The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland
Dieu et Mon Droit
Chapter 3: From Across the Rolling Hills, and Across the Tides of Blue
The Colours of the King's German Legion
The Battle of Lahore, March 12th, 1835 A.D
Captain Friedrich von Hohenzollern, The King's German Legion, 11:36 AM
Friedrich inhaled sharply, rubbing his gloved hands against each other as he stared into what could have been called an mirage had he not been able to know it was all too real. Lahore stood, solemnly and on its last legs. Her walls had been battered, struck again and again by the valiant Company Artillerists whom sat patiently on the hillside behind them, firing their guns straight into the beating heart of the Sikh Empire. Von Hohenzollern smiled bitterly, covering his ears in a vague attempts to somewhat protect them from the sound, rather akin to an individual pounding drums in his ear canal, that was being emitted by those mighty and fearsome cannons.
And that was when the man showed his emotions. He slowly removed his hands from his ears, breathing a sigh of relief as the ringing subsided. Had he held his ears tightly for a few more moments, he would not have heard the horror that came next. Down came a portion of the wall, rubble and chunks of stone slamming into the back-to-back homes of the poorer residents of the city whom had build their homes and livelihoods pressed against this supposed vestige of safety. A collective scream, even a squelch most foul, could be heard as the wall tumbled and fell. The German's teeth clenched, his hands tightened into balls and kicked the sand beneath his boots. Little had him annoyed or frustrated recently, but screams of civilians brought him back to terrible ideas of the French invasion of Hannover all those years ago. They were seen as a wave, as Friedrich was but a mere child in the face of that French Monster.
He composed himself, dusted down his uniform out of habit and stood firm and solemnly. All knew what came next. Forward came the message from the superiors, some Company Official or Prince had seen it as an ample opportunity to press the attack on the broken section of the wall. Twas a siege, after all and the little engagements that had occurred outside of those walls at this point had all ended with decisive British victories that slowly brought the overall count of defenders to a close. None expected an easy fight however, by all sources Lahore was the capital of the Sikh Empire. That did not mean however, as Friedrich had deduced, that any form of governmental body even remained here. He'd have guessed the moment the British had declared war they moved north, further from the front. It mattered little to him really, now was not a time to ponder on that.
He drew his sword, as did other officers and captains in command of their respective regiments of the line. To his right, the fifers and drummers began to play their tunes and many a hardy Germanic face turned solemn as the advance towards the breach began. Hundreds of feet, marching in unison, arms swinging to the beat, bayonets glistening in the sun and the colour of the King's German Legion flew proudly alongside the higher flag of Britain. And so the tide of colours moved forward, as Hanoverians, Britons and Indians marched in their companies to secure the wall. Friedrich, looked over to his right-hand-man, whom stood quite ironically on his left, and gave a brief nod as the music reached the point as where the lyrics began. The indication was well known by all in the King's German Legion. The chant was loud, ferocious even, and the walls themselves seemed to tremble before the booming voices.
"WAS IST DES DEUTSCHEN VATERLAND?!"
Jamadar Khushal, 3rd Sikh Artillery Regiment, 12:12 AM
Jamadar cursed inwardly, rolling the heavy artillery piece into the hastily built series of redoubts behind the wall. He did his best to avoid the sights of severed limbs, pools of blood and crushed bodies and merely focused intently on the rolling wheel of the artillery piece. He had been trained by European Mercenaries - as had most of the Sikh Empire's artillerists - for this exact purpose. It was well known across the Sikh Empire, her Government and her Military, that the East India Company would not be satisfied until the entire Indian Peninsula succumbed to the rule of the British Kings off in the distant land of Europe.
And so he heard the garrison and the professional soldiery of the Sikh Empire, under the command of the Vizier Ranjit Singh - whom had indeed not left the city - were to put up a valiant defence of Lahore. He saw some of the garrison funnel into some dug lines behind the redoubt, putting forth their muskets in about formations of 5 or six with a sizeable gap in between, so as not to shoot the cannon and artillerists in front of them. He paid no mind and he and his group managed to push their cannon into the section of the redoubt, beginning to angle the howitzer to be prepared to fire upon the incoming British soldiers.
"Come on." he nodded to one of the other artillerists and the group began to load their machines of war, their instruments of destruction. The other defences upon the hastily built redoubt had already begun firing and several spotters had made note of casualties forming amongst the Sepoys whom constituted the frontal line of the British advancement.
