by A L Berridge
To hell with him too. ‘Not at all, Sar’nt-major. I’m wet already, aren’t I?’
It was a weak response and Jarvis knew it. ‘Well, it’ll do for a start, won’t it? For a start.’ He reached out with his crop, stroked it very gently down Ryder’s jaw, grinned broadly and trotted away.
Fury exploded in Ryder’s head. The bastard. To punish him was nothing, but to touch him like a dog, a tame animal, a creature that couldn’t hit back! His fists clenched the saddle, and through the throb in his fingers he felt the pulse of his own heart.
He’d been a man once. He could have thrown down the saddle, pulled that grinning ape off his horse with his own damned crop and beaten the stuffing out of him right here on the sand. But Ensign Standish was dead, had to be, buried with his father in the dust of Meerut, and there was no one here but a lowly corporal who had only to put one foot out of line to be flogged half to death like Joe Sullivan.
The thought of Sullivan swept him with savage fellow feeling. He looked up to the cliffs and the waiting Cossacks, wishing they’d come down and fight, wishing they’d fetch their whole damned army and be done with it. Sullivan was right. This was all that was left now, all there’d ever been for someone like himself. They were here to fight a bloody war, and for the man that was now Harry Ryder it couldn’t come too soon.
2
14 September 1854, 4.00 p.m. to midnight
The cavalry patrol made a grand sight as they trotted away down the beach. They’d had a hard landing, poor laddies, and lucky to be ashore at all, but they rode high and proud in their saddles like conquerors in a foreign land, and the lone Highland sentry watched their passage with grave approval. There were two or three of their number left behind, he noticed, but doubtless they’d be on important duty like himself. Niall Mackenzie of the 93rd Highlanders looked at the packs at his feet and shuffled an inch nearer to leave no doubt in whose charge they lay.
A splashing to his front brought his head round fast, and there was a horse coming towards him, a grey horse walking out of the sea and shaking its head vigorously as if it were a normal thing for a British horse to swim to the Crimea. He watched in wonder as it headed towards him, hooves crunching purposefully on the shingle, then thrust a determined nose into his carefully guarded pile of baggage.
Mackenzie forced his features to become stern. ‘Shoo,’ he said ineffectively. ‘Away with you. There’s no biscuit here.’
The horse looked reproachful, and he minded guiltily there was a handful in his own pocket. He glanced furtively up and down the beach, but Mr Macpherson was long gone with the rest of the regiment and no other body would pay heed to the doings of a solitary Highlander on picquet duty. Those last cavalrymen might, it could even be their own horse, but when he looked round he saw they too had disappeared.
He held out his offering, and took pleasure in the soft mumble of the animal’s mouth against his palm. There was a country feel in it, taking him back to his days as a stalker on the Strathcarron estate before the fearsome Sergeant Macpherson from Kirkton treated him in a pothouse one evening and said, ‘Now then, my laddie, how’d you like to come with me and see the world?’ Mackenzie looked placidly up at the Cossacks on the cliff and thought he was seeing it now.
But the Russians were turning away. Maybe they’d spied all they wanted, maybe they’d a report to make, but they were trotting their sturdy little ponies away to the distant slope and vanishing from Mackenzie’s wistful view. Maybe it was the coming rain they were avoiding, for that was a storm brewing up above or he had never seen one. The traders were of the same mind, and were already beginning to drive their beasts inland, oxen, mules, camels, and even a homely flock of sheep. Maybe that was where those three cavalrymen had gone, or maybe they were pressed close to the cliffs for shelter.
Mackenzie turned regretfully back to the sea. The First Division was almost all in, but a last raft of Guards was approaching and he gave it his full attention. The waves were awful high just here, but the sailors held the raft steady and the Grenadiers laughed and bantered as they waded the last yards through the surf. But at the back came one who did neither, and Mackenzie’s eyebrows rose in astonishment as the Guard marched with chin up and rifle held high above his bearskin to save it from the merest splash of spray. It was foolishness, for the empty raft was now springing high in the water behind him, leaping out of the hands of the sailors to hurl itself full at the shore. The man had hardly time to turn before it was on him, and Mackenzie heard him give a great yelp as the raft swept by and buried itself in the sand. The Guard was left floundering in the water, still holding up the rifle but staggering and tottering like a man drunk, while around him his companions slapped their legs and laughed.
