distance, was jungle. He strained to make out something of the village, but the cloud and the rain made it impossible to tell whether there was any stockading. There was certainly no sign of life. He looked at his watch: a little past midday. They could not advance much further without spending the night in the forest. And there were the guns to think of.
The companies struck off at a good pace, splashing through the muddy rice as if skylarking on a beach. Hervey climbed down and pushed his way along the track to where the general marched with the Thirty-eighth's lieutenant-colonel, just to the rear of the leading company. He fell in behind the adjutant, counting himself lucky to have his feet out of the padi. It was only then that he observed how effective was a general's cocked hat in a downpour. Campbell had his pulled over his ears, and water ran down the points 'fore and aft' clear of both face and neck. Strange, the things one noticed at times such as these, he mused. 'View halloo!'
Hervey woke instantly. Where? What? He couldn't see beyond the shakos of the company in front.
'Skirmishers out!' he heard the lieutenant-colonel order. Men from the light company began doubling past on both flanks to form a skirmishing line. How would they load in this weather? 'Smart work!' said the general.
Hervey could now see the Burmans forming up on either side of the village – with officers on horseback. He prayed there would be no cavalry, however inexpert. They would have the advantage, for sure, even in this going.
'Curse this padi!' It was taking forever to make headway. Hervey glanced left and right: the lines were uneven, and they were having to mark time in the middle, the men on the flanks up to their knees in water, mud sucking at every stride. He thought it bordered on the reckless. If there were cavalry behind the village they could be onto flanks in an instant. He began unbinding one of his pistols, but he had little expectation of its serviceability. He cursed again. A pistol which misfired, perforce at short range, was worse than useless. He began rebinding. He would trust to the sabre, as the infantry would trust to the bayonet. At a hundred paces musketry broke out from in front of the village, left and right. Hervey could scarce believe it. Just as at Kemmendine the Burmans had concealed their stockades in byaik little more than shoulder high, and kept their powder dry. But again they'd fired too soon and not a ball struck home.
The skirmishers held their fire: theirs was to discourage any who would stand in the open.
Coolly, as if at a field day, the general took in the business before him. 'One company, if you please, Colonel,' he said, matter-of-fact. 'Remainder to stand fast in reserve lest those there begin to advance.' He pointed at the Burmans drawn up either side of the village.
It was promptly done. Eight dozen bayonets in two ranks inclined right and quickened almost to double time, Campbell following. Hervey was hard-pressed to keep pace.
The musketry increased, but it was ragged and had no more effect than before.
The ground now fell away – three feet, perhaps more. Down the slope to the bamboo walls ran the company – eight-foot walls, not five.
There were shots from the left – hopelessly too far again – as Hervey and the general raced to catch them up. He couldn't understand how the Burman fire discipline could be so poor when their other skills were so admirable.
The general glanced left, marked the smoke, then drew his sword and sprinted the last dozen yards to the fort.
The Thirty-eighth were already atop the walls. Hervey glimpsed the bayonets at work – bloody, vengeful work.
The general climbed on a corporal's shoulders and heaved himself up. Hervey and the ADCs followed as best they could. Hervey lost his footing on the wet bamboo several times until Corporal Wainwright leaned out and got hold of his crossbelt.
But it was over by the time they were up. Five minutes' work, at most, to turn the fort into a slaughterhouse as bad as he'd seen. There were dozens of dead piled against the gates, and as many more scattered about the stockade in ones and twos where they had stood and fought or cowered and craved mercy, both in vain.
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
