The Scarlet Thief (21 page)

Jack fought against the layers of suffocating darkness that dragged him ever deeper into their dreadful embrace, smothering his will to live. He struggled against their icy grasp, refusing to submit to their clutches, striving to reach the glimmer of light that hovered above him.

Gingerly he opened his eyes.

The point of a razor-sharp bayonet glinted less than an inch above his face.

‘Lie still, you dirty little fucker, or I’ll stick you now.’

Slater was on top of Jack’s body, his huge frame pinning him to the ground.

Jack could feel blood running down the back of his neck into the collar of his uniform coat. His vision misted over with the pain in his head. He gritted his teeth and fought to stay conscious, terrified that passing out would be the last thing he ever did.

‘Good boy. I’m pleased you woke up. I would’ve hated sticking you without you knowing it.’ Slater’s face was so close that his moustache scratched Jack’s cheek. The noxious stench of his foetid breath filled Jack’s nostrils.

Slater eased the bayonet downwards, inching it steadily lower. Jack could smell the oil on the weapon, the sharp metal tang of the honed edge. Slater brought the blade down until its wickedly sharp point was pressed against the soft underside of Jack’s chin.

The bayonet pierced his skin. Jack felt Slater’s muscles tense as he readied himself to slide the bayonet up through Jack’s jaw and into his brain.

The swing of a black regulation-issue British boot caught Slater above his left temple and knocked him sideways. The breath rushed back into Jack’s lungs as Slater’s huge weight left his chest, followed by a bright flash of pain as the bayonet scored the underside of his chin.

‘Get up, sir!’

Jack’s saviour leapt across his prostrate body, aiming another vicious kick at Slater’s head. With reflexes that belied his size, Slater thrust his right arm upwards, taking the kick on his forearm, a hissed oath betraying the pain it inflicted.

‘Jack! Get up!’

Jack’s hands had instinctively gone to his throat where Slater’s bayonet had drawn blood, convinced his throat had been cut. To his relief, his probing revealed nothing more than a scratch. He was not going to die. Not yet.

Using his elbows as props, Jack lifted his shoulders from the ground. His vision swam and his head protested at the movement. Through his blurred sight, Jack saw Slater roll on to his knees before throwing himself forward, smacking with bone-crunching force into the body of Tommy Smith.

Jack had not seen his orderly in the mad scramble for safety. Yet, even in the confusion and chaos of the retreat, Smith had been keeping watch over his friend.

The two bodies crashed to the ground, wrapped in a violent embrace. Fists flew as the two men writhed in the dirt, punching grabbing and scratching to get the upper hand.

Smith fought hard, at least twice landing a blow on Slater’s head that would have floored an ordinary man. But Slater was as strong as an ox and shook off the blows. Never before had Smith fought against such strength. He knew he could not take much more of the punishment Slater’s huge fists were dishing out.

He threw his weight forward, ignoring the fists that were aimed with such power, risking everything in a final, reckless effort. For a second he thought the sudden lunge had caught Slater off balance and he pushed with all his might, grasping each of Slater’s forearms in a desperate bid to topple him. But Slater pushed back, returning the pressure, first matching it then overpowering it, so that it was Smith who was forced backwards.

Slater seized on the opening. He thrust Smith hard into the ground then straddled his body, pulling one arm free from the fallen man’s grasp and delivering a single massive blow to the now unprotected face. Smith’s head lolled backwards, blood streaming from both nostrils. Slater followed the first vicious punch with another, then another. Smith raised his arms to shield his face, relinquishing his hold on Slater’s other arm in his desperation to ward off the succession of vicious punches. With both arms free, Slater went wild, smashing down blow after blow coming away smothered in blood.

‘Stop it!’

The voice sounded to Smith as if it was far away but mercifully Slater’s fists stopped their brutal assault.

‘Get up. Easy now or I’ll blow your damn brains out.’

Slater’s weight eased off Smith’s chest. Gingerly Smith opened his eyes and saw the muzzle of a revolver pressed hard against Slater’s temple.