Mackenzie watched sorrowfully as he hobbled onto the shingle, followed by hoots of ‘Serve him right’ and ‘Trust Woodall’. The man was clearly hurt, but he asked help of no one and only sat on a rock to remove his boot. It seemed a sad thing to the Highlander, so he strode across and said, ‘Here, Tow-Row, let me look at that.’
The man glared up at him with injured dignity. ‘No need, thank you, Sawnie. I’m perfectly fine.’
‘Aye,’ agreed Mackenzie gravely. ‘And that’s no a gash in your stocking and your life’s blood pouring out of it. Let’s have a look now.’ He closed his brown hand round the man’s ankle and began very gently to work down the hose.
The Guard made a resigned noise like ‘T’uh!’ but his bristliness troubled Mackenzie less than smooth politeness would have done. It was of his own world, and put him in mind of a fox he’d found in a gin once, snarling and snapping at him all the while he freed its paw.
‘Oh, that’s torn it, that has,’ said the Guard resentfully as the stocking fell free. ‘What am I supposed to do with that?’ The exposed foot was puffy and oozing blood from under a torn flap of skin.
Mackenzie hesitated, but a harassed-looking officer was already bustling up, saying, ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, what have you gone and done to yourself now?’ The Highlander observed the black-looped cocked hat of a medical man, and stood back respectfully to let the surgeon do his work.
But the doctor took just the one look and sighed. ‘Woodall, you really are a prize nuisance. You can’t possibly march with that, you’ll have to rest here till the swelling goes down.’ He handed over a dressing, then stopped at the sight of the Guard’s pack resting on the sand. ‘And that’s got to go, you heard the order. Greatcoat and blanket roll with essentials only. Leave it for the next boat back to the Simoom.’ He hurried away without another word.
The Guard was still a moment, and his hand strayed down to rest possessively on his pack. Then he gave a determined snort, fumbled open the straps, and began to stuff the contents into his already bulging blanket.
Mackenzie watched him curiously. He was a fine-built soldier, this Woodall, and maybe three, four years older than his own twenty-two. He was clean and shaved, everything a sergeant-major would approve, yet there was something faintly pitiable about him for all that.
He said, ‘I’ll bide with you, you’ll no be alone. Some of our regiment did the same as you; I’ve to guard these packs whiles they send back a boat.’
Woodall made no answer. The man was a squirrel, taking out little packages from his pack and hiding them all over his person: a cake of soap in his pocket, a tin of boot-polish in his coat, another of tooth-powder in his belt. Next came one of those new daguerreotypes, and Mackenzie stared in fascination of the technology. This one was of a woman holding a bunch of roses to her face, but there was something fixed about the smile of her, and the eyes were white and glassy. ‘Why,’ he said in wonder. ‘She looks dead.’
Woodall slammed the picture inside his coat and swivelled round to face him. ‘Look, Sawnie, thanks for your help, but would you mind shoving off?’
Mackenzie sighed, and strolled back to his picquet post. The grey horse had gone, but he could hear a sheep bleating above him, the plaintive voice of a late-summer lamb. He tu
rned to look on the grassy rise above the beach, and instantly forgot the sheep. The Cossacks were back, or three of them were, and this time on foot. They weren’t for bothering anyone, just standing up against the crest watching what was below, but it seemed to Mackenzie they were looking at one thing in particular, and that was the two British officers perched on the next rise along, studying the land through their glasses. They were senior ones too, cocked hats on the both of them, and the one on the left looked like Sir George Brown himself, commander of the whole Light Division.
Mackenzie reached for his rifle. It wasn’t loaded, the orders had been clear as to that, but there was something not just so open about these Cossacks’ movements and he wanted the feel of the Minié in his hand. Someone else felt the same, for a puff of white smoke bloomed above the bank and the crack of gunshots drifted down to the beach. He backed seawards to see further, and glimpsed patches of red in the grass, Light Division infantry firing at mounted Cossacks. There was a string of arabas up there too; the Cossacks were attacking them, and the British driving them away.
