The Atlantic Street Murder

Prelude

PreludeThe Punjab, India, January 1849

'March, march, march and die of thirst.' Private Costello flapped a hand in a futile attempt to clear some of the dust that clouded around the column of British infantry. 'I didn't join the army to wear my feet out.'

'Then, why did you join?' Private Williams asked.

'Because I was bloody starving,' Costello said.

'Well, then,' Williams stumbled, swore, and recovered, 'you're not starving now, so stop grousing.'

'Aye, stop grousing, you bastard.' Private Doyle shifted his Brown Bess musket to ease the pressure on his shoulder. 'You should thank Her Majesty for sending you to sunny India, away from sodden Donegal, where even the ducks hide from the rain.'

'If we had found ducks, we would have eaten them, you Connaught bugger,' Costello said, 'feathers, beaks, and all.'

'Ducks have bills, not beaks,' Williams said. 'You Paddies can't even speak the Queen's English.'

'No?' Costello's attempt to spit failed. 'I bet her bloody Majesty doesn't know a single word of Irish. Not even the first one we all learn.'

'What would that be?' Williams asked.

'Starvation,' Costello said.

'That's an English word,' Williams said.

'Is it, indeed?' Doyle did not hide the bitterness from his voice. 'In Ireland, we've learned the true meaning.'

'You're not in Ireland now,' Williams said. 'And the past is gone.'

'The past is with us always,' Costello said. 'It makes us what we are.'

'Bugger that,' Williams said. 'The past is done, and soldiers might not have a future. Live for the present, boys, look for a drink and hope for a willing woman.'

Private Gallagher, one file behind, laughed. 'That's the way, Williams! Drink and women are the only things that make life worth living.'

The men of the 113th Foot marched through heat that poured from a brassy sun to pound the Punjab plain. Footsore after three days of constant marching, the British infantry sweated and swore and scratched at the itch of hot dust and insect bites.

'How many Sikhs are there?' Costello swatted at the flies that tormented him.

'Too many,' Gallagher grunted.

'One Sikh is too bloody many,' Williams said.

'I heard there were thirty-five thousand,' Doyle swore as his foot caught on an exposed root, 'all nice and cosy behind their artillery.'

'Three to one in their favour, then,' Costello hitched up his trousers. 'Exactly the odds Paddy Gough likes.'

They marched on with the straps of their packs cutting grooves in their shoulders and the vultures circling far above, waiting for the fresh meat that armies always provided.

'Drink and women?' Doyle swore again. 'By Jesus, I'd settle for five minutes of Connaught rain and a sniff of a widow's shift.'

'There's a bloody jungle ahead,' Costello said. 'I'd wager a snyde farthing to a gold watch that the Sikh devils are inside, watching us right now.'

'We'll halt soon,' Gallagher said, 'old Gough won't have us advance into jungle-country with Johnny Sikh waiting for us.'

Costello hawked and spat on the ground. 'Gough? He's a bloody butcher. He's finishing England's job of killing off as many Irishmen as possible.'

Williams snorted. 'Don't talk nonsense. He's as bloody Irish as you can get, is old Paddy Gough.'

'He's working for England,' Kelly spoke from two files in the rear, 'like all the bloody officers.'

Williams blinked the sweat from his eyes. 'There's a village ahead, on this side of the jungle,' he tried to stop the incessant grousing, 'and there's a dirty great river as well. I can smell the water.'

'Water,' Costello sighed. 'Back in Donegal, I used to curse the rain. Now I would live under a storm and smile.'

'Listen, men!' Riding in front of the company, Major Snodgrass wheeled his white horse to face them. 'The Sikhs are entrenched in the village of Chillianwalla, beside the Jhelum River. They have a picket on that mound right ahead. You can't see them, but they are there, and we are going to destroy them.'

Gallagher grunted. 'We are going to destroy them.' He copied Snodgrass's voice, and the others laughed.

