With the sweat of desperation breaking out all over him, he wheeled and began galloping toward his patrol, which was moving along with the columns, as mesmerized as the Russians. When he was halfway back a shout went up and he knew there was no time to give instructions. He prayed to God those subalterns were as steady as he believed them to be.
Still at the gallop, he veered to his left and drew his pistol. Singling out a lead horse on the gun carriages as he hurtled toward the enemy column, he fired. The beast dropped immediately, pulling down his companion, the gun carriage going up and over them, carried on by its own momentum. Those ahead moved on; those behind walked straight into the upended gun and struggling horses. Confusion broke out. Horses gave shrill screams of fright, men shouted orders, the rear part of the column creaked and rattled to a standstill.
Ahead of the crashed gun carriage a gap had opened, and Hugo made for it, yelling to his men to follow, and heard with great thankfulness the calm English voice of Colin Marks giving orders. As he flew past the confused artillerymen, one brandished his sword. Hugo emptied the other barrel of his pistol into the man’s chest.
Galvanized into action, the Russian officers let fly with their pistols, but the patrol was nearly through the gap and heading into the security of the fog. Hugo stood by until they had all passed him, then swung around behind them, grateful for the fog that he had just been cursing. He overtook the troopers, who were severely shaken but laughing with nervous excitement, and joined Lieutenant Marks at the head of the column. Only then did they realize Cornet Fielding was no longer with them.
With the memory of the boy’s scared face before him, Hugo did not stop for second thoughts. Ordering the subaltern to return to camp, he jerked his horse around almost savagely and raced back the way he had come. Shooting out of the fog once more, he saw the boy lying just beyond the overturned gun and made straight for him. Jumping from his saddle, he knelt quickly, but Philip Fielding would be frightened no more. With great regret Hugo closed the sightless eyes, then became aware of hooves a few feet away and let his glance travel upward.
A Russian Lancer officer sat a huge black stallion — a handsome man with dark mustache and eyes that were almost black. There was an air of hauteur in his face and bearing. His sword was drawn.
Hugo got slowly to his feet and said in French, “I come only to collect my dead.”
The Russian looked him over for a few moments, then answered in impeccable English, “You are an officer of the British Hussars, sir, and wear the mark of battle. Did you take part in the charge at Balaclava?”
“I did, sir.”
The Russian put up his sword in salute. “I honor you, sir, and regret our acquaintance was made under such unhappy conditions. The fog produces strange fellow travelers, does it not?” He backed his horse a few paces. “Take your comrade. You will not be challenged.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Putting the boy over his horse’s neck, he mounted and began walking the gray toward the gap created by his own making, followed by the Russian a few paces behind. Once past the guns, he reined in and turned to salute the other officer, who had halted by his own soldiers.
“If we should meet in conflict I shall do my duty, but if we should chance to meet in peace I shall be honored to entertain you,” said the Lancer with a smile. “Your name, Captain?”
“Hugo Esterly…and yours, sir?”
“Alexei, Prince Libinski.”
“It is I who am honored, sir. I pray we do not meet in conflict, for our duty would be a sad thing, indeed.”
*
The fog persisted until mid-morning, when the cavalry stood down. Charles entered the hut, where Victoria was reading letters that had come up to camp that morning. She looked up.
“I will instruct Brooks to prepare breakfast.”
“Yes” was all his reply, but when the servant put the plate before him the eggs were left to congeal and the letters were left unopened while he sat staring out through the open door.
Victoria put the finishing touches to her own letters, for the mail would be collected that afternoon when the post officer returned on his way back to Balaclava. She was used to her husband’s silences, and there was nothing they could say to each other now. He no longer went to the French lines, as far as she could tell, nor did he taunt her with comments about Charity Verewood. Since the girl appeared to have returned to England there was no occasion for him to do so, but she sensed an air of resignation about him that dulled his senses and stilled his tongue.
Even so, it eventually struck her that he was behaving strangely this particular morning, and she glanced at him curiously. He sat like a man in shock, arms resting on his knees, shoulders hunched, gazing at something beyond life and reality. In the blazing sunlight that threw harsh rays through the door she saw a stranger. His blond hair had begun to turn silver at his temples, and the aristocratic features were not as finely-etched as they had once been. Deep lines tugged down the corners of his mouth and gave his eyes a recessed fierceness that added years to his appearance. The bowed shoulders, the foot that twisted slightly, the privations of the war had all robbed him of his proud stamp of breeding.
A trooper interrupted her thoughts with a smart salute and a message that B Troop had returned from patrol with only one casualty — Mr. Fielding shot dead. “Captain Esterly’s compliments, sir. Do you wish to hear his report?”
Charles stared blankly at the man. “Eh? No… Major Mackintosh can deal with it.”
The man went out, and Victoria said, “How sad about Mr. Fielding!”
Charles rose from his chair and walked past her behind the blanket screen. He did not seem to see or hear her. His face was gray and haunted, a mask of incalculable personal anguish. She heard the creak of his bed and began sealing her letters thoughtfully. A few minutes later she went out into the full heat of noon to visit the adjutant and obtain the address of Cornet Fielding’s father so that she could write her condolences, as she always did when one of the regiment was lost.
