Scarlet Shadows

by Elizabeth Darrell

  “Never go away again without the comfort of a goodbye. I could think of nothing but your lips cold and silent forever…your ears no longer able to hear my words. I could think of nothing but men galloping. Hugo, I…” Her voice broke on the welter of emotion brought about by the impact of his ardent return into the man who loved her.

  “No, you must not think such things…say such things.” He laid his fingers gently across her lips, then moved them up to chase a tear that hung on her lashes. In that moment her frailty left him breathless with pain. Drawing her against him as if to offer protection, he stroked her hair tenderly. “You should never have come. This is no place for you.”

  Her face tilted upward. “It is the only place for me when you are here.”

  The protective feeling vanished immediately. Her mouth was only inches from his, and he was no longer master of himself. Tightening his hold around her, he breathed, “My love…” but his head shot up when a voice nearby said, “You are in full view of the harbor, Victoria.”

  Letty stood a few feet away, an expression of understanding on her pretty face. “The situation, at present, makes reunions rather emotional, but they are better conducted in less public places.” She smiled at Hugo. “Having said that, I shall be happy to receive a warm welcome from my dear friend.” She stood on tiptoe to offer her cheek for his automatic kiss. “You have always been a great deal too dashing with the ladies, Hugo. To be seen embracing one on board ship would cause gossip. To bestow your kisses on every woman in sight will bring no more than amused head-shaking from your fellows.” She tucked her hand through his arm. “How did you know we had arrived? Is Jack here?”

  In something of a daze he murmured, “No…no. He is gone on a foraging patrol. I cannot think what he will say when he sees you here. How long do you remain?”

  Victoria slipped her hand through his other arm, seeming to recover more quickly than he. “This is not a visit. We have come to rejoin the regiment,” she said quietly.

  He swung around to face her, recollection of his brother, his vow, returning in full force. “You cannot! We are under constant fire. There is no provision for ladies in the encampment. The whole idea is impossible.”

  “How very unwelcome you make us, Hugo,” pouted Letty. “It might be that you will change your mind when you see we have brought two of your horses with us, besides Jack’s and Colonel Stanford’s.”

  Filled with the realization that he had so nearly weakened where Victoria was concerned, Hugo sounded even more discouraging when he said, “Believe me, for the horses I shall be everlastingly grateful — you have no notion of the situation here — but you will not be allowed to stay in the cavalry camp, I guarantee.”

  “Then we shall live elsewhere,” declared Victoria. “We are determined to stay, are we not, Letty?”

  “Yes, we have brought all the baggage that was left behind, extra food supplies and the horses. Hugo,” Letty said hotly, “you must give us your complete support. Say that you will.”

  Hugo looked at Victoria and heard himself say helplessly, “Of course I will give my best support.”

  *

  The cavalry was encamped on a hill two miles above Balaclava, near the village of Kadikoi, where they were in an excellent position to counter any attempt by the Russians to retake the tiny harbor. As the small party rode up the rough road that bright, chilly day, Hugo pointed out the encampments of various regiments of an entire force occupying the vast hills around Sebastopol.

  Victoria saw it all with amazed eyes. The hinterland of the Russian naval base stretched in a series of undulating hills and long valleys for as far as they could see, and tents dotted every visible part. It would appear the little sea fortress further along the coast was practically under siege by land, and she could understand Hugo’s bitterness at the failure of the commanders-in-chief of the Anglo-French forces to march straight into the town after driving back the enormous Russian force at the Alma. Instead, they had been sitting here for three weeks while the enemy regrouped before the walls of Sebastopol and put up great earthworks to defend their port. Assault on the objective now would mean a bitter battle, he said, and there was even talk of retiring to Scutari for winter quarters.