'You should have been an officer,' Costello said. 'You sound just like them.'

'Aye, or a circus clown, Mimic.' Doyle dodged Gallagher's half-hearted punch.

'My name is Gallagher!'

'Mimic suits you better.' Williams watched as the British artillery lined up behind them. 'Here we go, lads. There's no rest for the wicked.'

'For what Johnny Sikh is about to receive, make his God make him truly thankful,' Costello said. 'And there go the cavalry.'

The British guns barked in unison, arcing their fire high above the cavalry that advanced on the mound. The Sikh artillery replied, with smoke rising and the orange flare of the muzzle flashes obscenely pretty against the jungle. Bugles sounded clear and bright, followed by the twinkle of sunlight on a hundred sabres.

'They're going in for the charge!' Private Kelly, recently turned seventeen, sounded excited.

'That's the way, boys,' Williams approved as the Sikh artillery ceased fire and hurriedly withdrew when the British cavalry closed.

'If every battle was as easy as that I'd be a happy man,' Costello said.

'Johnny Sikh doesn't give up that easily,' Williams said. 'He's tough stuff.'

'Here's old Paddy now,' Kelly said. 'Raise a cheer for the General, boys!'

Distinctive in his white fighting coat, General Gough rode through the smoke and scattered bodies to the top of the mound. He raised his arms and pointed ahead.

'He's seen something,' Doyle said, 'look at him jumping around.'

'Maybe he saw that.' Costello pointed to the flank where a troop of Sikh horse artillery trotted from a patch of light scrub jungle. With hardly a pause they unlimbered and opened a stinging fire on the British skirmish line.

'Here we go then.' Costello ducked as a cannonball screamed overhead, to raise a fountain of dirt fifty yards away. 'Let's die for England's glory.'

'Queen and country,' Gallagher adopted the refined accent of an officer. 'Let's fight for the flag, my boys.' He stamped his boots on the hard ground and returned to the accent of his native Munster. 'Queen and country? Bugger them both.'

British and Sikhs exchanged artillery fire with cannonballs thumping and rolling among the British lines and screaming through the trees toward the Sikhs. After a quarter of an hour, it became apparent that the Sikhs far outgunned the British, and Gough gave smart orders to his officers. The words drifted along the line of scarlet uniformed soldiers passed down from generals to more junior officers to NCOs and eventually to the men.

'We're going in with the bayonet,' Costello said, 'bayonets against three times our number of the best soldiers in India, dug in behind heavy artillery. As I said, the general is finishing what England has started, killing off all the Irish.'

'He's killing off the English, too,' somebody shouted.

'And the Welsh,' Williams reminded.

With Sikh roundshot bouncing among their ranks, the British formed their battle lines. Brigadier Pope's cavalry was on the extreme right, then Gilbert's division, at the side of the 25th Native Infantry, the Queen's 24th Foot, then the 45th Native infantry, and finally Colin Campbell's infantry and Brigadier White's cavalry. In reserve marched the 113th Foot, so far untried in war.

'It's bloody suicide for these boys in front.' Costello slid free his bayonet and clicked it in place. 'Please, God, they don't expect us to do anything heroic.'

'We also serve who only stand and watch,' Gallagher said.

'I want to fight them!' Kelly was shaking with anticipation.

'Stand still you young fool,' Williams said. 'And keep your position.'

The sun was halfway down the western sky when Gough ordered the advance. Brigadier Mountain led the centre, with the 24th Foot the pivot around which the entire British line poised and the 113th still in support, fifty yards behind the main fighting line.

'We're marching right into the jungle,' Doyle said. He hitched up his belt, spat on his hands and hefted his musket. 'Come on you turbaned bastards; let's see how good you are.'

'I'd prefer to be fighting the bloody English,' Costello said.

'Maybe the next war.' Williams gave a lopsided grin.

'I'll start that one myself.' Costello ducked as a roundshot howled overhead.