"Princely State Sepoys!" one called, before he was thrown off of his position by a stray cannonball. The body slammed into the floor, an arm clearly carved off. Little stirred amongst the camp. Jamader only muttered a silent prayer to God before he fired the howitzer.
Thomas Redding, 5th Nottingham Grenadiers, 12:20 AM
Redding gripped the butt of his musket tighter, watching as the cannon fire slammed into the position directly in front of them. It had been noted that defences had been hastily erected to halt the British. It was working for now, at least. Several Sepoy regiments had held their advance, opened ranks and some even fled under the cannon fire. Some of the Company Fusiliers had done so as well. Not the Hanoverians, whom had sustained the least casualties. Quite unorthodoxly they knelt and crouched at the signs of enemy cannon fire. Word of this trouble had gone back to camp, and artillery had been called in to soften up the 'Sikh Underbelly'.
This was not to say, as Redding had noticed, that the rest of Lahore was not under fire. Much of the city walls were under constant battering from the British guns. Heavy pounders and calibers and shot slammed into the once smooth sandstone that now was being chipped and blasted away by balls of cast iron and other metals. It seemed the Company was more concerned about levelling Lahore than actually capturing it, but Thomas knew these vocal opinions were frowned upon by his superiors. He had sworn an Oath, one to King and Country and the solemn standard of colour that fluttered in the wind reminded him where his loyalties lied.
And so they pushed into the breach, under fire from musket and now hasty attempts at canister shot did the Nottingham Grenadiers. Redding was surprised when he saw the front of the line had remained vastly in tact, though he did note that many of the second and third and fourth liners would merely push up to give the illusion the British lines were never ending. A shout came across the regiment Bayonets! Bayonets! And so in tandem, many muskets came forth and presented the Sikhs with a ferocious show of teeth. Each man fired off a shot for good measure, intensive whizzing breaking the short bursts of silence between shouts on both sides.
And as the Grenadiers poured through the breach in their unbroken formations, an unstoppable tied matched by the fluttering of banners in the wind, the musicians had the audacity, courage and determination to began to play.
Jamadar Khushal, 3rd Sikh Artillery Regiment, 12:24 AM
"What the hell is that music?!"
"I don't know!"
Jamadar thrust his musket forward, impaling a Redcoat straight through his stomach. Blood and guts oozed out of the wound as the man's eyes rolled back and Jamadar climbed out of his redoubt, after having rapidly hammered a nail into the loading mechanism of the cannon and ran back across the rapidly falling breach in the wall. Crumbling sounds echoed across the city, another segment of the wall had fallen - and this time the British were already much closer - to his right he saw more rubble and dust collect, and before anything could come through he noticed several dozen men of the ghodachadas charge through the breach. These men were the Sikh Elite, irregular cavalrymen, and well known for their prowess in battle.
And yet for all their glory, Jamadar's spirits were not raised. He stepped back and was almost thrown over as several Sikh regimentals charged forth, a mixture of sword and bayonet at hand and leaped into the trenches themselves.
The battle was merely beginning. An Officer ran up to the artillerist, a scowl across his face that betrayed no thought.
"Get back into the fighting!" he called, shouting above the sounds of the battle.
"Artillerist, sir, there are no can-"
"I don't care. Every able bodied man will halt the British at that point or we're all going to be" a gesture to his neck was made. "Up to here in shit!"
Jamadar could only nod as the officer handed him a captured musket, a pouch of musket balls and a dagger. He gulped slightly, loaded his musket and fired at the first individual he saw emerge from one of the trench lines.
Captain Friedrich von Hohenzollern, The King's German Legion, 13:57 PM
"DAS GANZE DEUTSCHLAND SOLL ES SEIN!"
Friedrich pointed his pistol at one of those Sikh defenders. With no second thought he pulled the trigger and watched the metallic ball tear through the man's clothing, skin and out back his back. The battle within Lahore had been raging on for several hours now, fatigue amongst both sides was high. Fortunately however, the walls of Lahore now stood battered and multiple entry points now dotted the city. British troops had poured in, the hammer to an anvil, but had met fierce resistance across the board. The most successful group had actually been a team of men whom assaulted the most precarious place imaginable, the iron hide of the city, the fort in the North West.
He had no time to dwell on their success, but he had made note that the defenders had weakened their defence upon this breach by moving them further in that direction. As far as the Hanoverian could care, that was good enough.
"O GOTT VOM HIMMEL, SIEH DAREIN!"