  She watched him as he rode beside them, talking of his views and feelings, and knew it was as it had previously been between them. She felt no desire to analyze why he had hated her, then loved her again. Content with the present, her only wish was to remain where she could see him and know he was safe. That month in Varna had been a lifetime. When she had thought of Captain Jenson with his legs blown off, she had thought of Hugo. While she had longed to be of some comfort to the injured and dying, it had been Hugo lying in pain that she had pictured. Here, in the Crimea, she could rest content, knowing she was at hand whatever happened.

  They entered the camp and saw immediately that things had changed drastically since the regiment left Varna. There was a lack of permanence about the site, as though there was no point in making the place comfortable or convenient. There were fewer tents, and the much-trodden ground between them was thick mud that sucked at the horses’ hooves as they threaded their way to headquarters. Passing some of the horse lines, Victoria was appalled to see beautiful creatures that had been the pride of the cavalry reduced to mangy-coated nags with ribs showing too clearly through emaciated bodies and tails that had been eaten to stumps.

  The troopers and officers past whom they rode warmed Victoria’s heart with their delighted greetings, but the change was there in their faces, as it was in Hugo’s. They had seen death by violence now and were experiencing hardship, danger and uncertainty. There was a hardness, an undertone of seriousness in the way they moved about, and the glamour of their appearance had begun to fade. They were here for a deadly purpose.

  Hugo hailed a passing trooper to ask where he would find Colonel Stanford and was told he had gone to his tent for dinner. Taking that to mean Charles had decided on an early luncheon, Victoria asked the man to conduct her to her husband and turned to Hugo and Letty.

  “I will see what Charles can arrange for us, Letty. Have no fear. We shall not go from here on any account. I trust your husband will return by the time we have settled the matter.” She turned to the man beside her friend. “Thank you for escorting us here, Hugo. I am most grateful.” It was all she was allowed to say, but words did not matter any longer.

  It was a short distance to Charles’s tent. Giving her horse to the trooper, she lifted the flap and entered without announcement. The interior was spartan — a bed, a table of wooden boxes, a tin jug and a bowl for washing. Charles was sitting on the bed to eat a plateful of gravy — soaked meat, washed down by a tin cupful of wine, and he looked up with an alertness born of wartime conditions. For a few seconds he sat looking at her, then slowly lowered his knife and fork.

  “Victoria!” He came toward her with half-frowning delight, and took her hands. “Give me time to believe it is really you I see. I had thought you in Constantinople by now.” He let out a long breath. “How am I to explain this to the commander-in-chief?”

  “We shall think of a way,” she said calmly.

  Next minute she was pulled into his arms and his lips were on hers, hard and demanding, as always. She felt the desire mounting within his body and knew it was her turn to use him at last. Dragging her lips away, she murmured against his neck, “Now I have gone to all this trouble to join you, you cannot let them send me away.”

  He found her mouth again and spoke against it. “I cannot and shall not!”

  Chapter Eleven

  Two days after Victoria and Letty moved into a small half cottage in Balaclava, not far from the harbor, the great bombardment of Sebastopol began with a tremendous roar. Victoria awoke to the sound, believing it to be a storm, but over the doomed siege town lay a pall of black smoke that increased after each shattering salvo. She called Letty to come to her room, and the two young women watched in silent awe their first evidence that war was an earnest g
ame.

  Victoria felt her stomach churning. At this distance it was a tremendous spectacle, but over there, a few miles distant, a town was being destroyed. Proud houses were falling apart, crushing their owners beneath the walls; women were going about their tasks in terror; animals were rushing headlong; mutilation and death were stalking the streets of a pretty port. It was such a painful thought she turned her eyes away, only to see something worse. There was a similar pall over the hills above Kadikoi. Why had she imagined the battle to be one-sided?

  They rode up to the cavalry camp after breakfast, as usual. Outside in the streets, the noise was deafening, and it was plain that not only were the batteries on the hills pouring shot and shell into Sebastopol, but the British men-o’-war anchored outside the harbor had moved in closer to bombard the target from the seaward side. Heavy smoke layers hung over the whole area, bringing a morning twilight to a dull day and filling Victoria with a premonition of Stygian darkness to come.

