The Scarlet Thief (23 page)

On the far right of the attacking line, Digby-Brown was desperately trying to stay alive. His left arm bled from where a bayonet had pierced the flesh to the bone and the limb hung uselessly at his side as he fought against the horde of men pressing in on the flank. Many of the redcoats that had stood nearest to him lay dead or dying. The entire right flank was collapsing around him.

Digby-Brown slashed his sword to his left, beating back bayonet after bayonet. He was forced to step backwards, giving yet more ground, compressing the attacking line still further. He had no concept of what was happening elsewhere. He could not risk turning round to see if the other flank was also moving backwards.

He slashed the pitted and notched edge of his sword forward, enjoying a brief surge of joy as he sliced into the neck of a Russian. It was short-lived. He recovered his blade only just in time to beat aside a bayonet that had threatened to slide into his unprotected ribcage.

He took another step back as more bayonets came at him, stabbing at the spot he had just vacated. His quick feet saved him for a moment longer, the sharp points ripping his clothes but stopping short of reaching his flesh. So far he had remained silent but finally a howl of frustration and building terror escaped through his gritted teeth as he swatted aside yet another bayonet and then another. His desire to live was so very strong. He did not want to die. Not here. Not now.

He fought on, beating aside the enemy’s bayonets with a desperate strength, his duty tying him to his position as firmly as any physical tether. The nothingness of death terrified him. The tears coursed down his cheeks as he fought. Digby-Brown faced his death but he refused to accept its approach.

A Russian officer was screaming orders behind the closest conscripts, his frantic gestures summoning more men from the body of the column, bringing even more numbers to bear on the creaking flank. Digby-Brown was forced to give ground again, his faltering defence barely keeping the countless thrusting bayonets at bay.

The heel of his right boot caught on the body of a fusilier. It was a corpse from the Light Division’s first assault on the great redoubt. It still lay where it had fallen, a great hole torn in the dead man’s stomach, eviscerated by a Russian shell.

Digby-Brown was thrown off balance and he fell on to his back across the dead fusilier, his shoulders and back lying on blood-soaked ground and spilt intestines.

The bayonets were reaching for him before he even hit the ground. The blades met no resistance as the first two slipped into Digby-Brown’s flesh. There was no pain as the bayonets pierced his body, no searing agony as the Russians leant down on their blades, driving them into his torso so that the tips emerged through his back.

But his terror bubbled through, the horror of knowing he was to about to die forcing a scream from his lips.

He still held his sword and he thrust the blade upwards into the ribs of one of his assailants. The Russian let go of his rifle and grabbed Digby-Brown’s sword with both hands, tearing the blade from his weakening grip.

It was Digby-Brown’s last act of defiance.

Another bayonet stabbed into his thigh, immediately followed by many more, the sharp blades rammed home with enthusiasm. The pain came now, a terrible wave of agony that flared and built until mercifully he lost consciousness. Digby-Brown died, unaware of the last terrible ravages wrought on his body. The Russian conscripts vented their fear in a frenzy of stabbing and hacking, the young officer’s body torn to bloody shreds in their rage.

Jack fought with wild abandon. He had no idea what was happening around him. He saw nothing but the next blow, sought nothing but more victims for his blade, its edge now blunted by countless blows that had landed against muskets or bayonets that blocked it from finding its way into Russian flesh.

The men at his side fought with ruthless efficiency and a merciless professionalism that had the Russian conscripts backing away rather than face them. Jack and his men walked on the bodies of their victims, occasionally ramming their weapons down into the ruined flesh beneath their boots, quenching any last resistance from the men they had struck down. They were surrounded by the dead and the dying, the stench of blood and opened bowels thick in their throats. The very depths of hell were exposed on the Russian plain.

Their arms were leaden, their muscles protested at every movement, yet they fought on, their rage sustaining their bodies far beyond the point of exhaustion. Jack sobbed as he fought, the pain in his battered body an unrelenting agony. Fusilier Dodds still fought at his side, uttering an unceasing stream of obscenities as he killed the men who stood against him, his curses the last sound they would ever hear.

