by A L Berridge
Oliver went pink. ‘I was only wondering why he was in the ravine. Jordan says there are Russian sharpshooters down there. He says the men avoid it.’
‘All the more reason the officers shouldn’t,’ said Ryder. ‘That’s their job, to work out the situation before they give orders. I’d be doing the same thing myself.’ He caught himself up fast, but Oliver was hanging his head in embarrassment and didn’t seem to have noticed.
Why should he? Ryder wasn’t an officer, he was only a soldier with an opinion, and the frustration of it was harder to bear every day. That Staff bastard could go where he wanted, when he wanted; he could investigate, make decisions, make a difference, but Ryder needed permission to so much as set foot outside the camp. He looked again at the weary infantry, he thought of the long hours shovelling earth, hauling heavy guns, running up and down the zig-zags under fire, he thought of being a foot-slogger in the 28th and all he felt was envy.
Woodall looked at his cracked and blistered hands and could almost have wept. Grenadiers on their hands and knees in the trenches, lugging rocks about like navvies! ‘What would the Queen think if she saw us now?’ he muttered to Truman as they filled a gabion together. ‘What would she say to this?’
Truman shovelled in another pile of earth. ‘She’d say “Put your ruddy back into it, Woodall, and give over moaning.” Come on, she’s done.’
The wicker tore his hands as they wrestled the cylinder into place. It wasn’t right, wasn’t right. They should be guard party, not toiling like this up to the ankles in wet clay. He’d catch a chill, he shouldn’t wonder, he always took poorly with wet feet. Overhead the cannon were firing again, boom, boom, boom, and a scattering of earth showered down on his head.
‘It’s the Frogs causing it,’ said ‘Nasty’ Parsons, dragging up another wretched gabion. ‘Ivan knows they’re ready. They must have had four hundred rounds against them this morning.’
‘The Frogs!’ said Woodall. He knelt carefully on a sack to heap brushwood against the mud walls. ‘Slipshod, I call it, working at that speed. Slow and steady wins the race.’
‘Slow and steady gets blown to kingdom come,’ said Truman, his hands sweeping up, down, up, down, filling the gabion with earth. ‘They’ll be starting on us next.’
‘I’ve seen bunnies up there,’ said Parsons, smacking his lips. ‘Skipping about like at the Alma. How about it, comrades, fancy rabbit stew?’
‘Not at that price,’ said Truman, still filling, filling as if he were racing an invisible clock. ‘Only a madman’s going to go prancing about on top today.’
‘Or an officer,’ said Parsons. ‘Claret-Top’s up, I saw him just a minute ago. Lunatic.’
Another boom from above, a soft crump, then a pair of boots crashed down past Woodall’s shoulder, knocking a gabion flying. ‘Whew!’ gasped the linesman, clutching at his hat. ‘Hot up there today!’
Woodall stared in horror at the gabion. The wicker had split, it was a pile of earth again, and the whole rampart creaking ominously where the support had fallen out. ‘Quick!’ he shouted, pressing himself against the wall. ‘Another in here, quick!’ He spread his arms to hold back the gabions already leaning outward on either side.
He heard frantic movement behind as Truman and Parsons dragged up the gabion. ‘Sorry,’ said the linesman’s voice. ‘It’s hell up there, they’re peppering anything that moves.’
‘Don’t ruddy move, then,’ said Woodall. He butted his forehead against the top pile of earth in the effort to keep it back. ‘If this lot goes, the next ball’s coming right inside.’
‘Sorry,’ said the linesman again. ‘We were chasing a couple of Russkies. They’re in and out, them bastards, nicking everything they can find. We’ve lost hats, flasks, blankets, the lot. Bleeding trophy hunters.’
The gabion was in, but it wasn’t enough, the others had already bulged apart and the whole ruddy wall was pressing against his chest. ‘We need another. She’ll go.’
‘Coming up,’ said Truman’s voice behind. There was a reassuring creak of wicker, and a moment’s quiet filled only with the panting of men and soft rattle of earth.
‘Not just trophies,’ said Parsons. ‘You heard about the Frogs yesterday? Bunch of Ivans run up saying “Don’t shoot, don’t shoot, we’re English,” so the Frogs say “all righty” and back off, and next thing they know they’ve half their guns spiked. There’s sneaky, if you like.’
