Indeed, the Turks had begun moving forward not back, and inclining left so as (it appeared) to meet the Pavlovsk squarely.
‘You see what it’s to be, then?’ said Hervey.
‘A volleying contest. I do dislike the thing; so bludgeonly.’
Hervey had no desire to stand in a rain of lead either; all his cavalryman’s instinct was for movement. ‘At least I’ll be able to look the Fifty-third in the eye,’ he managed, sounding resigned.
‘If you haven’t first lost your head,’ replied Fairbrother, with some asperity. ‘And I hope there’s to be no “
Hervey agreed. He had once thought the Fontenoy drill the essence of gentlemanlike conduct in the face of fire – but had long since considered it the action of the amateur.
But Wachten’s instinct was also for movement (what chance of it there was). Out went the
A roundshot struck the ground in front of the Pavlovsk’s left-flank company, ricocheting low and bloodily, cutting a grenadier in two, taking off the head of the man behind, spattering half a dozen others in gory debris. Several threw up, and some fouled themselves – men who had not seen action before, or perhaps who had and knew there was more to come. The singing seemed an age ago.
Another roundshot flew high, close to the general and his staff, and then dropped harmlessly to the rear. Yet another struck the ground in front of the left-flank company but lofted just as harmlessly.
‘Deuced odd,’ said Hervey coolly. ‘They must have left their canister in the limbers.’ Shot was never very destructive unless the ranks were deep or in enfilade.
‘Small mercies.
‘I’ll say “Amen” to that.’
The
‘Mightn’t our own guns show a little address?’
‘
In any case, they would count themselves lucky that only three Turk guns bore – and the gunners damnably slow at their work; it was a full minute before another roundshot ploughed its bloody furrow through the ranks.
On marched the line, leaving the wounded to the drummer boys.
Hervey and Fairbrother fell into silence, the noise too great and the roundshot too grisly. Only the barking of NCOs could be heard, to make a man fear his fate more at their hands than at the cannon’s – or here and there the softer word of an officer to pluck at a man’s faint heart.
Two more minutes and then (thank God) ‘Halt! Make ready!’
The officers took post to flank and rear, clearing the line of fire.
‘Present!’
Up went the four hundred muskets of the front rank.
‘
Smoke billowed the length of the line. The second rank advanced five paces, waited for it to drift rear, and then presented.
‘
It mattered not what the Turk guns did now: the Pavlovsk had eyes only for their cartridges and ramrods – work they could warm to. The clatter was like power looms in a mill.
It was impossible to see the effect, the smoke was so thick, but men now began falling to the answering fire. NCOs cursed and officers waved their swords, the Pavlovsk firing now by platoons, the old Marlborough drill, giving the Turks no respite. Unless the rounds were wide or high in the fog of powder-smoke, Hervey could not believe the Turks could stand it long.
But the Pavlovsk too were receiving withering musketry. How long could
A musket ball knocked off his forage cap, and was lodged in the band when Acton picked it up. Another glanced off his boot, with the pain of a mule kick.
And then the Pavlovsk were fixing bayonets.
And now they were advancing … breaking into double time.
And Hervey was running with his sword at his shoulder, pistol in hand.
Fairbrother cursed as he stumbled and almost fell.
‘Have a care, sir,’ chirped Acton, a sword in each hand.
And into the smoke of the last volley the line charged – yelling, screaming, baying like hounds on to the quarry.
No man waited on a bayonet charge scarce ever: they fired, counter-charged – or fled. The Turks fired – some wild, some well – but the Pavlovsk charged on, unstoppable.
The Turks turned tail, but the press of men was too great. Into their backs ran the bayonets, a melee of blade, butt and boot – anything to stun and then kill.
Hervey plunged into the frenzy like a wild man, sword flailing. Fairbrother likewise – booting and stabbing with all the savagery of his ancestors. Acton, desperately at Hervey’s hand to catch a blade, used every cut in the drill book.
Long minutes of muscle-tearing, lung-bursting execution, of bloody hacking, thrusting and slicing – and then, as suddenly as they’d charged, it was over, the fighting ceased, the noise ended. Piles of dead, of heaving, writhing, wounded, dying men, others on their knees, and a few running for all they were worth, unencumbered by weapons – all that was left of the Turk brigade.
And now came the sobbing and groaning, the cries of pain and the rattle of death. The Pavlovsk Grenadiers surveyed their work with exhaustion and elation in heady mix. The officers would now begin their work of mercy.
Hervey stood half-bent, sword at his side, unbelieving, panting. Fairbrother put a hand on his shoulder, as if to support himself. Corporal Acton wiped his sabre on a Turk cloak and sheathed it, drawing his pistol to take up guard next to them.
With his breath back, Hervey straightened up. His eyes smarted with the smoke, and the ringing in his ears was infernal; but he could hear faint cheering from the far side of the redoubt – the Azov Regiment, come from nowhere, charging with the bayonet into the flank of the Turk reserve; and far over on the right the Cossacks slipping the leash and going at the Turk cavalry like fire racing through stubble. The Seraskier’s corps was finished. By God, Wachten had judged it well!
Hervey saw him approaching – the general hailing him, indeed, as if he were surprised to find him safe in the midst of so much slaughter.
How should he form the German? – ‘A very perfect victory, sir’?
But Wachten was already forming his own words of appreciation.
It was indeed a very perfect victory – the best part of two brigades overthrown, destroyed; many prisoners and many guns captured. The Cossacks might even have seized the Seraskier himself had he not quit the field so hastily. Siseboli – it was as plain as day – could not be taken by a force less than five times the number that had tried this morning. And where would the Seraskier find such a force, unless by drawing off those facing the Russians to the north? Wachten had cause indeed to be pleased.
XIII
HONOURS OF WAR
Hervey stood waiting in the marbled hall of the villa over which flew the flag of the Tsar’s new general-in- chief, resplendent in best undress which Johnson had spent half the night primping and polishing, the gold wire of