Mackenzie stroked his jaw. These Russians were said to be canny fighters, so what for would they attack a bunch of native carts in full sight of their enemy? Then the lamb bleated again, and Mackenzie’s gaze dropped to see it turning and scampering back across the hill.
Years of stalking told him what to look for. Something had scared it, something in that grey-green mass of rocky hillside he wasn’t seeing for himself. ‘Open your eyes,’ the head stalker had said when he was first learning. ‘Still your breathing, take your time, and watch for what moves.’ Mackenzie watched and there it was, grey-green moving against grey-green, those men on foot creeping silently across the hillside. That business with the arabas was no more than a distraction, they were after the two exposed British officers not a hundred yards away.
‘Look to your backs up there!’ he shouted, reaching furiously for his cartridge pouch. ‘Look out behind!’
No one responded. The beach was full of men shouting as boats were hauled ashore, the voice of one lone Highlander only more background noise against the crash of the surf. Mackenzie was in with the powder and turning the cartridge smart for the ball, but even as he rammed he saw the Cossacks already twenty yards nearer and their lances ready couched. He fumbled his return, the rod catching in the loops, then a voice said ‘What’s up, Redshank?’ and there was that Woodall still sitting on his rock but with his rifle in his hands.
Mackenzie fair bawled at him, jabbing a frantic finger in the direction of the Cossacks. ‘If you’ve a charge then fire it, man, there are Russians on the cliff!’
The Guard’s face changed, then there was only a blur of red as he swung on his rock and fired.
It was a bonny shot for the distance, striking a rock not a yard from the leading Cossack. It did the trick too, for the officers jumped like hares and scuttled away down the path, leaving nothing behind but a cocked hat floating gracefully to ground. Shouts from below showed the Fusiliers had been alerted, and in seconds there were half a dozen of them rushing up the hillside. Mackenzie looked back to where the Russians had been and now saw only the unmoving greyness of rocks.
‘Did they run now?’ he asked the Grenadier. ‘Did you see them run?’
The Guard bit the top off a cartridge and spat it out contemptuously. ‘Did they run?’ he said, pouring the powder neatly down the barrel. ‘Frightened rabbits, the pair of them.’
Mackenzie’s hand was arrested on its way to his cap pouch. ‘The pair, is it?’ he said softly. ‘I thought there were three.’
They surveyed the deserted hillside in silence. The red coats of the Royal Welch Fusiliers made bright patches in the green as they moved about the paths above, but there was nothing else to see but a seagull soaring and dipping lazily across the darkening sky. Somewhere in the distance came a deep roll of thunder.
The rain came pelting down. Oliver pressed against the cliff to shelter under its tiny overhang, but the waves were crashing on the shingle and filling the wind with spray and sand-specks that blew in his face and stung his eyes. Gulls screamed and clamoured as they swooped inland, and traders shouted in rough foreign voices as they drove the last of their beasts from the shore. Redcoats still swarmed in the areas of the Second and Light Divisions, but the last of the Guards had already marched away, and their own stretch of beach was completely empty. Beside him was only Sullivan, huddled and shivering with his arms wrapped tightly round his knees. There were no medics, no officers, no authority and no order, and Oliver craved them all.
The flatboat had long gone, and he couldn’t even see the fleet any more through the grey mist of rain. Somewhere out there was the Jason, a warm smelly hold and the familiarity of the regiment. He thought of poor Ronnie but remembered only Mrs Jarvis stroking his forehead and calling him ‘my love’. Mrs J was young and her language could be dreadful, but he felt for a moment it would be almost worth dying to have tenderness about him again, someone caring if he lived or died.
Something moved on the bank above. He listened for footsteps, but heard only a soft thump, a rustling of grass, then another thump nearer the edge. Perhaps someone was trying to climb down. It was a strange place to do it, when the bank at the far end sloped down to almost nothing, but the grassy overhang four feet above his head seemed to be vibrating slightly, then a clod of earth dropped and bounced off his boot.
He called up, ‘Careful! There are people down here.’