‘You took your bleeding time!’ Smith wiped the sleeve of his tunic over his bloody nose and mouth.

‘I thought you had the measure of him. I didn’t want to spoil your fun.’ Jack’s voice cracked with pain. He was covered in his own blood, the hair on the back of his head was matted and wet, and the dark-blue collar of his jacket was black with it.

‘I’d have killed him if you hadn’t been lying in the fucking way.’ Smith wearily levered himself to his feet and picked up his rifle. The pain was bad but there was no time to dwell on it. Not with Slater still breathing.

Smith glanced around. The men from the Light and 2nd Companies had almost all made it to the dead ground Jack had spotted, only a few stragglers were still in sight. The great redoubt was swarming with Russian infantry, and to the south he could see more Russian gun teams heading towards the earthwork. The Russian general was reinforcing his flank, bringing fresh artillery forward.

The three men were dangerously close to the enemy. Russian skirmishers were moving towards them to cover the flanks of the redoubt and clear the last ragtag groups of redcoats that were all that was left of the desperate assault on the redoubt. They would soon be in range. Slater had to be dealt with quickly.

‘Quick, Jack. Shoot the bastard now.’

‘Shoot him?’ Jack sounded genuinely surprised at the idea.

‘What, do you want to dance with him? Of course shoot him. Before those Russian buggers do it for you.’

Jack was struggling to think clearly. His mind felt as if it had turned to porridge, so laboured and turgid was his thinking. Slater was licking his lips nervously and his eyes kept swivelling to the side to keep sight of the revolver pressing against his temple. Jack knew Slater would not hesitate to blow his own brains out if the roles were reversed. But to kill a man in cold blood, even one as deserving of death as Slater, was something he could not make himself do. He had seen too much death already today.

‘Shoot him, Jack, for God’s sake!’

Still Jack did not pull the trigger. The danger from the Russian skirmishers increased with every second he delayed.

‘Oh, you stupid bastard. I’ll fucking do it!’ Smith raised his rifle, pulling the heavy lock back.

‘No!’ Jack bellowed as Smith’s finger curled round the trigger of his rifle.

A rifle fired, its sharp, barking cough distinctive, but the sound was too distant have come from Smith’s weapon.

The crack of a bullet whipping past his head ended any confusion in Jack’s mind. The first rifle to fire was swiftly followed by another and then another. He had delayed too long. The Russian skirmishers had them in their sights.

It was the second bullet fired by the Russian sharpshooters that did all the damage. It hit Tommy Smith on the left cheek, the side of his face that was angled towards the enemy skirmishers.

The bullet ripped through skin and bone as if it was not there, tearing away the lower portion of Smith’s face; mouth, lips, nose and chin, all were smashed in a nauseating explosion of blood and flesh.

Smith swayed but stayed on his feet. For one haunting moment, his eyes locked with Jack’s, the gaze betraying the appalling shock of the terrible wound. Then he fell, his hands grasping for the lower half of his face, which was no longer there. He hit the ground and writhed in agony, still alive but unable to scream, his blood gushing from the grotesque wound.

Jack ran.

Bullets cracked and fizzed past him. He spared no thought for Slater, or for the direction he took. He ran to escape the look of horrified anguish in his orderly’s eyes.

Time slowed. Jack felt as if he were wading through a lake of treacle. Bullets snapped through the air around him but no matter how hard he tried to run, the ground moved with stubborn slowness beneath his feet.

A huge fountain of earth exploded in front of him. The shockwave was tremendous, it snatched Jack from his feet as if he was a mere leaf blown in a gale. Fragments of the exploding shell ripped into his body, lacerating his arms and legs and burning like red-hot pokers. Then he hit the ground with a force that jarred every bone in his body.

With the last scraps of his strength, Jack curled into a ball, his legs pulled right into his stomach, his head buried against his knees. He wrapped himself round his pain and wept.

‘Mr Sloames! Mr Sloames, wake up!’