Less than half the redcoats who had formed the makeshift line still lived. The Scots Fusilier captain who had brought them together was dead, his body surrounded by the corpses of the men he had slain. The two lieutenants who carried the colours still lived, protected by the colour sergeants who ferociously beat off any Russian who sought fame and fortune by capturing their enemy’s pride.

The surviving redcoats were being pressed ever closer together. The flanks had long since folded and the British were reduced to a desperate huddle, surrounded and alone. The pressure on the small knot of men was unceasing; wave after wave of Russian soldiers rushed forward, urged on by their officers or dragged into the fight by a sergeant.

Jack blocked another bayonet that was thrust at his stomach, punching the hilt of his sword into the attacking Russian’s face, bludgeoning the conscript to the ground. A Russian sergeant immediately moved to take the man’s place. He thrust his bayonet forward with rapid professional jabs that took all of Jack’s wavering strength to counter and left him no opening to counterattack. Jack blocked and blocked, each blow jarring his agonised muscles. The Russian sergeant sensed his superiority and pressed forward relentlessly.

Then everything changed.

The deafening bark of a battalion volley crashed out to the right of the Russian column. Jack heard crisp British voices immediately issuing orders to reload, their clipped tones more suited to the parade square than this sordid butcher’s yard of a battle.

Russian soldiers on the right of the column fell to the ground, scythed down like stalks of wheat cut by a threshing machine. The dense Russian formation shuddered, and then emitted a dreadful groan, like an enormous wild animal fatally wounded by a hunter’s well-aimed shot. The shudder became a spasm as the Russian conscripts were thrown into confusion. A second British volley shattered any vestiges of cohesion as the shocked conscripts clawed at each other in their sudden haste to escape.

The pressure on the small knot of redcoats eased instantly.

The Russian sergeant facing Jack rammed his bayonet forward with one last, half-hearted thrust that Jack easily knocked aside. The two men stared at each other, each astonished at the sudden change in circumstances. Neither moved to attack. For a moment, there was an unexpected bond between them, a fleeting notion of comradeship. The Russian looked at Jack then shrugged his shoulders, turned and made his escape.

The exhausted redcoats looked at each other in confusion, unable to comprehend the sudden change in fortune. Out of the smoke of their volley they saw the tightly formed ranks of the Coldstream Guards. Triumphant, their ordered formation belonged to a different world, a place the battered and bloody redcoats had forgotten. With a series of crisp commands, the Coldstreams reloaded their rifles and sent another volley into the fleeing Russian column, mercilessly driving home their attack.

A ragged cheer emerged from the parched throats of the handful of redcoats who had fought an entire Russian column to a standstill and who now stood in disbelief as the enemy that had come so close to destroying them fled in chaos and disorder.

With gritty eyes Jack watched the Coldstream Guards advance up the slope towards the great redoubt. He had never known such exhaustion. His body trembled, every muscle ached. He sank to his knees, his bloodied sword still held fast in his hand, his fingers unable to release their grip after holding the sharkskin-covered handle for so long.

Not many of his men were left. Dodds stood faithfully at his side, silently picking at the blood that was crusted under his fingernails, his eyes dull and devoid of life. Sergeant Baker stared into the distance, his face covered in blood from a vicious wound on his scalp, his uniform hanging in ribbons from where countless Russian blades had scored through the thick fabric. Young Fusilier Flanagan was alive. The stray from 4th Company was bent at the waist, vomiting a thin trickle of green bile on to his boots, his shako still firmly planted on his head. Dawson, Taylor and six other fusiliers from the Light Company sat silently, the whites of their eyes bright against their filthy faces. A handful of survivors. All that remained of Jack’s company.

