.’

Jack turned to the hastily formed platoon that Corporal Jones had put together. ‘Stay with me. Let’s go.’

They set off at a fast trot. The sounds of muskets firing had ceased but they could all hear the clash of blade on blade. The perimeter was hard pressed on all sides. Dutton had already been forced to commit his own flying squad to reinforce the north wall, where the Maharajah’s men had nearly broken through. Everywhere the sepoys were fighting hard, Dutton’s command fully engaged as the swarm of men pressed along the length of the makeshift barricade.

Jack flinched as a volley of musket fire cracked out from overhead. The resourceful Colour Sergeant Hughes had turned his men around, bringing the muskets under his command to bear on the closest enemy troopers attacking the rest of the perimeter, and Jack made a mental note to thank him later.

He turned to his men. ‘Follow me! Whatever happens, stay together.’ He scanned the grimy faces, which looked back at him with intensity. He could see the determination in their eyes. His new command would not let him down.

They went off at double-time, their equipment clattering as it bounced off their bodies. Jack led them fast across the parade ground and towards the western wall, where he saw at least a dozen sepoys on the ground.

‘Forward the 24th!’ His sword rasped as he pulled it from the scabbard.

The dusty ground passed quickly under their fast-moving boots, the last yards rushing by. Jack saw a tall blue-coated guardsmen pull himself on to the barricade. The huge man kicked out, smashing his foot into the face of a sepoy who had been raising his bayonet to cut him down. The attacker threw his head back, screaming his challenge to the gods before he leapt down on the sepoys’ side of the barricade. Men poured over the makeshift wall behind him, a dozen of the Maharajah’s best troops finally forcing their way into Dutton’s fortress.

‘At them!’ Jack screamed the command to his half-company.

The giant guardsman saw him coming and took a double-handed grip on his huge talwar. Jack recognised him instantly. Subedar Khan was serving his master well by leading his men from the front.

‘He’s mine!’ Jack roared the challenge, rushing towards the man he had come to know during his time in Maharajah’s palace. He could not let any of his men face the huge man in combat. That responsibility was his and his alone.

He slashed his own sword forward as he skidded to a halt, flashing the blade at Khan’s body. He sensed his men pushing past, wielding their own weapons as they fought to drive the enemy back over the barricade, leaving him to fight alone.

‘Come on then, laddie! Let’s fucking dance!’ Khan parried the first attack, swatting Jack’s fast-moving blade aside with ease. His counter-stroke lashed out, but Jack had been ready for it and he ducked low, letting the talwar swipe through the air over his head. He recovered his balance and attacked again, battering his sword at the target in front of him.

Khan snarled in anger as the speed of Jack’s blows forced him to give ground before he scythed his own talwar back, the growl turning to a roar of frustration as Jack parried the attack.

Jack was astonished by the calmness running through him. There was none of the battle madness that had taken charge when he flung himself through the barrack-room window. Instead he fought with icy detachment, his fear banished and replaced by composed confidence.

He thrust his talwar forward, aiming it directly at Khan’s heart, picking the spot with ruthless precision. He felt nothing as the subedar parried the blow, driving his blade wide. He waited for the inevitable counterattack, snapping his neck backwards so that Khan’s wild slash whispered past his face.

‘Damn you laddie!’ Khan roared before he attacked again, flailing his sword at Jack’s body, his words drowned out as the two swords clashed together.

Jack stayed silent, his emotions banished. He felt no remorse. He stamped his foot forward, attacking with a series of blows that used all of his speed. Again and again Khan parried the flashing talwar, each time only just catching Jack’s blade an instant before it ripped into his flesh.

Around him the 24th drove the enemy soldiers backwards, forcing the Maharajah’s men back over the wall. They were not having it all their own way. Two redcoats were down, their bodies torn open by the sabres of the blue-coated soldiers, who fought on even as they were driven backwards, refusing to give up the hard-won foothold on the redcoats’ side of the barricade.

Khan came at Jack, releasing a blow driven by a wild fury. Jack stepped backwards quickly, letting the talwar pass in front of his body. As the blade went wide he saw the opportunity. He snapped his wrist forward, ramming the point of his sword into the giant man’s chest, the force of the blow driving it deep into the man’s body.

Khan grunted as the blade pierced his flesh. Yet still he fought on, slashing his talwar at Jack in a final gesture of defiance.

Jack twisted as he suddenly saw the fast-moving blade in the corner of his vision. He flung his arm up into the sword’s path, the reaction uncontrolled and instinctive. The sharpened blade sliced into his left forearm. He felt the edge bounce off the bone before the burning agony seared into his skull. Then Khan fell. Jack’s talwar was ripped from his grip, the beautiful blade trapped, buried nearly to the hilt in his adversary’s body.

Jack clasped his right hand over the deep gouge that was already slick with blood. He barely heard the cheer as the last of the blue-coated infantry were forced back over the wall, his exhausted redcoats driving off the enemy soldiers who had come so close to breaking their dogged resistance. He stared down into the face of Subedar Khan, who lay in the dust no more than a foot from his boot. The Maharajah’s officer was dead, his eyes glazed, his life torn away. Jack gripped his arm, feeling the blood pulse over his fingers as it pumped out with every beat of his racing heart. He forced the coldness into his soul, denying the emotion that was trying to take control.

The shouts of victory sounded distant as he nursed his wound, the defenders roaring in triumph as the Maharajah’s finest troops pulled back, beaten by the resolute defiance of the redcoats.

The defenders of Bhundapur had survived the first attack.