Allan Mallinson - A Call to Arms

‘Rally! Rally!’ he shouted.

Storrs, breathless and his own sword red, just kept sounding the G and the C. Somehow the troop, battered and very bloody, formed line and fronted, Armstrong and Collins chivvying them straight and cursing those who had not sloped swords properly. One or two of them could barely stay upright; Corporal Mossop’s sword arm hung limp like a rag doll’s, Needham had lost an ear. But every horse was on its feet, one way or another.

‘I brought up all we could spare when I saw what was happening, sir,’ called Armstrong as he closed to Hervey’s side. ‘But only the half-dozen of us. Gutless bastards, them Burmans!’

Hervey looked at him askance.

‘Did you not see, sir? Half of ’em sat still on their arses back there when the others came on.’

Hervey took out his telescope. ‘There’s a very pretty flag there. That was their trouble. They wouldn’t leave whoever was bottom of it.’

‘Well, thank Christ for flags. Another dozen and we’d have lost it!’

Hervey looked at Mole’s lifeless body thirty yards or so in front of them. ‘Troop will advance!’

‘Jesus, Jobie, not again!’ gasped Needham.

‘I reckon we’ve got to, Sammy.’

‘Ha-a-alt!’

They stopped just short of where Private Mole lay.

‘If you please, Corporal McCarthy,’ said Hervey simply.

‘Thank you, sor,’ replied McCarthy, as if it were a favour to him. ‘Give me a hand, boys,’ he said, nodding to Harkness and Rudd.

Hervey watched as they lifted their fellow dragoon across McCarthy’s saddle. ‘Troop will retire, at the trot!’

They about-faced three times in the first furlong to the river. Each time Hervey expected to see the Burmans pressing them, but each time he saw the distance between them only lengthening. Were they really gutless, or merely artless? The third time he decided it was probably the latter, for now he saw them extending, and a far longer line than his. The Burman horse could not outrun him now — not take his flanks — but if he judged it badly they might give him another mauling. He tried to calculate if it was worth standing long enough to give them a round from the carbines to check their zeal. He would lose men to theirs if he did, and it would do little to slow their advance. He could now see Corporal Ashbolt at the bridge with half a dozen men, dismounted, the led horses trotting along the river’s edge behind the line of burning barges. Ashbolt could hardly have had the best view of the field, but he had judged at once that their withdrawal could no longer be by the way they had come. Hervey was relieved. He had feared he might have his force divided.

Two more fronts and they were close on the bridge, but Hervey saw to his dismay that the second gun was still not across. The sowars struggled desperately to remove the pin that held fast the barrel to the trail. Seton Canning looked hard at him. ‘What do we do, Hervey?’

Hervey was only certain of what he would not do. ‘I could never abandon a gun, Harry.’

He saw Corporal Ashbolt mount and gallop towards him.

‘That bridge won’t take any more horses, sir,’ called Ashbolt from a dozen yards. ‘The decking’s broken away and the supports are gone. The farrier’s breaking the pin on that gun now and we’ll have it across in a minute. The other can fire grape. I’d like to put my Burmans in the river if it’s all right with you, sir.’

Hervey looked back to where Ashbolt’s prisoners sat — more than a hundred of them, for the moment, quiet.

‘You would only be able to drive them in with the point, and there are too many for that. Are they bound?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then cover them with the other gun. And give no quarter if any try to break free!’

Ashbolt raced back to the bridge to drive the sweating sowars and dragoons across before setting to with the charges he had made — enough, he hoped, to destroy the centre of the span at least.

In two more minutes Hervey saw the Burman flanks turning to pen him up against the river, and behind the centre of the line a column of infantry coming on at the double. He glanced over his shoulder again. The second gun had made the far bank: it was time for them to do the same. But how would he then check the Burmans, for they could surely swim the Karnaphuli as well as the troop could?

He glanced back again. Ashbolt had a dozen men along the bank, carbines ready, and the second gun would be in action soon. He wondered if one more sabre charge might demoralize the Burmans. It was not unknown in India. Indeed, it had been the sole tactic of many a campaign. He looked at the Burman line and then at his own. ‘Troop will retire!’ he called, as calmly as he might. He thanked God they had swum the Karnaphuli once before. At least he was asking nothing new of them now.

In they plunged, needing no urging. Ashbolt’s men began their covering fire, and then the gun thundered. Hervey heard the whistle of grape above his head, just like the night at Brighton, except that there it was so dark he had no idea how many or how close the enemy was. His mare jumped from the bank and struck out confidently. The current was stronger than the first time, but nothing to worry about. She swam freely, seeming to enjoy it. Not long now to the far bank, another ten yards at most. She gained a footing, lost it, then stumbled, almost throwing him. He looked right and left to see how the others were faring — well enough. Some were even ahead of him. He let her get her footing again — one more try and then he’d slip from the saddle. But she got all four feet firm and up the bank she struggled, until Hervey jumped off near the top to let her clamber up the overhang the easier. He turned about. Johnson was just behind him, almost out too, but his mare couldn’t get the measure of the overhang and Johnson was a fraction too slow in leaving the saddle. The mare fell on her side, pinning him under the water. She couldn’t shift, for all her flaying. And now shots were ringing out from the Burman bank, ragged at first, but close. Hervey scrambled back down the bank. The mare squealed as a musket ball struck her quarters, but still she lay thrashing. Shepherd Stent followed him down, and Storrs, and then Corporal McCarthy, last across the bridge with Private Mole’s body. The firing increased, though fortunately not its accuracy. Hervey would himself have put a bullet in the downed mare’s head had he not thought the dead weight would impede them greater. But somehow, slipping and sliding, with ball flying about them and the frantic mare’s legs liable at any second to propel them into the river, they pulled Johnson free and dragged him up the bank. And there he lay, like Parkin before him, reliant on the skill of the surgeon.

The firing slackened and then stopped altogether. Hervey couldn’t for the life of him think why, for the Burmans now had every advantage. Perhaps they were gutless as well as artless after all. Then came the cheering behind him, loud and hearty.

‘ Himmat-I-Mardan! ’

And the gun sowars, faint by comparison, but full-throated: ‘ Madad-I-Khuda! ’

‘ Himmat-I-Mardan! ’

‘ Madad-I-Khuda! ’

Hervey stood up. The sight astonished him. The Skinner’s men debouched from the forest as if trotting to exercise. He lost count at fifty — there must be half that number again. Lance pennants fluttered, then out came the carbines as the sowars slung their lances over the shoulder. The line of yellow stretched the length of the bank. It was a sight he would never forget, like the solid walls of red at Waterloo. And all the time the cheering: ‘ Himmat-IMardan! Madad-I-Khuda! ’

Chittagong, two days later