The Hanoverians had, for the better part of the good hours, been engaged in a deadly melee with their Sikh Counterparts. Numbers had been thinned on both sides, and bodies adorned in red littered the redoubts and trenches and breaches made, all alongside the fallen foe. More calls came from the rear, and in slammed a regiment of British Gurkahs that had been held in reserve.
Friedrich mused as one of the Asiatic fellows fell in beside him, before clambering out and leading an advance to the next defensive position. All the cards have been played. He mused. Slowly and surely, the German noticed, the Sikhs were beginning to grow tired and weary. With one final push, this section, and those that followed would be clear and the city would soon crumble to British hands.
Percival Morrison, 1st Welsh Lancers, 14:16 PM
A gallop worthy of Heaven itself. Hundreds of horses, their hooves impacting the earth with grace as equal as formidableness. And the lances too, they were the frightening aspect of these horsemen. And so they circled, circled a moving train of individuals whom were aiming to leave the city through the gate by the Fortress. Encircled they were, and Percival Morrison could not but be upset by the waste of the horsemen in this battle. Halting civilians? Barely worth the time of these formidable lancers.
Morrison snooped his nose at these vile individuals. And so they were halted, their empty eyes watching the British in their own pomp and splendour slowly round them up and draw them from the battle. The Bugler, whose face was more red than the brightest tomatoes, brought the bugle up to his lips once more and blew the tune for dismount. Morrison grinned lightly, butting one of the Sikhs with the flat end of his lance before dismounting and petting his horse tenderly.
And so the officer, a Bentley, gathered all the men, women and children they had captured.
"Morrison?" he called, pulling down on his gloves.
"Aye?"
"Inspection time, check their goods. See what they've got."
Aagya; the Sikh Girl, 14:30 PM
She trembled. God, she trembled.
Just yesterday she recalled the joyous calls throughout the streets of Lahore, the busy markets, the troops patrolling the streets. It was known that Lahore may soon be attacked, but it was never said what the impending doom was. Aagya had discovered they were devils clad in red. She rubbed her upper arm, covered in splinters and scars at her attempts to escape a crumbling ruin of a bakery she happened to be in when these 'British' arrived with their cannons and men.
She tried. She so very well tried to get out, but between the screams of the baker as his roof collapsed on him and the support beams of the building coming down around her she had been reckless, her arm brushing past a broken beam and turning into the morass of injury it was now. There was some hope, several of the more noble garrison men were collecting all civilians they could find and began a process of moving them out through the Lahore Fortress. It was noble, valiant and she knew there were so many men whom she'd never even have the right to learn their names. They might as well have all had the same faces; for it mattered not to the British whom it was that was in their way.
She sniffled. Memories of an hour before, as they walked along the road leading out of the fort. Freedom, away from this dreaded plague called war. They would be out of Lahore, they would be safe - the Vizier would give his consent for his people, or so they had been told by the garrison men. She knew they were lying. Their faces betrayed it. She said nothing, though. Hope came in short supply when an army stood outside your walls.
A Painting of Lahore
And there they were. They got so far from the city, yet so close. She recalled it, a memory that would forever be ingrained in her mind. One of the individuals at the rear gave a scream, something about horses and everyone turned to see what he was on about to notice a stampeding group of cavalrymen approaching them. That dreaded flag, crosses within crosses, blues and reds. Then they were encircled, all their hopes dashed. It was worse for those whom broke into a sprint at the sight of these horsemen. All she recall was some older man covering her eyes as a sound so horrible to describe occurred. She later discovered, after prying the stranger's hand from her eyes, that these 'British Horsemen' had run down those whom attempted to escape as an example to the rest. All she could do was laugh to herself, laugh to stop herself from the tears that were swelling up within her as all she knew was destroyed.
She shuddered. She looked at her arm.
She kept hearing this word 'Morrison' be repeated. She guessed it was the name of one of those British horsemen. Her guess was as good as she thought, as this man approached the assembled civilians and began to confiscate their property. She gave a quick glance to her person. She had nothing, she knew he'd understand. She was but a poor adolescent girl. And one by one he drew closer, and she noticed he was seemingly pleased by his task. Her arms folded beneath over her breasts and she waited.
Then she came face to face with this man. He looked at her, confused. His fingers curled towards his hand in a gesture of give, give. She twirled, showing her hands and clothes as to say she had nothing. The man's eyebrow slowly rising before he seemed to take the initiative of what she meant. She sighed, in relief, until his hand groped her hip and another her bosom. She shrieked, without thinking, and struck the man across his face with a slap from her hand.
Now the British and her fellow people looked at her, she trembled.
