The Scarlet Thief (9 page)

The pit of Jack’s stomach lurched as he stared at the Cossack advance, transfixed by their control and discipline. The horses pulled at the bits in their mouths, sensing their riders’ quickening excitement, but the Cossacks kept them in check and the pace was steady. This would change soon enough, Jack knew, and if the Cossacks caught the company in line then the redcoats were dead men. The two-man deep formation was perfectly suited to blasting volleys of musketry at opposing infantry but against a cavalry charge it would be torn apart in a brief frenzy of bloody hacking.

‘Sir!’ Digby-Brown arrived breathless at Jack’s side, the young officer’s face devoid of all colour. ‘Sir, we must retire. Sir!’

Jack ignored him, his concentration focused on the Cossacks.

‘Sir! I must insist that we retire!’ Digby-Brown was speaking in an icy whisper lest the nearest men hear his desperate plea. The need to maintain a facade of proper behaviour was deeply ingrained, despite the threat of fifty charging Russian Cossacks.

‘There’s no time.’ Jack felt himself come to life. ‘We’ll form square.’

‘Sir?’

‘A square, damn you!’ Jack was desperately trying to remember all the conversations he had overheard in the officers’ mess, discussions on tactics that kept the battalion officers entertained for hours on end. He knew the evolutions of the drill itself inside out, the manoeuvres needed to move the company from one formation to another. But that was as a redcoat, a single cog in the complex machinery that was a British army battalion. It was not as an officer. No one told the men why they changed formation or why the drill had to be learnt so perfectly. The redcoats were only so many cattle blindly obedient to the commands they were given. Commands Jack would now have to give.

‘Sir, I disagree. We must retire!’ Digby-Brown argued, his face ashen.

‘No. There’s no time,’ Jack snapped. ‘We’ll form square and if they are foolish enough to attack then we’ll fight the bastards off.’

The oath had come to Jack’s mouth unbidden, the stress of the moment revealing the cracks in the veneer of his imposture. An imposture that would end in the destruction of the company if the fusiliers did not form the protective square in very short order.

The Cossack force split in two, each wing banking away from the Light Company with the grace of swallows turning on the breeze. Jack twisted his head from side to side, desperately trying to watch the movements of both groups of Cossacks at the same time. The Russian riders were curving back towards the fusiliers’ thin red line. Deftly and without audible words of command they had changed the direction of their attack and were now closing in fast against the Light Company’s exposed flanks.

‘Form the rallying square!’ Jack bellowed at his men. The fusiliers looked at each other in silent terror but countless hours of incessant training had buried their instincts deep and, despite their panic, the men reacted to the command.

The square was the only defence that could provide protection against the charging cavalry. The fusiliers needed to form a wall of bayonets round the company and force the Russian horses to veer away.

The three sergeants screamed themselves hoarse, pulling the ranks together. The square started to emerge.

The Cossacks were horribly close.

‘Prepare to resist cavalry!’ Jack yelled, readying the men to fire even as they still jostled with each other to form the walls. The soldiers on the outermost wall of the square squatted on the ground, the butts of their rifles jammed into the soil. Their position was the most terrifying, forced to sit and wait for the enemy to close, without being able to fire back. Yet their bayonets were what would hold the enemy at bay, for no horse would be willing to charge the ring of steel no matter how hard their riders urged them on.

Those men still standing raised their rifles. The formation was ragged but it would have to suffice.

The Cossacks thundered towards the huddle of redcoats. To Jack they resembled a locomotive moving at full speed, the noise and the power of the charge seemingly irresistible. Yet his men stood their ground, defiant in the face of their terror, standing firm when lesser men would have run screaming for their lives.

‘Independent firing, at one hundred yards.’ Jack’s voice cracked with tension. It was not meant to be like this. He was about to fight for the first time yet there was none of the glory that his former master had dreamt of. This was nothing save a squalid, meaningless skirmish which would quickly be forgotten, lost in the annals of the huge campaign that would surely see bigger, more important battles.

‘Ready! Commence firing!’

This was the command to begin firing at the enemy. The rough square erupted in a drawn-out ripple of gunfire. The disordered formation forced the men to fire independently, denying them the effectiveness of devastating volleys.

The ragged square was immediately smothered in a foul-smelling cloud of smoke that flickered with the flash of rifles firing as more men opened up on the Cossacks.

Jack’s fear had been banished with the blast of the first rifle. Nothing mattered now that the fight had started. He caught glimpses of the Cossacks through the smoke. His eyes were watering and the noxious smell of rotten eggs filled his nostrils but he could see that the rifle fire had emptied at least half a dozen saddles and left three horses heaped on the ground, their hooves drumming in pitiful frustration as the valiant animals still tried to respond to the urge to gallop. More riders fell as they swerved round the square and fusiliers snapped off a shot at them.

Jack got the briefest impression of the Cossacks thundering by, a fleeting glimpse of bearded faces set in a vicious snarl of impotent anger as the redcoats stood firm.