*
That evening there was a party in the tent of Lieutenant Marks for all the officers of the Hussars, and the merriment could be heard well into the night as the story of the morning patrol was retold, embroidered by wine-charmed tongues. Charles sat working at forms and strength returns by the lamplight, but Victoria sat in her doorway listening to the sounds of the camp and the young men’s hearty laughter. Young Philip Fielding had been buried just three hours ago; the mourning was already over. That was how it was now. A sad farewell, then drink and be merry, for tomorrow it might be one’s own turn. She understood only too well why they did it but held the memory of the dead officer in her mind a little longer. It was as well she did not know who had led the patrol that morning, nor under what circumstances.
At dawn the following morning the alarm went up and men tumbled from their tents to saddle up and form squadrons to ride out of camp. In the faint light Victoria watched them go and prayed for their safety. She could not see well enough to pick out Hugo, but her heart went with him wherever he was. There then began for her those terrible moments of waiting, listening for the sound of musketry and cannon in the distance that told her the Russians had made their attack.
Unable to remain still, she called for her mare to be saddled and rode out of the camp in the direction of the hills, where she found the cavalry formed up, sabers and harness gleaming in the early sunshine, waiting to charge the enemy should they break through the French defenses at the top of the hills. Prepared for an attack on their lines, the Allies had been taken by surprise when the assault had come along the banks of the Tchernaya River instead.
From her position slightly uphill Victoria looked down on the rows of horses and riders with a sick feeling in her stomach. Would she ever be able to look at proud cavalry regiments without recalling that October day? Near the head of the Hussars was an officer on a gray horse. She looked at Hugo’s distant figure and felt weakness flood through her at the
memory of the night she had ridden the gray with his arm encircling her. Turning away, she drove her mare to the brow of the hill toward the hospital, where Major Prescott made her welcome and ordered tea for her.
By 10:00 A.M. it was all over. The Russians had been beaten back in such confusion the ground was littered with bodies, and the Tchernaya was piled with those who had died trying to force the bridges or who had fallen in while trying to retreat and had drowned in the swift waters. The French, Turks and Sardinians held the line along the river — held it so bravely the British cavalry had not been called into action. Victoria returned to camp thanking God once more but asking him to bless all those who had fallen.
The Lord was called upon by great numbers during the latter part of August, when it was obvious to everyone that some grand effort must be made by one side or the other before the Crimean winter swept down upon them again. The regiment were kept in constant readiness to meet a last desperate Russian attack along the whole Allied front, while the besiegers made contingency plans for a last-ditch assault on Sebastopol if the enemy showed no sign of making a move.
The tense wait for the rolling waves of Russians to come flooding out of predawn darkness, combined with the strain of standing by their arms and sleeping by their horses, began to tell on soldier and general alike. One side would have to break before long.
Victoria found relief in helping Major Prescott, but Charles’s only outlet appeared to be in torrents of violent abuse of all those who had brought about the war, had led the armies, had mishandled the campaigns and now sat waiting when they should be attacking.
“We shall be here for another winter, Victoria, take my word,” he said many times. “They will sit facing each other until they wake up one morning to snow on the ground and find it is too late. You do not know what it is like here in the winter. We shall never survive it.”
He embarked on a fierce campaign of efficiency within the regiment, calling parades twice daily, drilling the troops incessantly to make sure the recruits were up to standard and clamping down on any excessive recreation. A request for a camp concert was immediately denied; the officers were refused drinking parties in their tents and were checked on in a way they had not experienced since Lord Cardigan left the Crimea. As for the soldiers, anyone caught in a condition unfit for duty was severely punished.
Victoria found herself the recipient of all his complaints and fears, needing to say nothing, so long as she sat still, yet he seemed to find no comfort in her presence at the end of it. He spent long minutes brooding in physical and mental isolation, especially at night when she knew he lay staring at the ceiling until the trumpet blew “Stand to Your Horses,” at 4:00 A.M.
The last day of August was exceptionally hot. When the regiments stood down at 9:30 A.M. and returned to camp, Charles came in, red in the face and smelling strongly of sweat. He went straight through to wash and Victoria heard him talking to himself under his breath. She closed her eyes for a moment in a mixture of relief and despair. Hugo was safe for today, yet she knew it must come sooner or later. Until it did she must remain here, for there was no hope of a passage to England during this crisis. How much longer could she go on without seeing Hugo? How much longer could she bear to live under the same roof with Charles?
She told the servant to prepare breakfast for the colonel, then went behind the hanging blanket to collect her straw bonnet. Charles was holding a towel in his hands and staring at it as if there were some mark upon it. She took up the hat and was leaving again when he stopped her.
“Where are you going?”
“To the hospital.” She did not turn to face him. When his hands took her shoulders in a light grip she flinched. Two steps, and she was free.
“Victoria.”
This time she turned. “Yes?”
“I do not want you to go today.”
“I have promised Major Prescott.”
“I will send a trooper with a message.”