Something stirred in Woodall’s memory, Ryder talking about the Greater Redoubt at the Alma. But that was different, that was a British officer making a mistake, this was the Russians doing it on purpose. ‘Disgraceful,’ he said, with his nose grinding against mud. ‘Lord Raglan should write a letter.’
Truman appeared at his elbow dragging a half-filled gabion. ‘Come on,’ he called to the others. ‘Fill her here, Woodall can’t hold it for ever.’
Suddenly he felt he could. Another cannon fired in the world above, the earth vibrated against his body, but Woodall of the Grenadier Guards held firm. The linesman knelt at his feet, sliding in rocks to wedge the wicker tighter, then Truman shoved the gabion home and it held. He stepped back and massaged his arms in relief.
‘Nice job,’ said the linesman, patting him on the back. ‘You’re a big beggar, ain’t you?’
‘Oh, don’t encourage him, for Gawd’s sake,’ said Truman, seizing the next gabion. ‘He’ll be wanting his picture in the newspapers. Come on, help us fill.’
Not so much as a thank you. He knelt grudgingly back down and said, ‘Could have held longer if we’d had proper fascines.’
The linesman made a face. ‘I know, we’d a hell of a fall this morning. But what can we do? Russkies got a direct hit on our timber cart.’
Parsons made a vulgar noise with his lips. ‘What a stupid waste of shot.’
‘Not stupid at all,’ said the linesman. ‘Don’t you get it, Tow-Row? They’re trying to delay us. Hold us up while they build their walls.’
A sharp explosion cracked somewhere to their left, then another, then two together. Men were shouting, another bang, and now it was screams, someone yelling ‘Christ, Christ, Christ!’ over and over again.
Truman’s face showed white beneath the mud-streaks. ‘Sounds like they’re succeeding.’
‘Grenades,’ said the linesman, standing slowly, as if in a daze. ‘In the Left Attack.’
Feet thudded down the zig-zags, an officer yelled ‘Stretchers to the Left Attack! Where the hell are those bandsmen?’ The linesman turned and ran.
‘But how could they?’ said Parsons. ‘They’ve got guard parties, how … ?’
‘Keep filling, will you?’ said Truman savagely, his hands sweeping up and down again, racing, racing, against a clock that wasn’t there. ‘Shut your mouth and bloody fill.’
Ryder listened to the distant cannon as he watched the carts trundling towards him down the Woronzoff Road. It was mostly empty ones that came back this way, but they were still something to look at and better than nothing.
Something flickered in the far right of his view, movement in the Fedoukhine Hills opposite. A lance glinted, and then he saw them, a little pack of Cossacks trotting quietly down the slopes towards the road.
He touched Jordan’s arm. ‘Do you want to do it, Billy? While I watch them?’
Even Jordan wasn’t excited by Cossacks any more. He nodded silently, moved to the top of their ridge of the Causeway Heights and began obediently to walk his horse round in a circle. Beyond him Ryder saw Hoare leading the others towards them.
He looked back at the Cossacks. They didn’t seem aware of the vedettes above and were moving with clear purpose towards the grey line of the Woronzoff. Ryder peered ahead for the object of their interest and saw a distant shape emerging round the flank of the long Sapoune Ridge. Faint on the air he heard the rattle of wheels.
‘Hulloa!’ called Hoare cheerfully, trotting up to join him. ‘Cossacks, is it? Where?’ Behind him came Jarvis, Moody, and Fisk.
Ryde
r pointed. ‘I think they’re after that cart.’
Hoare stared. ‘It’ll be empty, won’t it?’
The Cossacks were skirting the folds of the Fedoukhine, drawing nearer the road. ‘There’ll be men in it, sir.’
Hoare licked his lips. ‘Of course.’
Jarvis said quietly, ‘Engage, sir?’
Of course engage, there were only bloody five of them, but Hoare hesitated and threw a nervous glance back to the camp. ‘We’re vedettes … I don’t think we’re meant …’
It wasn’t the Russians that scared him, it was the lack of authority. Ryder looked in frustration at the road and saw two red figures sitting up in the cart, a driver and a loader. A bigger vehicle was just rounding the bend, and God knew how many in that.
‘Very good, sir,’ said Jarvis expressionlessly, and sat back in his saddle. He knew it was wrong, he must do, but Hoare was the officer and that was that.
The Cossacks were moving faster, and a faint yell of alarm floated up from the cart. It was intolerable, two men to die because six others were bound by the terror of hierarchy. Ryder said, ‘We must, sir. They’ll be killed. We must.’