‘Cease firing! Reload!’ he commanded. The Cossacks were turning, bringing their dreadful lances back towards the huddle of redcoats.

Rifle butts thumped in the ground as the fusiliers began the ritual of reloading their weapons. Jack looked around at his men, his heart hammering in his chest as he willed them to load faster. His own weapon, a revolver, hung at his hip, its chambers empty. It was another mistake, another oversight that he would never allow to happen again. Never again would he be so ill prepared for a fight.

‘Prepare to resist cavalry.’

The second rank of riders were discarding their lances, tossing them carelessly to the ground and drawing their firearms. The Cossacks had clearly expected the redcoats to break and run as the line of powerful horses bore down on them. The Cossacks had turned fast, their even ranks as precise as when they first charged. The gaps in their formation had been closed and their files were ordered, as if not a single rider had been knocked from the saddle. The cloud of rifle smoke had dispersed enough to give Jack a good sight of the enemy.

Without command the front rank of cavalry surged forward.

Jack stood in the centre of the square, his attention focused on the enemy. He was aware of his men moving around him, the sergeants pulling at the ranks to force the men into a better formation, closing the gaps in the wall of bayonets, their industrious bustle steadying the men as they watched the Cossacks charge for a second time. He could sense his men’s resolve, their determination hardening as they realised they had survived the first desperate moments of the fight. Jack was beginning to understand the confusion that swirled around him, making sense out of the chaos. His heartbeat slowed as he felt his confidence build. If the fusiliers stood firm then the Cossacks were powerless to touch them.

‘Commence firing!’ Jack ordered, his body flinching as the fusiliers discharged another storm of shot towards the Cossacks.

This time Jack was prepared for the thick, pungent smoke and he turned on the spot, looking for a gap in the smog so he could watch the Cossacks thundering past in a repeat of their opening charge.

He saw nothing but open plain. He twisted back round, pushing himself to the front of the side of the square that had faced the charging Cossacks, using of his elbows to force a passage in the tightly packed ranks.

The redcoats’ fire had been dreadfully effective, killing men and animals with cruel abandon as the heavy bullets punched through flesh and bone. The front rank of Cossacks had borne the brunt of the punishment, screening the second rank of horsemen who now rode forward with calculated steadiness, each rider clutching a firearm.

‘Jesus Christ!’ Jack swore aloud as he realised what was about to happen. Instead of being safe in their tight ranks, the redcoats were suddenly staring at death. When the second line of Cossacks closed the range, their firearms would not be able to miss the packed ranks, every enemy bullet would find flesh.

‘Stand firm and reload,’ Jack ordered, his heart contracting in horror as he waited for the inevitable. He caught Digby-Brown’s eye and saw the same terror reflected in his expression.

The first line of Cossacks swung round, splitting into two groups that would attack the corners of the square, the weakest points in its formation. This time they would close slowly and use the long reach of their lances to stab down on the fusiliers.

‘Reload!’ Jack screamed. ‘Faster, damn you!’ The redcoats worked furiously, careless of skinning their knuckles on their bayonets, desperate to reload and drive the enemy away before they unleashed a storm of bullets of their own.

As every second crawled by, the fusiliers got closer to being able to fire once more. Jack could not fathom the Cossacks’ lack of fire. At any second he expected to feel his flesh being ripped apart yet still the Cossacks did not fire.

As the cloud of smoke from the fusiliers’ volleys was dispersed by the freshening wind, Jack stopped screaming at his men and gaped.

The Cossacks had gone.

The Light Company stood in silence, the tension still swirling through the men. It took several long moments for the fusiliers’ fingers to relax their grip on the trigger, a few seconds longer for the men to remember to breathe.

Jack moved first, pushing through the shaken redcoats to stare at the Cossacks disappearing over the crest of the slope.

‘The bastards.’ He was barely capable of coherent thought, such was the feeling of relief coursing through him.

His two lieutenants came staggering out of the company to join him, the same mix of disbelief, astonishment, and relief etched on their ashen faces.

Lieutenant Thomas spoke first. ‘What in the name of God was all that about?’

‘God is the right person to ask.’ Jack took a deep breath to steady his nerves. ‘I don’t have a bloody clue.’

‘Were they testing us?’

‘Who knows?’ replied Jack.

Lieutenant Thomas struggled to cope with the wave of emotion coursing through him. ‘Thank God.’

‘Thank God indeed,’ Digby-Brown echoed with a withering glare at his captain.

‘But why do it?’ Thomas asked, his face now flushed with a rush of blood. ‘Why did they not press home the attack?’

‘I rather think those fellows over there might have had something to do with it.’ Digby-Brown waved his hand to the south.

Jack looked up and immediately saw what Digby-Brown meant.

To the south, a full squadron of green-jacketed horsemen and a column of blue-jacketed troops flowed across the plain.

The French army had arrived.