The battle continued as the Coldstream Guards assaulted the great redoubt. The Highland Brigade started its attack, the fresh troops advancing on the Russian right. Against all odds Raglan could savour a victory when he so easily might have had to suck on the sourness of defeat. But for the exhausted remnants of the Light Company, the battle was over. They had done their duty. Their stubbornness and defiance had held the Russians long enough for fresh troops to be brought up. Their efforts had not been in vain.

With a groan Jack used the point of his sword to lever himself to his feet. ‘Sergeant Baker.’ Jack’s voice cracked, his parched throat making speech difficult.

Despite his wounds, Baker clicked his boots together and stood to attention. ‘Sir.’

‘Look after the men. All of them.’ Jack waved a weary arm around him, encompassing the dead as well as the living.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Stay here. Don’t let anyone drag you back into the fight. You’ve done enough. More than enough.’

Jack said nothing else as he left his company for the last time. Ignoring his tortured body, he abandoned his men to Sergeant Baker’s care and set off back across the slope. He had one last duty to perform.

Jack traipsed his way towards the fold in the ground where he had hoped to hide the Light Company when Peacock’s terrible error caused the fusiliers to break. His abused body laboured to keep moving and it took all of his dwindling willpower to force it to struggle onwards.

The ground was strewn with the detritus of battle. His feet stumbled against discarded equipment. The bodies of the dead were everywhere. Jack had to force himself to ignore the mangled flesh, each twisted body a tragedy in its own right. The accumulation of death on such an unimaginable scale enough to soil a soul for all eternity.

The wounded pleaded for his aid. Voices wracked with pain begged for help, for water, for their mothers, or simply for a bullet to end their suffering. Jack walked carefully past their ruined bodies, careful not to jar his heavy boots against their tortured flesh, deaf to the pitiful pleas that accosted him, his stony expression betraying none of the sorrow that the sight of such suffering caused him.

As he walked, he thought of his men, the ones still living and the ones who had fallen. He thought of Colonel Morris, of Lieutenant Flowers and of Digby-Brown.

Finally, he came to the place where the Russian shell had lifted him off his feet. His memory was hazy yet still vivid enough for him to recognise the terrain. He saw the scorch marks on the churned earth where the shell had exploded. He fancied he could even discern the crushed grass that revealed where he had curled on the ground, when the horror had overwhelmed his mind and temporarily displaced his sanity.

With a heavy tread, Jack turned to plod wearily up the shallow incline of the slope, retracing the path along which he had run in such terror. Around him, the sounds of battle still raged yet to his exhausted senses the cacophony of battle sounded muted, as if it was taking place in the far distance instead of only a few hundred yards away. His senses were dulled to such an extent that he felt almost at peace. His battered mind found nothing remarkable in the occasional Russian artillery shells that exploded nearby or attached any consequence to the roundshot that punched through the air within yards of where he walked.

The sight of the torso he was looking for made Jack straighten his shoulders. His weariness fell away. He had no difficulty recognising the familiar figure of his orderly.

He looked down on what remained of Tommy Smith’s face. His stomach churned yet he managed to keep the wave of nausea under control. Tommy Smith was dead, his sightless eyes stared up at the clear blue sky. It was what Jack had trudged all this way to discover; the idea that his orderly might still be alive with such a terrible wound was more than Jack could bear.

‘He’s a dead ’un.’

Jack was not surprised to hear that voice again. Part of him had known that coming to find Tommy Smith would result in having to face Slater one last time.

‘And I reckon you should join him, don’t you?’

Jack stayed still, his gaze fixed on Smith’s staring blue eyes.

‘You were a fool not to drill me when you had the chance. But then you always was a soft little turd.’ Slater paused to spit out of wad of phlegm. ‘I reckon you even started to believe you actually was an officer.’

From deep inside Jack summoned the energy to turn round and face Slater. The former colour sergeant was standing a few paces away. The revolver he was aiming at Jack looked like a child’s toy in his meaty hand.

‘You’re a fool, Lark. You were born a fool and you’ll damn well die a fool.’

The unfamiliar revolver was clumsy in Slater’s hands as he cocked the weapon and curled his finger round the trigger.