It sounded enough like an order to wake Hoare. ‘Yes. Draw swords, everyone – charge!’
Ryder’s sword slid out, his heels digging in, and the mare responded instantly, speeding down the slope with effortless, regular thrusts of her hooves. The Cossacks were alerted, they were turning with lances couched, and Ryder rose higher in the stirrups and went for them.
A bang behind and the leading Cossack flew backwards out of his saddle. Hoare had stopped to fire his pistol. Another shot cracked from the cart, one of the redcoats firing, and a Cossack yelped and dropped his lance. He wheeled away for the hills, but the last three turned for the cart, and Ryder pounded after them, Jarvis right at his shoulder.
The cart had stopped, and the driver was scrabbling behind him for a gun. The other was reloading, but a shot barked from the second cart, another Russian hit and swerving away. Two left, just two, but one already thrusting in with his lance at the helpless redcoats. Ryder charged, crashing his sword two-handed against the lance like a cricket bat, and saw it leap from the Cossack’s hands to clatter on the road below. He leaned across to slash at the man, but he was pulling something grey from his belt, the bastard had a pistol. In a second’s heartbeat Ryder saw the flash and everything ending, but the gun turned before the bang, the cart lurched from the front, and the bullock dropped on its knees in the traces. The Cossack smiled, a shrug that said, ‘Too bad, I’ll have a ball for you next time,’ then turned and rode away.
Ryder spun for the other, but he was already wheeling away with Jarvis swiping after him. The rest were out of it and gone. The driver looked all right, Jarvis must have saved him, but the passenger was saying, ‘Easy, mates, they’ve gone,’ and for the first time Ryder saw what else lay in the cart.
Bodies. Living ones with grey faces and white eyes, but everything else was red. Red coats, red puddles on the planks, red-stained blankets, red-soaked bandages round arms and legs, and round stumps where arms and legs had once been. Three mutilated men, but with scarce enough limbs between them for two. The lurch of the cart must have jolted them hideously, and one was whimpering like a child.
He looked away in horror, cursing Hoare for not acting quicker, himself for not having made him act quicker. The dead bullock stared accusingly at him from the road, even its corpse worth more to the army than the useless cavalry trooper the Cossack hadn’t considered worth a ball. Beside him he heard Jordan say just ‘Christ!’
The driver of the second cart was shambling towards them. It was Bloomer, he should have known that from the green-striped vehicle, but his face seemed to have sagged, his eyes looked as dead as the bullock’s, and all he said was, ‘Bleeding lovely, that is. Got tired of looking on, did you? Bleeding lovely.’
Ryder dismounted at once. ‘I’m sorry, we came as fast as we could.’
Jordan wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Wouldn’t have come at all if it weren’t for you, Harry. Christ!’
Bloomer’s eyes lifted. ‘Like that, was it?’ He advanced a hairy paw and nudged his knuckles briefly against Ryder’s own. ‘One on your tibby, Ryder.’
‘Well done, chaps,’ said Hoare, arriving breathlessly beside them, flushed with the excitement of a first kill. ‘Well done, Sar’nt-major, that jolly well scared them. Come on now, better get back to our posts.’
Bloomer swivelled his neck to stare at him. ‘I’ve men bleeding to death here, sir. What you want me to do, lug them to Bally Carver on my back?’
Hoare blinked. ‘There’s your own cart, man, move them to that.’
‘I’ve another six in there,’ said Bloomer. ‘You want me to stack them?’
Jarvis stretched himself taller in the saddle. ‘Watch your mouth, Corporal, you’re speaking to a Queen’s officer.’ Behind him was Moody, bristling with supportive outrage.
An unholy life flashed back into Bloomer’s eyes. ‘Very good, Sar’nt-major, I’ll just tell Sir George Brown that, shall I? That the cavalry looked on while we had our transport shot to death under us, then left his men to die on the road? Very good.’
Hoare twitched in panic. He said ‘No, I …’ and looked back in terror at the heights they were meant to be guarding. ‘No, I’ll …’
‘Horses can pull it, sir,’ said Ryder. ‘Jordan and I can get it to Balaklava.’
Jarvis snorted at the mere idea of a troop-horse pulling a cart, but Hoare was too grateful to argue. ‘Yes. Yes, of course, jolly good plan. You and Jordan, then. Come on, Sar’nt-major. Fisk, Moody, back to our posts.’ He turned with indecent haste and was at the gallop before Ryder could count three. Jarvis lingered to look murderously at Bloomer, then turned with dignity to follow the cornet.
