Chapter Seventeen
It was not until the first week of August that Victoria felt well enough to move about the camp once more. The events of that one night had left her defenseless against the notorious Crimean fever that moved in to take possession of her exhausted body and kept it tossing and turning.
Major Prescott called every day and those friends she believed had deserted her during the last few months proved her wrong by showering her with gifts and good wishes. When she began her convalescence not a day passed when there were not two or three officers gathered around her chair in the shade to entertain her with anecdotes and easy conversation. Of Hugo she saw nothing and yearned for the sight of him.
No one mentioned the horse that had been shot by a jumpy sentry, and she wondered what explanation Charles had offered for his wife being in the hills alone at dusk. She remembered only too well what had driven her there and could not forget it or pretend it had never happened, as Charles appeared to have done. Nor could she forget the sight of two men flogging each other with words while every nerve strained to hold back their wilder instincts.
She knew there was no alternative but to return to England. Wychbourne was out of the question, but perhaps she could rent a small cottage near Letty or a modest house not far from Aunt Almeira in Brighton. It did not matter where she went so long as it was away from the Crimea.
The resolution was so strong in her she thought nothing would change her mind, yet when, on August 9, a general order went out to clear all regimental hospitals of walking sick and send to the General Hospital in Balaclava all patients who could be safely moved, Victoria sent word to Major Prescott that she would be ready when needed.
Rumors began to fly that another attack was to be made on the fortifications of Sebastopol, and when the medical officers were told to take in enormous quantities of drugs, lint, bandages and bedding, it seemed to everyone that a bloodbath was expected before the prize was finally taken. Spirits began to rise again but were doomed to be dashed in the worst possible way when four nights later it became known that the preparations were for defense, not attack. Deserters from Sebastopol had provided information of enormous Russian reinforcements arriving to support an attack on the British and French lines.
Liking the idea of spending another winter under bombardment no better than their enemies, the Russians had decided to launch a tremendous attack finally to drive the Allies from their positions and recapture Balaclava.
As the word spread, the British soldiers grew angry. Denied the opportunity to repeat the assault on Sebastopol, were they now to be forced to defend themselves from an enemy they had held under siege for nearly a year? Words were bitter, and some memories were long. The Alma, Inkerman and the Charge of the Light Brigade were spoken of by the survivors, who asked what it had all been for.
For several days the regiments were ordered forward before dawn, but, although large numbers of Russians were seen massing in various areas, no attack came.
Hugo commanded the outlying piquet again on the night of the fourteenth and spent a miserable time recalling the last occasion he had done so. Since then he had avoided seeing Victoria. By going out of his way he made certain never to ride past Charles’s hut; he shunned the company of his fellows lest she should be among them; he spent his free time on his bed with a book, for that was the only way he could ensure isolation from her — although, unable to concentrate, he did no reading. Unable to sleep, unable to forget that he had lost all command of himself with her in his arms, he tormented himself with memories. What devil had taken him in tow? How could it have happened so easily when he had fought it so hard for nearly three years? Suppose that trooper had come upon them earlier, when he had been weakening her with kisses, to spread Victoria’s name through the trenches with lewd suggestions. Hugo’s thoughts left him fevered and gaunt by day and wide-eyed at night Piquet duty at least gave him something to occupy the night hours. The situation was tense, and he was particularly alert that night. There were no alarms, but a thick mist descended with a curtain of rain soon after midnight and cast doubts on any attack being made in such conditions — the lesson of Inkerman having been learned the hard way. At 5:30 A.M. they were relieved and rode back to Kadikoi wet to the skin, tired and stiff with chill and glad to leave the thick obscurity that could be hiding an ambush.
In the cavalry camp the Hussars were lined up in readiness, as they had been every dawn for the past week, and Hugo rode up to give his report to Major Mackintosh, an experienced man who had transferred from the 16th Lancers. While he was doing so, the attention of the mounted squadrons was attacked by the arrival of a staff officer at full gallop, who reined in and presented Charles with a message.
Excitement rippled through the ranks. Their commanding officer frowned. Watching, each man would have liked to have known what he said to the elegant, aristocratic staff captain and Major Mackintosh. Hugo heard and shared his brother’s protestations.
“Does the general require absolute compliance with this order, Captain de Lacy?” Charles asked haughtily. “Am I to assume there is no fog at headquarters?”
The staff officer was a humorless man at the best of times and took his duty very seriously. “I believe he has marked the order immediate, sir.”
“He has indeed, but is he aware that it is damned madness to send a cavalry patrol off in weather like this to locate a column of enemy horsemen thought to be moving along the Woronzoff Road toward Sebastopol? My men could be slaughtered. With no chance of seeing the enemy from a distance, they could ride slap bang into them…and if the force is larger than suspected, there will be no one able to return with the information.”
The staff officer kept a wooden expression. “It is imperative that the general should know the strength of reinforcements flooding in, sir.”
Charles grunted and showed the order to his second-in-command, taking his attention away from Hugo’s report. “What do you think of this, Alistair?”
The major read it and frowned. “It is asking a great deal of those who have to carry it out. Is it worth risking the loss of an entire troop for such information?”