A quick, abrupt movement overhead, and then the grass rustled again, as if something were moving slowly away. Oliver stepped out into the rain and craned his neck to see, but whatever had made the noises must be keeping low to the ground. Perhaps it was a sheep or a wild dog, but surely a startled animal would have bounded away instead of making this slow, stealthy withdrawal.
He moved hesitantly back into the overhang. There was really no need for uneasiness, not with Light Division picquets all over the ground above, but whoever it was had been very furtive. They’d chosen to avoid the camps of the French and the Light Division, and tried to climb down to an area which from above must have looked quite deserted. Oliver remembered the Cossacks, made up his mind, and ducked out into the rain to find Ryder.
The corporal was stretched comfortably beneath another overhang, with his groundsheet wrapped round his body and his shako over his face. Oliver cleared his throat and said ‘Corp?’
Ryder tilted up his shako brim to expose one eye. ‘Hullo, Poll. What’s up?’
He explained. ‘Do you think it might be a spy?’
Ryder looked at him without expression. ‘The Russians already know who we are, how many we are, they knew we were coming and when. It’s all been in the London Times.’
‘I bet The Times never said how many guns we’d got.’
Ryder sighed. ‘Remember the Greeks at Varna? They’ll try anything to do down the Turks, and we aren’t the only ones who can use the telegraph.’ He replaced the shako over his eyes and settled his head back in the sand. ‘The Russians don’t need spies, Polly. If there’s anyone prowling it’ll only be one of the Johnnies looking for something to pinch.’
Oliver remembered the cholera graves they’d passed that last day at Varna, corpses strewn about the ground where the Turks had dug them up to steal the shrouding blankets. ‘I suppose so. I should have thought of that.’
‘Good,’ said Ryder, without lifting the shako. ‘You wouldn’t like to move a bit, would you, you’re dripping all over me.’
Oliver looked at him with a growing sense of disillusion. Ryder had been a hero in the water, he’d even done that wonderful thing and lied for him to Jarvis, but now he didn’t seem to care about anything. ‘Do we just stay on the beach, then? In the rain?’
Ryder didn’t answer. Oliver looked through the driving mist towards the distant red coats of the Light Division, and then at the little white blobs of the camp beyond. ‘The French have got tents.’
The shako rose and fell as Ryder sp
oke through it. ‘The French are organized. The French have got two-men tents they can carry themselves. We’re British. We haven’t.’
‘But we can’t just sit out in this all night!’ A great wave crashed on the shingle behind him, and he raised his voice in desperation. ‘I don’t know what we’re supposed to do.’
Ryder swept the shako aside and sat up. ‘What the hell do you think we do? We get wet, we get sick, and we die, same as everyone else. We don’t matter, get that in your head and nail it there, then you’ll know what to bloody do.’
His anger was scorching, and Oliver felt his own rise to meet it. ‘That’s not fair. Sullivan’s hurt, there has to be something …’
Ryder leaned back against the cliff, and his face was suddenly bleak. ‘Never ask anything of the army, Polly. That way you’ll never be disappointed.’
Oliver already felt sick with it. He said, ‘I’m not asking the army. I’m asking you.’
They stared at each other. A gull flew screaming overhead, an empty, unhappy sound that was lost almost at once in the thunder of the waves.
‘Why?’ said Ryder. He wiped his face with his sleeve, looked at the sopping fabric and gave up in disgust. ‘I’m just a corporal. Why ask me?’
Because he knew things, like he’d known about the flatboat. Because he’d saved Sullivan and told that lie. He said bitterly, ‘I don’t know.’
Ryder gave a short laugh. He forked his hands through dripping hair, glanced over at the distant figure of Sullivan, and shoved the groundsheet aside. ‘All right, Polly Oliver. Let’s get even wetter and see what we can find.’
Oliver followed him in meek astonishment, but after a moment’s walk he began to fear he’d dragged the corporal out for nothing. The beach was barren of shelter. The cliffs were little more than a perpendicular bank of earth, with no caves or niches to admit a man. There was no pier, no jetty, and the commissary officers had bought and trundled away every cart the traders could supply. The only wagon left was leaning drunkenly on the spindle of its missing wheel, the tide already washing about its timbers like thin grey spit. His foot struck something in the sand, and hope seized him at the sight of the wheel itself.