A commotion to the rear made all eyes turn.
He could scarce believe it: out from the ‘fog’ came the sutler of the erstwhile Regiment of Murom leading a train of donkeys.
There was cheering, and all order vanished as the
Hervey looked anxiously beyond in case it excited the Irkutzk to draw sabres.
For the time being they stood impassive. Perhaps the smoke worked to his advantage?
‘Corporal Acton, get these men under discipline!’ he barked as he doubled after them.
Acton was momentarily at a loss. Then he did what he would in the Sixth – except that a dozen dragoons the worse for wear of a pay night scarce compared to these.
Yet the raised voice, the jabbing finger, the confident assertion of authority somehow brought silence of a sort, and then a respectful (or fearful) edging back.
‘Now what is all this?’ demanded Hervey, tapping the panniers. ‘Water? Aqua?’
If the sutler understood, he didn’t answer. Instead he got out a ledger from his satchel and held it towards him balefully: his fortune in credit extended to the Murom was no more.
Hervey had scant sympathy. His prices – like any sutler’s – would have out-jewed Shylock. And yet, who but he brought comforts to the regiment in the middle of battle – even at such a price?
‘Rum, sir,’ said Corporal Acton, sniffing one of the flasks. ‘Good rum,’ he added, tasting it. ‘And nice water as well.’
Hervey thought of commandeering the entire train, but that would have been just one more thing to guard. Instead, he took a handful of gold from his cartouche box – sovereigns and five-rouble pieces – and by the universal process of bargaining (to the continual accompaniment of the cannonade) bought the entire stock.
He beckoned the NCOs closest and motioned them to distribute the water, appointing Acton quartermaster.
‘A measure of rum to each man. A gill, no more – perhaps half a gill. Is there enough?’
‘Ay, sir, if I go easy – two dozen bottles, I reckon,’ replied Acton, taking down the precious keg.
‘Thank God it’s no more,’ said Hervey to himself. The worst of the heat was past, but to men who were parched, the drink would be double-strength. ‘And quick about it, please!’
A gill for each man – it was asking for trouble. How in God’s name would he get them back into ranks – other than calling on the Irkutzk?
The 12-pounders came to his aid – a thunderous volley. Speeded by every curse that Acton possessed, and reinvigorated with rum, the provisional company rushed back to the dry course and formed line as before, the NCOs suddenly regaining a notion of duty and hastening the laggards with the butt of the musket.
They stood, if less steady than before, with a new look of defiance. They could see no Turks in the billows of smoke, but the guns wouldn’t be firing at phantoms: they were there somewhere. Soon it would be retribution.
The smoke was drifting, thinning – and now clearing.
The company began jeering.
Musketry answered them – skirmishers.
Two or three
Hervey knew he must give an order; rum or no rum, they were trained to fire only on the word of command.
Acton seized the musket from a flanker and ran to the centre of the line. ‘Give the word, sir!’
Hervey raised his sabre. ‘Make ready!’
Up to his side went Acton’s musket, the hammer cocked. He looked left and right, gesturing for the line to follow.
Up went the muskets, and the cocking of the hammers.
‘Present!’
Up to the aim went Acton’s musket.
The front rank followed.
Hervey waited for him to step back in line. ‘
Not a perfect volley, but good enough – though with so much smoke he couldn’t see if a single ball had struck.
The rear rank stepped forward.
‘Make ready … Present … Fire!’
More smoke. Nothing for it but to keep volleying.
The rear rank was reloading fast.
‘Front rank retire!’
The words meant nothing, but the hours of drill did. The rear rank now fronted again.
‘Front rank … Present … Fire!’
Smoke drifted rear and left. They could see a hundred yards clear, now, and hazily beyond – a good harvest of the lead, an even line of fallen Turks at fifty yards, and at a hundred a tight-packed battalion in column of companies, halted.
The 12-pounders thundered again, cutting a swathe through the right-flank column and felling the leading ranks in the other four. Now was the moment for the Irkutzk to charge, but he couldn’t catch sight of them in the smoke behind.
He daren’t risk another minute, though. He ran to the centre of the line and waved his sabre. ‘Charge! Charge! Charge!’
He didn’t look to see who was with him, only Fairbrother at his right.
He ran faster than he ever thought he could.
His lungs were set to burst; his ears rang with cannonading and musketry – and the cries of the men behind him.
He didn’t need to look how many; the Turks told him – a whole
Hervey stopped as they reached the fallen skirmishers, and hastened the departure of the rest with a ragged volley.
Yet the Turks had come on bravely in the first fight. Breathing deep to recover himself as his own men fell out to loot, Hervey shook his head, hardly able to believe his – their – luck. There was just no knowing the collective mind of infantry at the culminating point; that much he had understood a long time, but never so perfectly as now.
‘Still, sir!’ shouted Acton.
Half deafened as he was, the pounding hoofs had taken him by surprise. Hervey froze as horses galloped left and right – the Irkutzk, late but not too late to turn the reverse into rout.
And then Count Pahlen, indeed – and General Diebitsch.
He stood straight, and saluted.
‘Colonel Hervey, you try me sorely,’ Diebitsch declared, touching the peak of his cap in reply. ‘What do you do exposing yourself thus?’
‘General, I didn’t think you—’
‘You thought the smoke would conceal it, did you?’
Hervey held out his sword as if to admit his guilt.
‘It wasn’t enough to rally stragglers, then – Ostroschenko has told me all. Colonel Hervey, how would it look to your Duke of Wellington if you were killed at the head of a company of infantry? Retire at once, sir. You have done enough!’
‘With respect, General, I should not care to leave these men until “Retreat” is sounded. They have fought bravely.’
‘It is a soldier’s duty to fight bravely.’ But his countenance softened. ‘I grant you your request. Leave the field at once, and take these men with you. The provost-marshal shall muster them afresh.’
‘I am obliged, General.’
Diebitsch nodded, and with something approaching a smile. ‘Have a care, Colonel Hervey. You would be much mourned.’