“The general appears to believe it is.” Under his breath Charles said, “It is painfully obvious he was never in the cavalry.” He looked at the paper in his hand as if he hoped there might be some way of avoiding the order, decided there was not and sighed heavily.
“Tell the general we shall do as he asks.”
The captain saluted and departed hell for leather. It was well known among soldiers that staff officers never moved at less than a gallop — even when simply going to the mess for breakfast.
Charles watched him go and said, “Alistair, steer clear of becoming commanding officer and you will never have to decide which of your men to send to possible destruction.” He sighed again and closed his eyes. “Make it B Troop.”
“Very well,” said Major Mackintosh and called across to the troop commander, a youthful captain who had been in the Crimea for a mere three months.
Hugo decided his report would have to wait until those poor devils had been dispatched on their way and wearily began to dismount. His movement caught Charles’s attention, and their eyes met across the top of Hugo’s saddle. In that moment Charles said, “Just a minute, Alistair. Codrington is too newly arrived for this. Captain Esterly will lead the patrol.”
Hugo’s heart missed a beat. He was shaken to the core, but he was not the only one.
“Captain Esterly had only this minute returned from all-night piquet,” the major protested quickly.
“He is the commander who knows the terrain most intimately,” snapped Charles. “He will go.”
Major Mackintosh was dumbfounded; Captain Codrington was astonished; B Troop was uncomprehending. To send a man out on such a duty when he was red-eyed from staring into the darkness all night, wet through to the skin and drooping in the saddle was a completely irrational act. They all knew there was no love lost between the colonel and the ma
n who had been reared as his brother, but he was risking the lives of an entire troop by choosing an exhausted man to lead them. Hugo Esterly was highly esteemed by the regiment, their best officer, but no man would be at his most efficient after piquet duty on a night such as they had just seen.
All eyes swung to the man concerned, waiting for some protest from him, but all he did was stare at his commanding officer as if he were mesmerized, then climb back into his saddle and move forward to the head of B Troop.
Hugo gave his commands without knowing what he did. It had come, after all — the sword thrust in the back that would solve the problem for him — only Charles was delivering it himself. Even after all that had passed between them, he was stunned to think that hatred would drive his brother to such lengths. Lost deep in the tangle of their relationship, he did not see the reflection of his own shock in Charles’s eyes as he rode out into the blanket of mist in the direction of the Woronzoff Road.
Ten minutes later he was perfectly calm. It was done and nothing could undo it. He could not see where it would all end — maybe today for him — but what of Victoria? She would suffer whatever happened. For now he must leave the decision in the hands of God. He commanded twenty-five men who deserved the benefit of his skill and knowledge. Personal thoughts must be put aside for their sakes.
Looking around, he saw Lieutenant Marks and Cornet Fielding trotting behind him and knew they were reliable men. Right now they had very grim faces, so he smiled and said, “Cheer up, lads. Think of the advantage we have of knowing they are there. They’ll have the shock of their lives when we appear out of the fog.”
Colin Marks made a face. “It is more likely to be the laugh of their lives when they see our numbers.”
“Nonsense” was Hugo’s reply. “Ever since we charged their cannon last October they firmly believe British cavalrymen are a breed of madmen who will stop at nothing and go in fear of meeting any of us.”
Young Philip Fielding, eager and overawed by this officer who had ridden in that famous charge, said, “I do not doubt your word on that, but I should be very glad if you would make yourself most conspicuous when we meet them. It might be that they are not so timorous of newly joined members.”
They all laughed, but they had not gone much farther when Hugo sent back word for complete silence. The Woronzoff Road ran along the top of the hills, and they were climbing steeply through woodland. Hugo certainly knew the terrain intimately after a year of patrols and piquets, but in thick mist that was growing more opaque with daylight, even a native would have been uncertain of his whereabouts.
The wooded area stretched to within half a mile of the road; once they broke clear of the trees they would be in danger of bumping into the moving column at any time. Hugo had been given the position from where it had been sighted from a Turkish outpost — at least, there had been no sighting, just the sound of moving cavalry — and by estimating the speed of a column of horses he had a general idea where it might be found now. The difficulty was to get himself and his men to that point.
They had dropped to a walk and picked their way through the trees with great care, but Hugo had no landmark to guide him. It was eerie pushing through undergrowth and straining one’s eyes into the grayness, wondering if a shadow was a tree or an enemy. The trees stopped and Hugo halted his men, saying quietly to Lieutenant Marks, “Stay here until I make a reconnaissance. There is a large knoll in the area that will give me my bearings once I know whether we are north or south of it. Philip, come with me.”
The two men went out side by side, until the swirling mist came between them and the remainder of the patrol. The only sound was the liquid plod of hooves on wet grass and the faint chink of harness. The young cornet was plainly fighting a battle with his nerves, and Hugo grew angry. In this war they had not once been given the chance to fight a real cavalry action. Now in the worst possible weather conditions for mounted soldiers, they were playing Blind Man’s Bluff with an uncertain number of the enemy. What had happened to the arme blanche that had swept into the Crimea in a mass of glittering steel to scatter the enemy and chase them home with their tails between their legs? What he would give for just one heady clash of steel against steel before the conflict was over!
