To Do and Die. Patrick Mercer
his sword around his shoulder to slash at his foe, but the once balanced, tempered blade now sagged like a felling axe – the thrill of action had immediately sapped him of all his strength. Just as he was bracing himself to strike, he remembered the advice dinned into him – always to use the point, but in changing his blow, he gave the Russian time to slither back half a pace through the slime of the yard and he over-reached himself. What should have been a decisive swipe turned into a half-spent prod that did no more than tear the cloth of his enemy's coat and cause a yelp, more of surprise than pain, whilst the young Russian recovered fast, his scrappy moustache sticking wetly to his lips. Without a rifle, he grabbed at Morgan's hilt, wresting the blade from his hand and pulling him off balance through the sword knot that still looped it to his wrist.
The boy was big and bulky in his coarse, grey greatcoat and Morgan had spent enough time in the ring to know that if he were to win he had to use every ounce of weight and strength in his muscular five-foot ten and use it quickly. But this fight was in deadly earnest, it wasn't school or regimental boxing, just cuts and nosebleeds; this time one of them would die. As he was pulled forward so he let his full weight barrel into his opponent and in an instant both men were rolling on the ground. Then blinding pain and a blast of stagnant breath – Morgan got the full benefit of the Muscovite's fist square on the bridge of his nose. He reeled back as his enemy's weight was swiftly on top of him.
The pain in his face still raged when his ears, already roaring as the blood pumped round his system, almost split. Then his bruised nose was filled with the smell of powder-smoke and the Russian ceased to struggle. Thrusting the dead burden away from him, Morgan leapt to his feet, groping for his sword that dangled by his hand and desperately trying to rid himself of the stranglehold of the coat around his shoulder.
Standing above him was his Colour-Sergeant – McGucken. He'd judged the shot well, for the powerful Minié round could have easily passed through the Russian's body and hurt Morgan. Now, as if he did such things every day of the week, the Scot was finishing the job. He jabbed viciously with his brass-capped rifle-butt straight into the Russian's face, cracking open the nose, splintering the sinus bones, reducing the flesh to a mass of purple bruises. Finally, he stood astride the body and split the skull with one great blow and a curse.
‘That'll teach yous …’ before turning, lungs heaving, to Morgan. ‘Sir, will you please stop fannying around? Never do that again – always take an escort, I don't need you cold.’ McGucken had to yell above the noise to be heard, but there was no mistaking his anger and concern for the young officer. ‘And get rid of that pox-ridden coat, sir.’ McGucken was scraping the butt of his rifle along the coarse grass to clean the bloody mess away.
Plunging into the smoke after McGucken, Morgan found the wounded Light Company soldier propped against a mossy wall whilst two bandsmen and a girl were doing their best to bandage the awkward mouth wound without suffocating the man. A great stain spread on the snowy gauze being inexpertly bound around his jaw whilst blood bubbled from his nose.
‘Mary Keenan, what in God's name are you doing this far forward?’ That his former chambermaid and wife of his batman came to be in the Crimea at all still amazed him. Now the same Mary that had changed his linen, served at table and become closer to him than any other person on earth, was crouching next to the casualty, proffering a useless canteen of spirits. The smallest pair of soldier's boots jutted from below her muddy hem whilst the dark hair that Morgan remembered so well running through his hands was plaited neatly below a scarf.
‘Have a care Mr Morgan, sir, it's Mrs Keenan to you.’ Despite the sharpness of the reply, her eyes were wide with fear, but there was still the same resolute glitter in them that he had seen so often at his family's house, Glassdrumman, in County Cork. There was a determination in this woman that, despite her nineteen years, had seen her become the unelected leader of the handful of regimental wives who had been allowed to accompany the Regiment on campaign.
‘I'm sorry – Mrs Keenan. But you're too far forward, please get to the rear.’ Morgan noticed how her fingers trembled.
‘I … I'll be fine, thank you, sir.’ Despite the stuttered formality of her words, Morgan couldn't fail to notice the hand that caught at his sleeve.
‘Sir, for God's sake come on.’ McGucken recalled him to his duty.
All the companies were now stumbling for the lee of the riverbank. The dashing, bounding balls could not reach them here and they were invisible to the gunners, but confusion reigned as men from the regiments of the Light Division plunged off the banks and into the river in an effort to reach the sheltering lip of the opposite bank.
‘You lot, keep your pouches above your heads …’ McGucken was doing his best to stop his men from soaking their ammunition by plunging thoughtlessly into the river. ‘NCOs, get the men to keep their weapons dry.’
Some of the sergeants and corporals heard the Colour-Sergeant and understood him amidst the chaos. A handful of the soldiers, numbed by the noise and fear, had to be grabbed to make them listen, their belts undone for them, their rifles lifted above their heads as splinters and bullets churned up the water.
The few mounted officers urged their chargers into the breast-deep stream. Beach, commanding the 33rd, spurred his dripping little grey mare directly at the bank, but she slithered back, mud staining her knees. He tried again, riding her obliquely up the greasy slope, picking firmer ground in a fine display of horsemanship. Silhouetted on the higher ground for an instant, Morgan saw the 33rd's colonel rousing his men: then the saddle was emptied by a sudden blast of iron as the Russians fired their first rounds of shotgun-like canister.
Below the lip the regiments teemed. The 7th Fusiliers were astounded by the abandon of their commanding officer – Colonel Lacy Yea. ‘Come on, come on anyhow!’ he yelled as his horse, too, wallowed at the bank. The knotted line – muddy red coats, smeared white belts and dark, sodden trousers – now raised a breathless cheer and surged up the rise.
The two ensigns had floundered through the river keeping the 95th's Colours almost dry. A subaltern wrung at one corner of the bright yellow regimental standard as they looked for their commanding officer and gathered themselves for the waiting storm.
‘So, that's where you've got to, Morgan.’ From somewhere in the smoke Eddington was suddenly at his side, ‘The Colonel's been wounded – I saw him being carried to the rear back there in the vineyards – along with half the other commanding officers in the Division, as far as I can see. Major Hume's in charge, now, but he had a bad fall when his horse was shot.’ Eddington was looking round in the smoke and crowd of soldiers from every regiment who were splashing into the river, seeking the cover of the bank. ‘Where's Carmichael and his half of the company?’ Even though he had to shout to make himself heard, there was something reassuring about Eddington's calmness. It was as though he had been born to this confusion, that the shriek of balls and shrapnel was a normal part of his life: he seemed to be enjoying himself.
Just as he asked, a clutch of their men under Sergeant Ormond came stumbling through the smoke and vines. To their rear and hunched in a curious half-crouch came Carmichael, but his shako and coat had gone, his legs and bottom were covered in mud whilst his normally well-combed hair was everywhere. When he saw his company commander his face lit-up with relief.
‘Well done, Sergeant Ormond, I see you've brought Mr Carmichael with you,’ shouted Captain Eddington.
Morgan smiled to himself. It was Sergeant Ormond and the men who should have been led by Lieutenant Carmichael, not the other way round, but just as Eddington turned to tell Carmichael what to do, a great, thirty two pound ball skidded muddily off the far bank of the river before hitting him squarely in the nape of the neck. One moment Eddington had a head – the next he had not. So cleanly had the iron done its work that the Captain's body was upright for an instant, the trunk spurting blood in a liquid rope, before the knees crumpled and the corpse fell in a shrunken bundle of rags and straps onto the riverbank.
‘Dear God!’ shrieked Carmichael, clear above the surrounding noise. He'd been within feet of Eddington when the ball struck,