Scrub jungle slowed the 113th as they advanced, with the colours unfurled before them, the symbol of regimental pride. The men struggled through the undergrowth, with sections losing formation and halting to re-form before they advanced, as roundshot screamed through their ranks or plunged from above. Men cursed their luck, their fate, their God, their lives and bloody John Company, the Honourable East India Company, whose expansionist ambition sent them here.

Eventually, disorganised, dismayed, and ragged, the 113th Foot emerged from the jungle onto a wide maidan, a large clearing, with the Sikh gunners directly opposite, half-seen through a curtain of white powder smoke.

'It's a bloody killing ground,' Costello said. 'They can't miss us.'

'Let's get the buggers.' Doyle reached for his ammunition pouch. 'Our turn now, you yellow turbaned bastards!'

As the British line reformed, the Sikh guns changed from round shot to grapeshot that scythed down the scarlet ranks. Men fell in pairs and groups, the lucky killed outright, the less fortunate mutilated, eviscerated, shorn of legs or arms to lie in screaming, writhing reminders of the obscenity of war.

'No firing!' the order came along the line, 'only use the bayonet!'

'Bloody told you,' Costello said. 'We're just targets. The officers are trying to kill the Irish off!'

'Charge them, 113th!'

Obeying the orders to only use the bayonet, the 113th advanced, taking horrendous casualties, falling in scores, cursing, grumbling, but never faltering and not considering a retreat. They might be Irish, Welsh, Scots or English but they were British infantry, damn you.

'Where's the supports?' Doyle looked to left and right. 'Where's the bloody sepoys?'

The order to charge had only reached the 113th. The native infantry on either flank remained in the jungle fringe watching as the Queen's infantry advanced alone.

'Vanished, that's where' Costello said. 'The bloody English have withdrawn them, so we get wiped out.'

'Charge!'

The 113th lowered their bayonets and ran right into the blazing, smoking muzzles of the Sikh guns. As the survivors closed ranks, the Sikh gunners drew their tulwars and met the British blade to blade.

Blinded by smoke, shocked by the c*****e, Costello lunged forward. He saw Lieutenant Lloyd fight in fury until he fell before myriad cuts, while young Kelly bayoneted a gunner, grunting as he twisted the blade in the man's chest. Costello ducked under the swing of a ramrod, hacked upward with his bayonet and spitted the Sikh clean. He swore, gasped, and looked around.

'We've done it,' Costello shouted, 'We've breached their lines.'

The 113th triumph was short-lived. The Sikh artillery on either flank wheeled around and hammered the 113th with a vicious crossfire that felled more men.

'Withdraw,' somebody ordered, and the 113th, sullen, fighting, snarling, fell back in good order across the bodies of their dead and the screaming wounded.

'We'll be back for you boys,' Kelly promised. These were the last words he uttered as a twelve-pound cannonball hit him clean on the head. Costello thought it sounded like an explosion in a box of feathers, except it was brains and blood and shards of bone that sprayed his colleagues.

As the Sikhs perfected their aim, the retreat of the 113th became a rout; they ran back, ignoring the officers and sheltered in the jungle, licking their wounds as the Sikh army, still vastly outnumbering the British, fled the battlefield. Only when they were clear of the jungle did the 113th halt to lick their wounds and count their dead.

'Are we still alive?' Doyle tied a bloody bandage around his arm and drained the contents of his water bottle.

'You and I are,' Costello said. 'A cannonball took Kelly's head off. He was a fine Cork man too.'

Doyle swore. 'I've had enough of fighting England's bloody battles for them.'

'Me too,' Costello said quietly. 'The Sikhs will welcome two British soldiers, and then off we go.'

'Make that three,' Gallagher said. 'I'm coming too.'

'Where to?' Doyle asked, 'where will we go off to?'

'California,' Costello said. 'Where the gold is.'

Doyle slid his bayonet into its scabbard. 'We'll leave when it's dark,' he said.