  Their progress into the valley revealed the drama even more vividly, for they could then see the red flash of fire from the mouths of cannon in the hills above as the shells flew whistling downward to find their mark with a roar that joined the universal thundering. They were close enough to see the gunners moving around their weapons when the smoke cleared, but all that was visible of the Russian batteries was a row of smoke puffs that blossomed and faded like momentary flowers in the distance.

  The Light and Heavy Cavalry were in their saddles and formed up just north of their encampment, waiting for the assault that should follow the bombardment. They had been waiting since an hour before dawn, when the piquets had come galloping in with reports of large groups of Russian cavalry on the move beyond the heights, but, although they remained in their saddles while the morning wore away, no orders came to advance. At last, around midday, they heard there was to be no assault of Sebastopol’s advance defenses that day.

  The Hussars rode back to their lines with jingling harness, the men in faded uniforms, their faces etched in lines of strain, angry that they had yet again been prevented from taking an active part. Victoria received only a swift salute from Hugo as he cantered past, his vivid eyes stormy and his uniform splattered with mud.

  “There goes one gentleman who will either explode or get himself put under arrest if we do not soon match our steel with the enemy,” observed Lord Dovedale dryly to his lovely companion. “Poor Esterly came in from outlying piquet this morning with his blood up, confident that his report would have us on the move within minutes. Much more of this and he will be unable to hold back. He is an impetuous fellow at the best of times.”

  Victoria watched Hugo’s back. “Why did they not make the assault?”

  He gave a weary smile. “Dear ma’am, I am not yet in the full confidence of our worthy commanders. They probably felt it was not quite the day for it.”

  She asked the same question of Charles when they went to his tent. He was angry, she could tell, but he merely said, “They have their reasons, my dear. We do not see the overall plan as they do.”

  She sat on his bed and pulled off her hat. “What plan can they have if we are to move out to Scutari shortly?”

  He turned and smiled. “That rumor is scotched. We are to remain here until Sebastopol falls. At the rate we are pounding them, it will hold out for three days at the most.”

  A week later it showed no sign of crumbling. Victoria and Letty had grown used to the continual rumble of big guns, although they were firing less frequently now. Not only was the fortress withstanding the bombardment, but large numbers of Russian infantry and cavalry were massing some five or six miles away from Balaclava. In the expectation of imminent attack the Allied cavalrymen were forced to sleep beside horses ready-saddled and were turned out every morning just before dawn where they would sit shivering for hours without breakfast or a drink to warm them.

  The young women visited the camp every day and found everyone growing dispirited and exhausted. There was no sign of an assault on the fortifications — in fact, no sign of an attack on any kind, except the shells, which were fast running out after a week-long bombardment. The troops were despondent at having to sit every day waiting, achieving nothing; there was another outbreak of cholera to weaken their numbers; and they were beginning to feel the icy fingers of a Crimean winter reaching out to them. The high level of sickness was making it necessary for men to be on piquet duty for twenty-two out of twenty-four hours, and the horses were in such a state regiments could only mount three-quarters of their men.

  The general atmosphere affected the two young women, and persistent rain prevented their usual visit to camp for two days running. This did not improve their spirits and both ended up suffering from headaches that made them cross and impatient with each other. They retired early, and Victoria was consequently quite snappy with Zarina when she entered the tiny whitewashed bedroom with great energy and no lack of noise early the following morning.

  “Can you not learn to move more quietly?” she complained. “I am not yet ready to awaken.”

  “Oh missus, get up quickly,” Zarina said breathily. “I just heard there’s a big battle started. The Russians have attacked and captured our guns on the hill, and there’s thousands of cavalry riding down on Balaclava.”

  Victoria shot up, filled with icy terror. “Where did you hear this?”