She trembled as the sight of the bayonet came dashing towards her stomach.
She fell onto the floor and she smiled as the sound of the guns slowly stopped, no longer did Lahore tremble. And neither did she.
A Ship, a Great Symbol of Britishness.
Cape Town, Cape Colony, British South Africa, March 17th
Masts creaked in the winds, and gulls squawked repetitively as they circled around the crow's nest and the sails of the mighty warships. Cape Colony, as it was referred to, was Britain's sure way of seeing the passing of goods from the East back to Britain, for it was the age-old established trade route ever since it was utilised by the Portuguese before they became part of that dreadful Iberia nonsense. Cape Colony was not a particularly British place, most Europeans were Dutch and the English only truly dominated in their created coastal city, Port Elizabeth.
Governor Benjamin D'Urban was not a particularly busy man. Cape Colony was sparsely populated for its size and managing the affairs was quite simple. True however, both the Dutch 'Afrikaners' and the Native Black Peoples proved to be rather quarrelsome. Recent spats with the Dutch Speakers led to increased tensions across the entirety of Cape Colony. D'Urban had requested more troops to help garrison South Africa against what he perceived as rather rebellious ideas of insubordination; so when a small British squadron arrived he could only have assumed it was for the best.
Unfortunately for him, this squadron was actually taking ships from him (Albeit it, it brought some more regiments to help with the defence) and informed the governor that these were necessary for Britain's war with Nusantara, for they were to strike at Madagascar. And so Benjamin D'Urban watched with vague enthusiasm as the British Fleet left harbour, taking with her hardy marines he would have much better used in keeping the peace in Cape Colony. It bothered him not however, if push came to shove D'Urban was the veteran of half-a-hundred campaigns and he would certainly be able to deal with a few rebellious 'Afrikaners.'
British Bengal Fleet, Perka Isle, Indian Ocean, March 19th
The British Bengal Fleet was perhaps the largest conglomerate of Ocean-Going Warships in the Indian Ocean. This wasn't too proud of a saying, considering Britain dominated the entirety of the Indian Ocean by owning India. Her fleet was well stocked, supplied, maintained and served as Britain's strong arm - as the wooden wall served wherever it was - however, Britain's latest ambition came at the cost of an offensive war with the Nusantarans. It was well equipped for such a task; plenty of mighty warships and plenty of transports ferrying an hefty number of marines and soldiers from British India. It was quite lucky that the Indian Army had been mobilised previously, but Admiral Pigot - the commander of the Bengal Fleet - merely shrugged his soldiers and reportedly said 'the more the merrier'.
Pigot was an unflinching man. He had earned a reputation to stand upon deck and the broadside rails as the ships engaged fire. Whilst not the most brilliant of ideas, its effect on morale was always a good boost. As he aged however, he tended to do it less. He became more cautious, not less inefficient, but general more considerate of what he was throwing his fleet into. Granted, aboard the Waterloo, a behemoth of a ship sporting 120 guns, one had no need to go quickly when the ship itself was a hulking wall of cannon that required no speed. Pigot did still, however, have a flare to his youth about him. Frigates and sloops were never in short supply in his navy, for he favoured their speed - and the frigates balance of hull strength, speed and cannons - to be able to utilise them in great support of the much heavier and harder hitting ships.
His goal was to strike at Sumatra, a decisive blow whilst the Dutch assaulted the Nusantaran holdings in Australia. As far as he could recall, the plan then called for the Dutch and British ships (Those stationed at British Timor anyway) would strike at whatever target the Dutch seemed fit. Pigot did not particularly care as to what the Dutch saw fit and had insisted the Dutch were to swing round and assault Sumatra from the south. If his words had fallen on deaf ears, he could not say, but he would certainly continue with his goal.
Victoria, Aged Four.
Holkham Hall, Norfolk, March 20th.
Victoria stared out of the large windows with glee. Thanks to William removing her mother from her presence for the past 16 days, Victoria was free. She went and ran through the fields as soon as she had spoken to Frederick Wilhelm, or as she had taken to calling him, Willy and Freddy - to his rather amusing annoyance. The freedom of the outdoors was amazing, one that was not restricted to the ever glaring view of her mother or the somewhat more relaxed observations from Sir Conroy. But she couldn't think about that at this moment in time, she was too happy, too pleased. Every minute would be savoured of this trip.
