General Campbell, sword still drawn, but unbloody, at once ordered out the company to assault the second stockade. Hervey, standing on the parapet, glanced back at the other three companies formed up ready, their colonel in front, and wondered at the general's impetuosity. Was it that he was happy at last, knowing exactly what he was about - the simple certainty of fighting, and with his old corps? He might almost be seeking a glorious death. He made work for his covermen, for sure.
Two ranks! Get fell in!' The serjeant-major blew his whistle fiercely and waved his sword. 'That was nothing! Look sharp, damn you!'
The voice of the Black Country made Hervey think of Ezra Barrow: dragoon to captain - what would
he
make of it? He would not have volunteered for it, that was certain. 'Never volunteer for anything' was a maxim Barrow had long lived by. And it had evidently served him well. Hervey might almost envy him at this moment, undoubtedly taking his pleasure in an afternoon's repose.
At last the company was fell in to the serjeant-major's satisfaction. They were scarcely depleted, for all the ferocity of the first assault, though every man was as gory as a surgeon's mate. No matter, the rain would wash them clean. But by their look, Hervey wondered if it was what they would want.
The general now threw over all restraint and placed himself in front of the line. He waved his sword at the objective, two hundred yards ahead.
‘
Once more, the Thirty-eighth! Let 'em have
Brummagem!’
There was a great cheer.
Poor Colonel Keen, sighed Hervey. The general was a captain again and nothing would stop him.
He took post on the right of the front rank, along with the ADCs, with Corporal Wainwright beside him. It would be the closest he had come to a bayonet charge - just as he'd wanted. He could already feel the strength of a line of well-drilled men elbow to elbow, 'the touch of cloth', even blue with red. If only the enemy were not behind a palisade! But no, he needn't worry: the bamboo walls would delay them, not stop them, surely? These men's blood was hotted: they would take the place by escalade again, and the Burmans would once more rue their lot.
But the second stockade was not as easy as the first. The walls were no higher, and the defenders no greater, but the Burmans held their fire and then stuck at it just that bit longer. The first volley came at about seventy yards - some lucky hits, enough to shock - then another at fifty which felled several men including a serjeant.
'Charge!
’
The general's voice was louder than the rain and the firing combined, and the cheering louder still as the right-flank company of His Majesty's 38th Foot, under their erstwhile colonel, ran slipping and sliding to the wooden walls.
This time the defenders would not be bolted. They held their ground and kept up a steady fire even as the first redcoats were scrambling up the palisade.
The second rank began desperately unwrapping their flintlocks to engage them. Few managed to fire.
The Burmans had the advantage and the will this time, and the fallen red coats began to show.
But little by little - it seemed an age yet could not have been more than minutes - red began to preponderate atop the palisade. It defied reason, for they could not be gaining it by fire. Hervey himself had fired both his pistols, and the rounds were wide. No, it was not fire that let the redcoats escalade the fort.
He got a shoulder again from a thickset private—
‘
Yow mun gow, sir; me leg's shot through.' This time he reached the parapet while there was still fighting. 'Where's the general?'
'I can't see 'im, sir,' said Wainwright, looking either side of the wall.
'Christ!' It wasn't his business to guard him, but—
An ear-splitting roar and the whizz of shrapnel smoke rolled across the stockade floor and hid all for an instant.
Hervey leapt from the parapet and dashed for the gun. A dozen redcoats beat him by a mile. A dozen more lay full of iron.
He saw his man though, spear couched, hesitant but standing his ground. Up went the sabre as he ran in, Wainwright with him.
He didn't feel the ball strike. He only saw the lights dancing in the sky as he fell. And then the shadow of Corporal Wainwright over him, saying something he couldn't hear.
CHAPTER
FIVE
THE SURGEON'S BLADE
That evening
T
he sight of a horse, even a lone horse,
made the sentries at Rangoon's gates rush
to their posts, and the inlying picket stand to. A horse was at best the bearer of a Burman who wished to treaty; at worst it bore the forerunner of a Burman army.
'Shall I take a shot at 'im, sir?' called the picket-corporal to his officer.
The lieutenant strained to make out the target. Two hundred yards: he could not determine who sat astride, and he was as certain that his corporal, for all his reputation as a hawk eye, could strike neither horse nor rider at that range with a common musket. And with the extra windage of the French balls they'd been issued with he'd have no more chance at half the range. He looked for reassurance towards the field piece in the mouth of the gate - the gunners were already ramming home shell. 'No. Let him come on some more.'
The guard company now stood to, hastily, dressing in two ranks.
Their captain scaled the ladder to the palisade to see for himself. He raised his telescope; a hundred yards the rider had closed to.
The lieutenant rued his own want of so useful an instrument.
'
Two
men, Torrance - one leading. They're not wearing red, but they're not niggers either.' He turned and hailed his ensign. 'Out, Wilks, and give a hand!'
They brought Hervey to the surgeon in a dhoolie. Corporal Wainwright, every muscle weary, stayed with him despite the Serjeant's entreaties to fall out and take his ease. The horse, exhausted too, and lame, was led away by a corporal - fresh meat at last, joked the men.
The hospital occupied the town-eater's collecting house - and every building around it, now. Men lay everywhere, barely tended. The place stank worse than Calcutta when the Hooghly was on the turn.
'Out you go, Corporal,' said the surgeon. He had come at once, tired and red-smeared from his ministrations with the bleeding stick.