They came upon the knoll before five minutes had passed and returned as speedily as possible to those ghostly figures waiting among the trees.
Colin Marks looked distinctly relieved. “God, it’s unnerving sitting here,” he confessed softly. “I expected the ghost of Hamlet’s father to appear at any moment.”
“If that was all I was expecting I should feel a lot happier,” said the cornet gloomily. “I saw half a hundred men out there in my imagination.”
They moved off behind Hugo in a northeasterly direction and soon came to level ground, where he halted to listen. There was just a strange unnatural deadness of sound that increased their uneasiness. Hugo did not miss the quick swivel in the saddle, nor the rolling eyes that betrayed the troopers’ edginess, and signaled them to move on. He understood it. They were brave men when they knew what they were fighting; this was not to their liking at all.
Five hundred yards farther on, he thought he heard the faint drumming of hooves and held up his hand to halt his men again. The fog was so thick here that the rear rank, unable to see his signal, walked into the body of the troop. Now they had stopped Hugo heard something that could be the plodding of horses way off to his left.
“Do you hear that, Colin?” he asked the lieutenant.
“I have been hearing things for the last half hour” was the reply. “That would be about the right position for the road, wouldn’t it?”
“I want to move in closer. Instruct your men to follow without spoken commands.” He looked keenly at the subaltern. “Can they do that?”
He grinned. “If not, I shall want to know why when we get back.”
In completely unorthodox manner the patrol moved around to the left and headed for the road. Yet when Hugo halted them again ten minutes later, the noise of traveling cavalry, louder and more recognizable now, was coming from their right.
“Damn,” he swore. “We must have crossed ahead of them in this fog.”
The two younger officers exchanged a look, relieved at having crossed ahead of the enemy and not into them. They eased their horses forward when Hugo began a right-hand curve forward. They might think their leader very cool, but Hugo was every bit as keyed-up as they. With more luck than judgment he had located the enemy’s position, but how was he to get near enough to see the enemy without being seen himself?
The rumble was louder now; he stopped to listen. In the sudden cessation of movement, the noise bounced back at him with significant intensity. There was undoubtedly a large force on the move. The creaking of wood and the rumble of wheels told him there was also horse artillery nearby. Worst of all, it was impossible to tell exactly where. The noise was swirled around in the fog so that it seemed to come from both sides at once.
Under his breath Hugo asked the two officers which side they thought the enemy was on, and both gave conflicting replies. “That was my impression,” he said grimly. “Damned impossible to tell in this murk. It deadens sound and throws up an echo elsewhere.” He sighed. “We must keep moving or we shall lose them. Take the men on at a steady walk while I go ahead to see if I can find the road.”
“Hugo…take care,” warned Colin Marks.
“If I encounter them I shall take flight,” he said with a lightness he did not feel and urged his gray into a trot. As a man alone he felt even more nervous. He still could not decide whether the Russians were on his right or his left. Acutely tired after his all-night piquet and shivering in the dampness that chilled his soaked uniform, he blamed his physical condition for his dulled senses. So much so that when the fog appeared to be thinning up ahead he thought it a trick of his strained eyes and trotted on the same pace.
His eyes had not deceived him, though. The grayness broke up quite suddenly to leave
one of those wispy clear patches found in hill areas. Slowed by weariness, Hugo could not take in what he saw for half a moment, then the blood drained out of him. On his left was a solid column of Russian Lancers extending into the mist ahead and pouring out from the mist behind him. They rode wearily, as if they had come a long way, their dark uniforms melting into the colorless atmosphere, the pennons at the end of their long lances hanging damply limp. Their horses made heavy going of it, their heads nodding in resignation as they covered yard after yard with their burdens.
Hugo swung his head to the right and saw an endless column of horse artillery plodding parallel to their comrades, the big horses straining at the traces, the guns shuddering and rumbling over the uneven surface and ammunition wagons creaking in protest against the load of round-shot. His throat grew dry, his knees weakened. By some fancy of the devil his patrol had wandered directly into an entire brigade on the march, and they were now walking between two enemy columns, hemmed in and completely outnumbered.
Experience and military flair overcame physical tiredness to set his brain furiously deciding on the best action to take. So far he had not been noticed — the soldiers were used to having outriders on their flanks. But any minute now his own troop would break out into the open, and they would not go unremarked. Even as he thought it the two subalterns appeared from the mist and the entire troop could be seen behind them.
Everything happened at once then. A Russian officer spotted the British Hussars but, fortunately, was so astonished he did nothing for almost half a minute. In that time Hugo abandoned several ideas. To go on as they were would be fatal. Instant retreat would lead them into safety of fog, to be protected by the ignorance of those coming up of their presence. But there was not enough room between the enemy columns to perform the complicated maneuver, and he cried out in spirit for his own squadron, who knew the simple drill methods he had devised that would be so useful at a time like this. If they were to survive they must move now, when they could see the enemy. Any action in the thick fog ahead would be doomed.
Scarlet Shadows Page 46