  “It’s all over the town. This time it’s true, missus. The Turks are rushing into town like terrified sheep. Seems they ran away and let the Russians walk in where they liked. I stopped a soldier in the street and asked the truth of it, and he said the infantry boys are hard at it and our cavalry are all turned out in the North Valley waiting for the enemy to come.” The girl was as taut as if she were about to go before an audience in the big top. “I got that idiot lad to saddle the horses. Everyone is going up to the Heights to watch.”

  Hardly knowing what she was doing, Victoria flung on her riding habit and rushed in to find Letty doing the same. They said nothing, their apprehension too evident for words. Victoria’s throat was dry and fear hammered at her heart.

  An air of tension hung over the little town. Mounting their horses, they set off quickly, following the many riders who were leaving the harbor area for a ringside seat. This was the moment, an end to the waiting. Here was, at last, the hour of glory.

  Turks were flying down the road, loaded with pots and pans, kettles and whatever possessions they had managed to snatch up, shouting in alarm and signaling riders to turn back. Staff officers galloped back and forth in desperate haste, dodging the overladen ammunition wagons that were stuck in the mud. The Turkish drivers whipped and kicked the poor bullocks in a frenzy of panic, but the beasts were broken by semi starvation and incapable of pulling such loads any more. Several times the women had to draw in to the side as ambulance wagons rushed past in urgent bumping progression.

  Up on the hills, large dark masses of troops could be seen, but Victoria could not tell if they were British, French or Russian. Trumpets were sounding in the clear air, the bombardment being in a hiatus, and soon she heard the light chatter of musketry all around her, carrying on the lovely, hazy autumn stillness. Why today? she wondered. Why, on a day such as this, when the world is so beautiful, should men be destined to see their last of it?

  *

  In the valley Monty shook his head restlessly, setting the harness jingling and the flies rising from his eyes only to settle again seconds later. Hugo sat motionless in his saddle, gazing through narrowed eyes down the sun-washed valley nearly three-quarters of a mile wide and flanked by heights on both sides. It was empty and still, sweet grassland lying dozing beneath the growing heat of morning.

  Less than an hour before, the southern slope of the South Valley had been covered with battling cavalry, after the scarlet-jacketed Heavy Brigade had charged courageously uphill at a force several times their superior. Admiration and pride burst from Hugo’s breast. It had been highly unorthodox but instigated by the desp
eration of the situation; it had been a maneuver after his own heart — cavalry used creatively under extraordinary circumstances. The Light Brigade, formed up in readiness, had cheered their comrades on as they waited for the order to chase after the retreating Cossacks and complete the rout, but the cheering had died an incredulous death. Lord Cardigan had continued to sit his charger while the Russians retreated, amazed but thankful, to the safety of their lines. They were now reformed at the far end of the North Valley behind their battery of twelve heavy guns and together made a dark block of men in the far distance.

  Hugo’s head was thundering with rage at his own impotence. Was there to be no end to the appalling mishandling of this campaign? Did the commanders of this force have any idea of trying to win it, or was it their intention to kill off their own army with disease and ineptitude? He was surrounded, at this moment, by six hundred or more of the finest cavalrymen in the world — yes, even though they were exhausted and fever-ridden — yet they had been sitting here in neat rows since 4:00 A.M., like glittering toys on parade. It was infamous!

  A somnolent hush had fallen over the valley. After the earlier gunfire, the shouts and screams of infantry on the hills and the huzzahs of the cavalry as steel clashed against steel and horses neighed in fright, the peace was intense against his eardrums. Once the stillness of inactivity had been broken by an aide-de-camp galloping up with a message, and muscles tensed. But that had been thirty minutes ago, and still they sat.

  Looking along the ranks of his troop, Hugo saw his own mood echoed in the men’s faces — those who were not dozing in their saddles. They had been out on night piquet and had had no sleep. This sun warmth after the frost of darkness was taking its toll. Up ahead, his brother was sitting straight in the saddle, gazing down the valley also. What were his thoughts? he wondered.