'I'd rather stay, if you don't mind, sir.'
'I
do
mind. You're no use to me in here.'
Hervey lay unconscious. The assistants were already cutting away the left sleeve of his coat. Corporal Wainwright did not move.
'Oh very well,' grumbled the surgeon. 'But be out of my way. You both reek of rum.'
Corporal Wainwright stepped back, allowing the surgeon and his assistants full play at the table. One of them held a lantern up close to Hervey's shoulder.
'Too late,' said the surgeon.
Corporal Wainwright's jaw dropped.
'It'll have to come off. It looks like a ball in there. The shoulder will be a deal too smashed, and putrefaction too far advanced.' He sounded as tired as he was certain.
'Sir, with respect, sir,' pleaded Wainwright, stepping forward. 'Captain Hervey couldn't draw his sword and hold the reins with but one arm.'
The surgeon spun round. 'Damn your impudence, Corporal! I've a mind to have the guard throw you out! Another word and I'll have that stripe from your arm.' He turned back to his assistants. 'The saw, please!'
Corporal Wainwright did not flinch. 'Sir, you
must
try and save Captain Hervey's arm!'
The surgeon went purple. 'Throw 'im out!'
Corporal Wainwright drew his sword and pulled the pistol from his belt. The assistants fell back. 'I'll take the captain with me then, sir.'
'You damned fool,' spluttered the surgeon. 'This is gross insubordination -
worse
.
The arm's got to be amputated, and quickly, otherwise it will gangrenate.'
Wainwright sheathed his sword.
'Sensible fellow,' said the surgeon, nodding. 'Now why not wait outside?'
Wainwright levelled the pistol again. No one moved a muscle.
He stepped forward, crouched slightly, beckoned an assistant to help, and took Hervey over his shoulder. He stood full upright in one movement, with a strength that awed the watchers, and walked out of the hospital.
He walked past orderlies too alarmed by the fierce eyes and the pistol to stop him. Indeed, so compelling was Wainwright's bearing that soon there were sepoys supporting him.
At the river he found more allies, this time in blue. 'It's Captain Hervey, sir,' he called to one of
Liffey's
officers in an approaching gig.
Liffey's
officer of the watch had also been observing from the quarterdeck. 'Fetch the captain,' he snapped at a midshipman. 'And the surgeon. I think it's Hervey.'
Peto came at once with Surgeon Ritchie, both of them fresh-scrubbed and dressed for dinner. 'Hervey, you say?' The edge to the tone was obvious. Peto leaned well out as the boat bore alongside.
'I believe so, sir,' said the lieutenant. 'And his—'
'Great heavens,' exclaimed Peto, springing back from the rail. 'Mr Ritchie, your best work; your best work please!' He rushed to the gangway. 'Two marines - leave your muskets!'
The sentries at the foot of the companionways grounded arms and followed the captain down.
'Sir, Captain Hervey's shot, sir, in the shoulder,
’
said Corporal Wainwright, as Peto bounded down the gangway. 'The army surgeon wanted to take his arm off, sir.'
Peto pulled back the cloak to see for himself. He grimaced when he saw how much blood there was. The whole of the buff bib was red-brown. 'A hammock, there!' he shouted to the lieutenant, who had already anticipated the need.
Another marine scuttled down the gangway with it.
'Bear him up gently, men,' said Peto, more a plea than an order. 'Gently as you can.'
Seamen and marines began lifting him into the hammock.
'My cabin, if you please, Ritchie,' he called to the surgeon.
Surgeon Ritchie raised his hand to acknowledge and sent the loblolly boys sprinting to the cockpit for his instruments and the medical chest.
The marines, red in the face and sweating like pigs, bore Hervey up gently. Two more came to the job as they reached the main deck.
'I'll have your table, if you will, sir,' said the surgeon, as Peto came back on deck.
'Ay, of course, of course,' replied Peto absently. He pushed past, calling for his steward. Together they began clearing the table of its silver and fine china.
'Save the tablecloth, sir, if you please,' called the surgeon. 'Sit Captain Hervey upright,' he said to the marines. 'Support him with the cloth until I know what we're about.' Back came his assistants.
'Lay it all out here and give me the sharpest knife!'
Corporal Wainwright's stomach heaved. 'Sir,
I—'
'One way or another the coat will have to come off, Corporal,' said Ritchie, moving candles closer.
Corporal Wainwright's relief was palpable.
'A bowl of hot water and some brandy, if you will, Flowerdew.'
To anyone who observed the preliminaries of the two surgeons - the army's and
Liffey's -
the reason for the crew's high opinion of theirs would have been clear. Whereas, ashore, the man had worked in Stygian gloom, though there was no obvious cause to, and his prognosis was made after the most cursory of visual examinations, Surgeon Ritchie made full use of the evening sunlight that streamed through the stern windows - and his magnifying glass.
His prognosis, however, tended to the same. 'Not good, I'm afraid. Lint, please.'
An assistant rummaged in a haversack.
'Clean
lint. Let's not have any more stink than needs be.'
Hervey opened his eyes.
'Capital, my dear friend!' said a delighted Peto. 'You're in good hands, now.'
Hervey appeared not to register where he was or even who was there.
'An ill-timed recovery, I'm afraid, my dear sir,' muttered the surgeon, pouring brandy on the lint and wiping away some of the blood caked about the wound.