Jack was dimly aware of somebody shaking his shoulder but he ignored it. He lay curled on the ground, his eyes open and staring yet seeing nothing. His tears were spent, the only evidence of their passing the thin tracks they had cut into the blood and grime that covered his face.

‘Mr Sloames! We need you! Mr Sloames, can you stand? Are you hurt?’

The questions assaulted his fragile peace, forcing him back into the awful reality of the present.

‘What is it?’ Jack’s voice came out as a croak, the voice of a crotchety old man disturbed from an afternoon sleep.

‘Thank God. I thought you were dead. Can you stand, sir?’

Jack’s battered mind was slowly coming to life. ‘Digby-Brown?’

Lieutenant Digby-Brown saw the matted hair on the back of his captain’s head for the first time as Jack gingerly lifted it from the ground. ‘Yes, sir. Goodness me, are you badly hurt?’

Jack ignored the pointless question and waved his arm for assistance. Pain cascaded through his skull as he was hauled upright and dark shadows clouded his vision. Before he could fall, Digby-Brown took a firm grip of his arms.

‘Crikey, sir. You look awful.’

Jack was trying to take an inventory of his injuries. Every single part of his body was in pain and seemed to be leaking blood but, individually, none of the wounds seemed too severe. By some miracle, his body was still in one piece. The same could not be said of his soul.

His awareness was improving with every second. The blind panic and horror triggered by Tommy Smith’s devastated face was receding into the depths of his mind. There it lurked, like some evil monster hidden in the shadows. For the moment it was contained, pushed to one side so that he could start to function again.

‘Mr Sloames?’

Jack pressed his hand into the base of his spine, the comforting habit of kneading his aching back instinctive. He spat out a wad of bloody phlegm and wiped a muck-encrusted hand across his face. ‘Where’s the company?’

‘Well, sir.’ Digby-Brown looked closely at his captain. A hint of colour had returned to his cheeks and his eyes seemed focused. Digby-Brown withdrew his supporting arm but kept it outstretched in case Sloames began to sway. ‘It’s all a bit of a mess, sir. I’m not quite sure where the rest of the company went.’

‘What about Mr McCulloch and the Second Company?’

‘The last I saw they were heading back towards the Seventh.’

‘Jesus Christ!’ Jack swore as the pressure of his hand on his spine sent a lance of pain down his legs.

Digby-Brown took this as the captain’s verdict on the confusion and disorder. ‘I brought as many of the men as I could find.’

‘You did? Why?’ Jack’s knees were trembling with the effort of keeping him upright.

‘Well, to find you, sir.’

‘To find me?’

‘It seemed like a good idea at the time, sir. I remembered seeing you directing us then I turned round and you had disappeared. I was sure you couldn’t have gone far.’

‘And the men came with you?’

‘Willingly, sir. They seemed as keen to find you as I was myself.’

‘Dear God in heaven. What a bloody mess.’

‘Quite frankly, sir, it’s a fucking disaster.’

Jack barely noticed Digby-Brown’s uncharacteristic language. They had all been changed by the day’s bitter events. ‘So what did you have in mind to do next?’

‘I rather hoped you could tell me, sir.’

‘You are right. I can. We are going over there.’ Jack painfully drew his sword.

Digby-Brown’s eyes widened. His captain was pointing his sword directly at the great redoubt which was now swarming with Russian skirmishers.

The men Digby-Brown had managed to lead out of the confusion gathered around Jack. He watched them closely. Dodds was there. His lean face was splattered with blood but he had the same look of keen determination he had shown when they captured the redoubt. Next to Dodds stood Welsh Davies, Dawson, Taylor and fifteen other fusiliers from the Light Company. Sergeant Baker was the only non-commissioned officer left and Jack nodded in his direction, acknowledging his presence. There was one face Jack did not recognise, a young fusilier with sunken cheeks and a trace of fluff on his upper lip that betrayed his boyish attempts to grow a moustache.

‘Who the hell are you?’

‘Flanagan, sir. From Fourth Company.’

‘Fourth Company? What on earth are you doing here?’