Bloomer spat. ‘Right, Morry, Pepper-Box, relieve these kind gents of their ginghams and get the nags in harness.’ He leaned over the side of the stranded cart and bellowed, ‘Hear that, swaddies? Going to hospital in proper style. Good as a Mile End funeral.’
A sour London voice answered from the human wreckage in the cart. ‘But without the fucking mute.’
Bloomer smacked the cart and laughed. He swaggered back to his own vehicle and stuck a pipe in his mouth, but Ryder noticed the grey look was back in his face, and the hands that patted at his pockets were fumbling and uncertain.
He watched a moment, then was struck with shame. The Fusilier had been in the thick of it under bombardment while he himself sat on horseback and watched carts. He handed Tally’s bridle to Morry, walked over and held out a match.
‘Ah,’ said Bloomer, drawing out the word into a sigh. ‘You’re a regular out-and-outer, Ryder.’ He struck the lucifer, lit the pipe, and leaned heavily against the cartwheel.
This man had saved him at the Alma. ‘You came through all right, then?’
‘No,’ said Bloomer, and winked a droopy eyelid at him. ‘I was blown to bits and this is my ghost.’ He sucked heavily on the pipe.
‘With stripes on,’ said Ryder, nodding at his sleeve.
Bloomer shrugged. ‘They’re two a penny now. We lost half our officers in the first hour.’ He jerked his head at the cart and said, ‘I’ll probably make sergeant after today.’
Ryder didn’t want to look again. ‘What happened? Direct hit?’
‘Not the kind you mean,’ said Bloomer. He puffed again and took a deep breath. ‘We were working up at a dog-leg on the Left Attack. Lovely bit of work, brushwood, fascines, lick of a broom and you could have ate your vittles off it. Then up comes this staff officer and orders us out. “Bad fall in the Right Attack, you chaps are wanted to dig out.” So off we toddle up and down the zig-zags, we get to the Right Attack, and they say no, that’s out of date, they had a fall earlier but it’s all dug out again and reinforced proper. Then comes the bangs behind us and back we go, and there it is.’
He heard Bloomer take another long draw on the pipe, but couldn’t look
at his face.
‘Seems we’d only been gone a minute when the Russkies come. You know what they are for the lurking lay, they come at you from the earth and stones. They were straight in, biff our guard party out the way, then in with their grenades and out. Bang.’ He removed the pipe again, jerked it at the two carts, and said, ‘That’s what’s left of the guard party, in there.’
The horses were in harness, Jordan was looking round for him, he had to ask now or never. ‘The officer, do you know who he was?’
Bloomer massaged his nose as if it were putty. ‘Not from the Pope. We call him Claret-Top, for the flashy red spread on his nag.’ He paused to fix Ryder with eyes that were suddenly bright and sharp as a bird’s. ‘Why?’
‘Nothing,’ he said quickly. ‘Nothing. I suppose they’re all as bad as each other.’
‘Oh, if we’re only supposing,’ said Bloomer, heaving himself reluctantly away from the wheel. ‘I was thinking you might be nosing something. Something that’s got a very long tail.’
‘And if I am,’ said Ryder, suddenly desperate for meaning. ‘If I am, are you?’
Bloomer tapped his nose with heavy significance. ‘What’s in my noddle’s staying there, cock. You’d do well to keep yours the same.’ He hitched up his trousers and climbed purposefully into his driver’s seat.
Ryder walked back to Jordan with a mind crowding with questions. Was it really possible? Bloomer seemed to suspect it and he knew far less than Ryder. Could poor Polly Oliver be right after all, and one of their officers was deliberately helping the enemy?
‘If you’re ready,’ said their driver politely.
The Woronzoff Road was clay beneath his feet, Tally’s bridle was leather in his hand, and she came easily, trustingly, seemingly oblivious of the weight she pulled behind. He looked unseeing at the Balaklava plain ahead, thinking back to the Greater Redoubt and letting the memory of anger recreate what he saw. It was all in the open, nothing clandestine about any of it. The officer could have been talking to the Russians, he’d ridden up from the east when Raglan had been to the west, but he’d given the orders in front of everyone and with total confidence. He’d kept his distance, it had never been possible to get a good look at him, but it was his job to stay apart and unengaged, to watch and direct rather than fight. He was prepared to fight too, he had a pistol drawn, he’d been gesturing with it in his hand.