Jack recognised the gun as his own. The barrel pointed straight at his heart. He looked up and stared into the pit of hatred in Slater’s merciless eyes and saw death.

Jack threw his body forward, diving on to the ground. He moved like an old man, his abused body as supple as a brick. He was slow, so very slow.

The cough of the revolver blasted into Jack’s ears a fraction of a second after the bullet punched into his body. The impact of the single bullet twisted his diving body, throwing him backwards so that he landed awkwardly on his side. Pain surged through him, an agony so fierce that his vision faded. He heard the revolver firing again and again as Slater wildly emptied all five chambers. Jack’s body tensed, waiting for a second explosion of agony. The air around him was punched with violent force as the bullets flew past but Slater’s wild firing and lack of familiarity with the gun had sent the bullets wide.

Slater stood with the smoking revolver cradled in his hands, staring at Jack’s twitching body. The fresh blood on the grass confirmed that his aim had been true. His enemy’s desperate dive had not saved him from the fate he so richly deserved. Jack’s body gave a final jerk and then lay still.

It was over.

Slater savoured the sweet taste of revenge.

Jack felt the cold fingers of death slide over his heart. He sensed the nothingness of oblivion pulling at him, an awful void from which there was no return. Something deep inside him flickered, a final spark of life that rebelled against his fate. Jack Lark would not go so meekly to his death.

He opened his eyes. He saw Slater standing over his prostrate body, gloating. The sight filled Jack with rage, a righteous fury that fuelled his injured body.

He snapped his legs straight, driving the heels of his boots against Slater’s knees. The sickening crunch of bones breaking was clearly audible.

Slater crumbled over his shattered kneecaps, the suddenness of Jack’s violent attack taking him completely unaware. He hit the ground hard, his two hands reaching down to his mutilated knees, his screams drowning out the sounds of battle that still rippled and crackled through the air.

Jack stumbled to his feet, moving away from Slater, his left hand pressed over the wound on the right side of his body. His blood pulsed through his tightly clenched fingers.

He saw Slater twist on the ground, heard his sobs as the huge man scrabbled towards Smith’s rifle which lay discarded on the ground.

Jack reached the rifle just before Slater’s meaty paws wrapped round the stock. He snatched it away and ruthlessly crushed the grasping fingers under his boot. Slater bellowed. He reached for Jack’s ankle, fighting on.

Jack felt the thick fingers claw at this flesh. Without hesitation he brought the rifle round until the long barrel pressed hard against Slater’s temple. For a fleeting instant he thought of Molly. He smiled as he pictured her blowing away the errant curls of hair from her face, the knowing smile on her face as she saw him watching her. The memory fled, leaving just the twisted face of the man who had killed her.

Jack was certain he saw the flare of fear deep in Slater’s eyes, the realisation that he was about to die triggering a spasm of horror.

Jack felt nothing as he pulled the trigger. The bullet punched through Slater’s skull, killing him instantly in a grotesque shower of blood, brain and bone.

As Jack looked down at Slater’s body, a violent storm of emotion shuddered through his pain-wracked body. It scoured his soul and released the passions that he had kept contained for so long.

He screamed at the heavens, a single incoherent shriek of bitter grief.

In the sudden silence that followed, Jack’s head sagged forward, all emotion spent, his soul an empty husk.

He staggered back to Smith’s corpse. He ignored the wounds to his own body, was hardly aware of the flow of blood that pulsed out of his side with every beat of his racing heart. He did not care about the future, the past did not concern him.

His charade was over.

With the final vestiges of his strength, Jack bent low and started to strip the uniform from Tommy Smith’s corpse. He sobbed as he dragged off the heavy red coat that was stiff with dried blood. His fingers felt the cheap cloth of Smith’s jacket; the heavy weave was so different from the beautiful scarlet fabric that he had stolen.

He had lived up to his desire to better himself, he had proved that he could lead men in the tumult of battle. He had not let Molly down.

It was time for Captain Sloames to die.