A Call to Arms

had to snatch hard at the curb to pull up his little mare. Her flanks were in a worse lather than Hervey had seen in months. ‘Sir,’ he gasped, saluting once he could afford to free his right hand. ‘Mr Vanneck’s compliments, and there’s a column of Burmans coming along the road, and at the double like light infantry, sir. We can’t tell the numbers, for we can’t see beyond the front ranks, sir. We fired on ’em, but they didn’t check, even to pick up them that was hit. We fired on them another twice, I think, sir.’

‘I heard so. What do they carry?’

‘Muskets of some sort, sir. They fired on us, but no one was hit.’

Hervey turned to Johnson. ‘Gallop to the serjeant-major, and tell me how many of the barges have still to be set alight.’

‘Ay, sir,’ said Johnson calmly, not even forgetting to salute. He reined about and sped off.

‘Daffadar, shot loaded?’

‘Yes, sahib!’ His voice betrayed no emotion but resolve.

Hervey wished he were standing now by Mercer’s troop, as he had at Waterloo. Now was the time for six- pounders and shell, rather than half that of solid shot. He toyed with the idea of putting them where the road debouched from the forest, like a cork in a bottle, and firing grape. It would be much the more destructive. But he knew the gunners would not be able to reload quickly enough — two discharges at most before being overrun. If he could hold the Burmans at arm’s length with shot for a while (they could not know at once how many guns there were), then the quartermaster and Armstrong might just complete their work.

Another fusillade, and not more than a hundred yards off. Hervey braced himself. ‘Do not fire, daffadar. It will be Vannecksahib first.’

‘Acha, sahib.’

Hervey looked back to the river. He could see Johnson galloping towards him, but the smoke was so great he could see nothing beyond. How much longer could it take to fire those boats?

‘Daffadar, we shall hold our ground until the barges are all alight and then withdraw to the forest whence we came.’

‘Acha, sahib.’ Hervey had explained the orders well enough before.

Johnson pulled up beside him just as the picket, five strong — not a man lost — galloped out of the forest, Cornet Vanneck at the rear. ‘Another five to fire yet, sir,’ Johnson reported. ‘Not enough oil to prime with, though. They’re using powder. Serjeant-major says they’ll need another half an hour.’

Hervey grimaced.

‘Have we not burned enough, sir? They could scarcely invade Chittagong with half a dozen boats,’ asked Seton Canning.

‘Those boats have got to burn out, Harry. And the others. There’s no saying what they could do with them if they put out the flames.’

‘But is that likely?’

‘It’s a possibility,’ Hervey snarled. ‘That is the point!’

Cornet Vanneck pulled up hard in front of him, his charger throwing its head about wildly. He saluted while struggling with the reins.

‘In good time, Mr Vanneck,’ said Hervey calmly, returning the salute.

‘There are so many of them, sir. No sooner did we do our execution but those behind took their place. And they came on the while in double time.’

‘Very well. We shall see if hot iron and cold steel shall check their ardour.’

Hervey’s manner was so composed as to make his cornet look at him askance, as indeed was partly his intention.

‘Take post, please.’

Cornet Vanneck reined away, and with a sheepish look, for the little line of dragoons appeared so calm compared with his own agitation.

Not many minutes more, and they saw their adversary for the first time. But only for a moment. ‘Fire!’ bellowed Hervey, startling his own horse.

The galloper guns thundered, enveloping them all in black smoke, thicker than the grapeshot’s, for the two- pound ball needed more powder to see it the distance. Hervey trotted forward a little way to see the effect. The Burmans had checked. Another volley might see them withdraw — if only he could have it now.

The sowars worked methodically: swab to damp the barrel and make safe, powder charge rammed home, ball tamped with the other end of the swab; then the struggle to realign the pieces, and the gunner re-laying, then the prick of priming powder and slow match.

Both guns fired as one again.

More smoke billowed over them. Once more Hervey trotted forward to see the effect. There were even more Burmans now, but so many dead or dying, and the confusion looked the greater. He drew his sabre and pointed. ‘Charge!’

Out of the smoke galloped thirty dragoons, swords lowered. The Burmans had no time to deploy. They knew it and they turned for the forest. But Hervey’s men were on them before they could clear the line of their own dead.

It was easy. No need to guard, protect or parry. First the point and then the cut, and simple — Cut One, nearside, Cut Two, offside. Every sabre was bloodied, many of them several times over.

Ragged shots from the forest edge checked their ardour, and Hervey rallied them to a flank, thankful he could see no horse riderless.

As soon as Hervey’s men cleared their line, the guns fired again. It would surely make the Burmans fall back, he thought.

But no. Out they poured again, still in an ill-ordered fashion, for the debouch was too narrow to permit otherwise. Hervey formed his men into line as best he could, then charged again from the flank. With only fifty yards a bigger horse might have done greater damage, but the little country-breds were into their stride quickly, and sheer momentum broke up the Burman ranks with scarcely need for the sabre this time.

But the pressure did not slacken. Out of the forest poured more and more of the enemy. No matter that they were ill-ordered, force of numbers must soon tell.

Hervey turned to rally the line. He saw Private Spreadbury’s horse tumble fifty yards off, Spreadbury himself thrown clean from the saddle and dropping his reins. A dozen Burmans rushed him. Jobie Wainwright saw, and spurred at them at once. In seconds he was among them, turning in the saddle for each cut, just as Collins had taught him, swinging his sabre for all he was worth — Cut One nearside to the rear, Two offside to the rear, Three offside to the front, Four nearside to the front. Each time he felled one of the pal’s attackers, and each time he recovered the sabre from side to side above his shako in the manner prescribed. Collins, reordering the line, watched in admiration. But bayonets jabbed at Jobie and his mare — too many of them, so that soon he could only protect and parry. Corporal McCarthy, galloping back to the rally, saw the fight and turned. Hervey looked over at Collins and gave him the nod.

McCarthy got there first, leapt from the saddle and ran at the Burmans, grasping his sabre by handle and blade as if it were a musket and bayonet. Collins was there a second or so later and made three cuts so fast that it scarce seemed possible. Those untouched began to run.

‘Paddy, you dumb, cursed Irish bastard! What the hell d’you think you’re doing?’ yelled Collins.

‘It’s just a bit easier to me still, serjeant,’ replied McCarthy equably, picking up his trooper’s reins and making for Private Spreadbury.

‘Christ alive, Paddy. Never again!’

‘No, Serjeant. Will ye help me up with Private Spreadbury please, Jobie?’

Meanwhile Hervey had rallied the rest of the troop, taking them back at the trot to where the sowars were calmly serving the guns, and forming line to the rear.

‘Ready, daffadar?’

‘Ji, sahib!’

How long they could keep this up he had no idea. If the Burmans came out each time the same way they ought to be good for another dozen goes. But they would surely not keep hurling themselves on guns and steel so