And so, Victoria had decided to paint. She never learnt how to do so, she was fantastic at drawing but just trying to paint something on canvas was something she had never done. So now she stared out of her bedroom window, and tried to paint whatever she had seen that interested her. The original attempts were somewhat amusing to her now that she looked back at the intense rage she had with the canvas paper as her attempts at drawing her dog, Dash, ended up making it look like God had created a dog with a distorted head, three extra limbs and for reasons she could not explain, was purple.
She had grown up around portraits and so attempted to imitate them, too. Portraits of her uncle, her father, her mother, past Queens and Kings. Yet she... couldn't. She didn't have the steady hand or the eye for detail, but it was fun. Entertaining. Free. As she continued to paint, she got to a point where she underwent a large period of giggling. She laughed, laughed and laughed. She fell onto the bed, giggling amidst the sheets. Later on, she arose, her hair in a mess and her dress hanging below her navel and had no faint idea of why she indeed was laughing.
Knock
"Oh!" she exclaimed. "Just a minute!"
She put her dress back on properly, reached for an ivory comb and did her hair as best she could. After a couple of minutes she approached the oaken door and opened it.
"Your Grace." the King's valet began, bowing. "Your Uncle wishes for you to break your fast with him and his ward. Are you ready?"
"Well, one does not refuse such a thing from his majesty. Let us go." The valet nodded and led the heir presumptive towards the dinning table.
It was an elegant room, an exquisite and large accommodation for the finest dining. An glorious table, almost the length of the room, was at the centre piece. A fine white cloth adorned it ever so graciously, and candle sticks aplenty were placed atop it. Chairs surrounded the piece of furnishing, and a plethora of breakfast items were already placed upon the table. Several tea pots, jars filled with sugar and others with jams, slabs of butter, loaves of bread, rashers of bacon along with sausages and egg and bread fried in oil and covered in honey.
She mentally licked her lips at the banquet before her, waited for the valet to pull the seat for her to sit down and planted her buttocks firmly on the comfortable dining chair. Opposite her sat Frederick, to her left and his right sat her uncle, William, at the head of the left side of the table.
"Good morning, Victoria." both men almost said in unison.
"Your Grace" she nodded at Frederick. "Uncle." she smiled at William, whom smiled in return before slamming his spoon into hard boiled egg and cracking its shell. The trio tucked into their breakfast, making idle chatter in between their various selections of eating.
"Victoria." William interjected. "About your mother..."
"Leave it be, uncle. She means well..."
"I will not have that." he almost slammed the spoon into the table. "No heir of mine is to be controlled by that witch of a woman whom disgraces my brother's name, yours and mine!" The King inhaled, relaxing and letting his shoulders drop. "I have warned her that if I find out she or 'Sir Conroy' has done you a wrong doing whenever you return to Kent, I will have her fined and penalised for doing such a thing."
The German Prince gave a short nod in agreement. "It may not be my place to say, your Grace." He said, soft spoken and tenderly. "But I am in agreement. From what Victoria tells me of her mother and your dislike of her, I say it is justified."
"See!" William said once again. "Its not just I whom sees it."
Victoria sniffled slightly, giving her uncle a hug before moving around the table and giving another to the German Prince, Wilhelm. "Thank you." she said, holding back a sob or two.
From: The Office of Foreign Secretary Henry John Temple, 3rd Viscount Palmerston
To: The Office of Victor de Broglie, President of the Council and Minister for Foreign Affairs
Sir,It is no secret that France has always been the secondary power in Europe just after Britannia, one whom can change the course of history upon the continent with a mere breath. And yes, we have fought in the past but we believe they were well justified reasons. I do not mean to sound rude to you, but had Britain not intervened the dastardly Corsican would have engulfed Europe under his clutches and we would all be worse off in the long run.
And whilst it is true that together we cannot be rivalled, there may be too many differences between us for our very much extended mutual cooperation.
This is not to say that Britain does not seek to work with France, but rather that the extent of dividing the world between the two of us may be an affair that cannot work well as we may butt heads on too many issues.
I shall forward the message to his Majesty and his family of your invitations, I am sure they are to accept the proposal - Paris has always been the finest of the cities upon the continent. One of grace and elegance and to meet with the French King may build a bridge between our nations. Regardless,
The British Parliament is heavily interested in your ideas of the selling of the French Indian Territories. We are certain we can negotiate a price and a convention about Africa and Asia to decide what each of us solemnly agrees that is the right of the other nation is most agreeable.
We shall be sending a diplomatic entourage with his Majesty, then.
May God Bless You,
Henry John Temple, 3rd Viscount Palmerston, Acting in the Interests of His Majesty, King William IV.