‘I got lost, sir.’ The young fusilier looked around him with huge eyes, nervous of being among strange soldiers even if they did come from his own regiment.

‘Well, as of now you’re in the Light Company. We will need all the help we can get.’ Jack scanned the faces that looked towards him. The weight of the responsibility was heavy, the look of expectation in the grimy faces unnerving. But he met their stares calmly and with determination. He would not let his men down.

‘We’re going over there.’ Jack pointed his sword for a second time towards the great redoubt. The men nervously flicked their eyes at it but not one murmur of dissent was uttered.

‘We’re going over there because we captured that damn place and I cannot bear to see our efforts wasted. We fought bloody hard to take it and I’ll see my soul rot in hell before I give it back to the damn Russians without a proper fight.’

Only Flanagan looked aghast, horrified that he seemed to have throw in his lot with a group of lunatics.

Jack fixed him with a grim smile. ‘You’re a lucky man, young Flanagan. Now you get to fight with real soldiers.’ Jack saw the grins on the grimy faces of his men, just as he had intended. ‘Right, Light Company. Extended order. Flanagan, you stay with me. Let’s move.’

What was left of the company shook itself into a skirmish line of barely twenty men.

They were going to attack.

The retreat of the Fusilier Brigade towards the Alma was chaotic. The redcoats careered down the slope, all cohesion lost in the race for safety. The Russian skirmishers who had moved into the great redoubt poured fire into their backs, gunning down dozens and adding fresh impetus to the rout. The redcoats had achieved so much that day. They had fought hard and won a great victory, yet left unsupported and exposed, the remnants of the three battalions had simply had enough, their willingness to stand and fight exhausted.

As they retreated, the 1st Division finally advanced. The Guards Brigade and the Highland Brigade had endured hours under artillery fire, pinned down on the far bank of the Alma. They had chafed at their impotency, so when the order finally came to advance, they seized upon it and quickly formed up. The Highland Brigade made up the left-hand half of the 1st Division. They would march up a slope clear of debris, their route well to the east of the path taken by the Light Division’s attack on the redoubt. To the right of the Highlanders marched the Guards Brigade, made up from the most famous of all the regiments in the British army. Resplendent in their huge bearskins and with their colours flying, they looked magnificent. They were the elite of the British army, the Queen’s favourites, and they marched with an arrogant pride.

They followed the path the Fusilier Brigade had taken earlier. The route was littered with the dead and the dying but despite this, the ranks of the guards were immaculate, the officers and sergeants ensuring the line remained perfectly in alignment.

Jack was leading his men towards the right flank of one of the battalions of the Guards Brigade, the Scots Fusiliers, aiming to bring his company alongside in time to join in the guardsmen’s assault on the redoubt. His stomach churned yet little of his earlier debilitating fears returned at the idea of a second attack on the vital position. Nothing he could yet experience could possibly be more hellish than what he had already witnessed that day. He led his men with an icy calm, his composure and his determination cleaving his soldiers to him, his firm resolution a rock on to which they could tether their souls.

The men of the Light Company were moving fast but their comrades in the Fusilier Brigade ahead of them were retreating faster. The frightened and exhausted rabble bowled towards the steady ranks of the Scots Fusiliers which stood like a breakwater across their path.

‘Open the files, you bloody fools!’ Jack snarled through gritted teeth. From his vantage point, Jack could see what was about to happen. He pumped his legs as he led his company across the slope, expending strength he did not have in a futile effort to head off the catastrophe that was about to happen.

Even as he watched, the remains of the Fusilier Brigade clattered into the line of guardsmen, a jarring collision that made Jack wince even from a hundred yards away. The routing troops had one thought in their mind, to get to the rear and to safety. Not even a battalion of fresh guardsmen could stop them. The retreating redcoats drove into the ranks of Scots Fusiliers, their elbows and boots working to force a path through the line. The guardsmen’s cohesion was gone in seconds. They tried to advance but they could make no headway against the retreat; try as they might, they were like so much flotsam caught in a raging maelstrom.

One of the British army’s prime battalions had been taken out of action before it could even be brought into play.