On His Majesty's Service by Allan Mallinson

Author:Allan Mallinson [Mallinson, Allan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Historical Fiction
ISBN: 9780593058169
Amazon: 059305816X
Publisher: Bantam Press
Published: 2010-12-31T11:00:00+00:00

Getting into the trenches at the postern in the earthwork curtain of the south-west (B) redoubt was considerably more difficult than getting out of the bailey. Indeed, for all that they were but a few furlongs from the walls of the town, they might have been in a different world. Here was all alertness and edge. The laissez-passers meant nothing to the musketeer of the Azov Regiment who stood sentry at the postern (for he could not read), nor even to the corporal; and the lieutenant was uncertain (and anxious). Only the captain would admit them.

‘Qu’est-ce qui se passe? Que font les Turcs?’ (the cannonade was increasing).

Hervey put the questions so abruptly that Fairbrother expected some coolness in reply, but the captain merely smiled. He had fought as an ensign at Borodino, he explained, and lately against the Persians, and in the years between he had battled with the tribes of the marches; he did not think very highly of Turks. ‘They make a great deal of noise, Colonel; that is all.’

An old soldier – an efreytor (lance-corporal) – was boiling potatoes in a corner of the trench. He had perhaps seen even more service than the captain, and was watching the exchange – in a tongue he could hardly have recognized, let alone understood – merely as a diversion from routine. Fairbrother thought he looked curiously indifferent to any fate. It was not unlike being back with the Royal Africans.

Yet Hervey was clearly exhilarated by the experience. And when he had finished interrogating the captain he explained why: it was the first time he had been in the trenches with infantry under cannonade. Yes, he had gone forward at Badajoz, and he had joined the assault at Bhurtpore, but those were siege-works, temporary means to an end. Here, on the other hand, the infantryman had chosen his ground and intended holding it. Here the earth beneath his feet and above his head was bosom friend, whereas to Hervey as a rule it was a mere acquaintance, to be avoided by adhesion to the saddle. And the sweat of men rather than horses – it was, indeed, exhilarating.

A roundshot ricocheted from the glacis, arched over the bluejackets in the battery and crashed into the postern gabions not a dozen paces from where they stood. Fairbrother stared at the hissing ball half-buried in the sand. What if it were fused?

The captain said the Turks had fired nothing but solid shot so far. ‘We presume they intend to pound first before frightening us with shell,’ he added, and then with a wry smile, ‘But we shall not know for certain until it does not explode.’

Fairbrother frowned. ‘I confess I should not be content to sit and let them pound, nor even just to answer with artillery,’ he replied in French as impeccable as Hervey’s.

‘Ah, but we do not,’ said the captain. ‘The strelki are even at this moment making ready to attack.’

Hervey quickened. ‘Then we must see them.’

Fairbrother was wary. He had

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