The old enemy, Britain’s most constant foe, the Crapauds, had rescued the Light Company.

The French cavalry galloped past, clods of earth thrown into the air, the ground drumming with the staccato rhythm of the fast-moving horses. The Cossacks rode away, driven from the field by the superior numbers of French cavalry whose bright yellow facings and gleaming sabres added a touch of gaudiness to the miserable scene. Two companies of French infantry manoeuvred to take station on the Light Company’s right flank.

Jack’s men began to deal with the aftermath of the fight, scraping shallow graves for the bodies of the Cossacks that had fallen. They paid little attention to their allies. The fusiliers worked in bitter silence, the grotesque evidence of the power of their Minié rifles shocking the inexperienced soldiers.

Their rescuers were no ordinary French soldiers but the French elite, the Zouaves. Originally formed of Algerian troops, the battalions of the Zouaves had become something of a legend. The French authorities might have replaced the original colonial soldiers with true-blooded Frenchmen, but the regiment’s reputation remained, as did their colourful uniforms. From their deep red, baggy trousers to the elaborate gold embroidery on their dark blue jackets, they looked as foreign as their name implied. A red fez perched elegantly on their heads, and bright white gaiters round their ankles completed their spectacular attire.

A French officer strode forward jauntily, a smile spread wide under his thick black moustache. He wore a longer and more traditionally cut dark blue jacket with gold-braided cuffs and epaulets, his red trousers were less baggy, with a thick blue stripe running down the seam, and a kepi replaced the more exotic fez; he looked a great deal less outlandish than the soldiers he commanded.

‘A very good afternoon to you, gentlemen,’ the French officer called out to Jack and his two lieutenants. ‘I must apologise for our rude interruption. I rather think we spoiled your fun, no?’ The French officer’s English was impeccable and bore only a hint of an accent.

Jack was in no mood to be sociable. His indecision when the Cossacks first charged stung his pride. He should have had the men form a square earlier, his tardy orders had placed the company in danger when a more resolute and disciplined response would most likely have deterred the Cossacks from charging. His mistakes had nearly cost his men dear.

‘You must excuse me, my manners are terrible.’ The French officer pronounced the last word in the French way and Jack’s mouth tightened with dislike. The French officer’s own expression hardened, his eyes never once wavering from Jack’s belligerent glare.

‘I should introduce myself. My name is Octave Marsaud.’ The Frenchman smiled, an expression that sat well on his battered face but which did not reach his hard, pale-blue eyes. His face was lean, a large Romanesque nose dominating his features. A thin scar ran down one side of his jaw and another smaller one flecked the cheek on the opposite side of his face. He looked as hard and as tough as his men. ‘I have the honour of being a captain in His Majesty’s First Battalion of Zouaves.’

Both British lieutenants inclined their heads at the Frenchman’s introduction, acknowledging his words as if they were meeting in more dignified surroundings than a muddy Crimean field.

‘Sloames. Light Company, King’s Royal Fusiliers.’ Jack kept his introduction short. ‘Lieutenants Digby-Brown and Thomas.’ He gave the briefest of nods towards his two subalterns as he introduced them.

Marsaud smiled politely. ‘Those Cossack bastards. They think they can do whatever they like. I am sorry my appearance drove them away. I should have liked a fight. We have had enough of all this bloody waiting.’ The Frenchman smiled wolfishly.

‘Indeed.’ Jack kept his reply non-committal, wanting the conversation over as fast as possible.

‘You do not sound convinced, monsieur.’ Marsaud’s hard eyes bored into Jack’s.

‘Is there ever a good time to fight?’ The battle was too fresh to be casually dismissed.

‘Of course! But you only fight when you know you can win.’ Jack heard the censure in the Frenchman’s words; the experienced officer was admonishing the British captain’s performance in the face of the charging Cossacks.

‘We are British soldiers. We always win.’

Marsaud smiled wryly at the bold claim. ‘You British. If God had given you brains then you would be truly dangerous.’

Jack let the comment pass. Another Zouave officer was standing, hands on hips, glaring in their direction, his hostility obvious even from a hundred yards away. Jack nodded towards him. ‘I do not think your chum over there is pleased to see you fraternising with the enemy.’

Marsaud looked across and snorted as he spotted his fellow captain’s posture.

‘Do not concern yourself with Saint-Andre. He hates the British. One grandfather died at Waterloo, the other at Talavera. He was taught to hate you
rosbifs
since the day he was born.’ With a final bow, the French captain took his leave of the British officers and walked back to his men. Jack let him go, his thoughts returning once more to the disaster the Zouaves had prevented.

In a matter of days, the company was certain to face the Russian army. They could not always rely on the timely intervention of an ally to save them from destruction. They would have to depend on their officers to do that. Jack was painfully aware that his fusiliers would have little confidence left in their officer’s ability.

The knowledge humbled him. He had stolen a life and a rank that was not rightly his and his lack of experience had nearly cost his men their lives.