“No,” she said tonelessly. “I am needed there.”
“You are needed here,” he said in slurred tones. “I need you.”
Her quick turn brought him after her, taking her arm and forcing her to stop.
“Let me go, Charles,” she said in a quiet but unsteady voice.
For answer he turned her around to face him, looking down at her with eyes whose pale blue had faded into gray. His features were working with emotion, and his fingers dug into her arms convulsively.
“I thought I said once that you were not to go there any more. Why are you defying me?” Without waiting for a reply, he went on. “Do you know the date? Tomorrow is the first day of September. Autumn comes swiftly here, then it is winter. The cold creeps in everywhere. It eats into one’s bones and the very marrow within. The eternal whiteness makes one dizzy and blinded. The horses freeze overnight, so that there is a long line of corpses with their legs in the air in the morning. Can you imagine that? You were not here and cannot know what it is like.”
“No, Charles, I was not here.”
“You were in Constantinople…with him. All the while I was trying just to keep alive you were devoting yourself to another man. Do you not think that a case of provocation beyond the bounds of acceptance? Do you not think any man would be bound to demand satisfaction for his wrongs? I only acted as any reasonable man would. He was the most experienced of my officers, and I had every right to send him. No one could accuse me of…” He broke off. “This will never end until we go back to England. We cannot stay here for another winter. You do not know what it was like.”
She was trembling now. “I do not know what it was like because I was in Constantinople. There, day after day, I saw men who had been reduced to crawling bundles of rags and helped them go to slow and degrading death in Scutari Hospital. Each night I had to scrub myself to get clean, each morning I went back onto a bitterly cold beach to give what little comfort I could to those who really needed me — or needed anyone who had enough compassion to extend to them. You do not know what that was like, Charles.” Trying to steady herself, she added through stiff lips, “However, everyone assures me we shall be home for Christmas. It will be over soon.”
“It will never be over,” he said in a strange, aloof voice. “Do you think it will ever be possible to forget what has happened here?”
“For those who have taken part, no, never. I wonder if those at home will lose their noble ideals with the coming of peace.”
“Peace?” he echoed. “I think I have forgotten what that is.” His attention seemed to have wandered away from her.
“I must go,” she said, trying to move. But he held her steady.
“You must not. I want you here.” He screwed up his eyes as if he could not focus on her. “If you go, there will be nothing.”
Overcome by violent trembling, she began to struggle, but it only increased his agitation. He pulled her against him in a desperate embrace while he buried his face in her hair.
“I beg you not to go,” he whispered hoarsely. “You give all those filthy, ignorant men your attention. Do you not think I need it more than they?”
Fighting against his closeness that filled her with revulsion, she pulled free and began to back away, wide-eyed and breathing fast, but he caught at her skirt and crushed the material in hands that shook.
“Victoria…” He fought for words. “Victoria… I have lost everything else. You are all I have left.”
She took in the drooping shoulders, the grizzled face and clutching hand and wondered if this could be the same man who had taken her with such supreme brutal arrogance on her wedding night and who later told her she was of no further use to him. Had she ever been afraid of him? Had she ever let this man persuade her she was nothing? As she looked at him in that moment, the dam burst and swept her ahead of the great piling waters so long kept harnessed.
“If I am all that is left, then you have nothing,” she cried. “You have never had me. There has not been one moment when you have. Not
all your heritage, your noble name or your Stanford heirlooms bought me. Not all your strength or cruel possession of me took one single part. Not all your demands of me, nor your persecution of Hugo won one whit of me to your side. Even if our son had lived, he would have been all yours, not one part mine. From the moment you put that sapphire on my finger and made your ultimatum, you relinquished the hope of anything I might give you.” She snatched the skirt from his hand. “If you have lost everything, it is by your own hand and your own choosing. You are left with nothing, Charles. Nothing.”
Shaking from head to foot, she ran from the hut to where her horse was waiting, ready-saddled.
*
Hugo was trying to compose a letter to Letty Markham on the subject of a collection that had been made among the officers of the regiment for her new son. The sum would be credited to a large London store so that she could choose whatever she wished for the boy as a gift from his dead father’s fellow officers. Letter-writing was not one of his greater talents, and the task was not going well, especially in the suffocating heat of the tent. He crushed the paper in his hand.
Deciding to leave it for the moment, he lay on his bed with his arms beneath his head. Victoria could advise him exactly what to write, but he could not ask her. Off went his mind on thoughts better suppressed. He was far away when Brooks, Charles’s servant, entered in half-uniform.
“Captain Esterly…sir, come quick…there’s been an accident.” The man looked white and shaken. “Sir, it’s the colonel. I don’t know what to do. It…it looks like he’s dead.”
In one moment Hugo was on his feet and out of the tent, running down the long line between the guy ropes until he reached his brother’s hut. His thoughts as he ran were held in suspended animation. He stopped short in the doorway, then walked slowly in.
Charles was crumpled up in the sleeping end of the hut, his face on the dusty floor. Entangled in the fingers of his right hand was his pistol. His right temple was shattered and bloody.
Scarlet Shadows Page 47