by A L Berridge
Someone else was nearer. Mackenzie sidestepped a thorn bush and was leaping into the next stone-slide when a crack echoed into a boom, and a rock beside him jumped to the smash of a ball. Marksman in the ravine, marksman with his sights on him, and as Mackenzie slid past a rocky outcrop a second ball ricocheted off a boulder and whined a furrow into the brown earth. More than one of them, and himself as exposed a target as a hart on the skyline.
He leaped for the nearest trees. They were miserable twisted oaks, but he smacked his back against the trunk of the nearest and the third ball sang past way wide. He was safe for the moment, but as he strained to peer round his tree he saw his quarry stopped ahead of him, looking to see what was happening behind. The man sat plain upright in the saddle, yet no one took a shot at him and he made no attempt to go for help. He watched maybe one minute, then turned and trotted away.
It was true, all of it true. No honest officer would abandon one of his own to enemy marksmen, none at all. The man was a black-hearted traitor, and Mackenzie pounded his fist on the trunk with fury. He knew the army was no perfect, he knew there were poor officers as well as good, but it was honest, and that man was an evil, a disease like the cholera. He let the heel of his hand grind firmly into the rough bark, then gently, steadily lifted it away.
He must think. He’d no gun and no hope of fighting his way out. Let the sharpshooters’ attention once be off him and he could creep away unseen, but now he could only stand useless as a kilted statue and hope they’d find something else to shoot at.
Then a chill settled on the back of his neck as he thought what that might be. Ryder and Oliver would be coming along that road, and when they saw his coatee they’d be straight down after him, clear into a trap of his own making. He looked round for more cover, enough to help him climb back to the ridge, but the nearest boulders of any size were twenty yards away and above them only pebbles and scarred earth all the way to the top. The road itself was out of sight, but above and in the distance he heard the sound of approaching hooves.
Oliver was glad of the excuse to stop. Woodall had clearly never been on a horse before, and his hands were clutched so tightly round Oliver’s middle it was difficult to breathe.
‘He’s gone into the ravine,’ said Ryder, stuffing the coatee into his blanket roll and climbing back into his saddle. ‘Too steep for the horses here, we’ll have to find a path.’ He urged his mare forward, searching the sides of the gully.
‘Do you want to get off, Woodall?’ whispered Oliver hopefully. It was bad enough Ryder lying to get them troop-horses in the first place, but he was sure there was some regulation against making one carry two men.
Woodall’s hands laced firmly together round his host’s belt. ‘I’m quite all right, thank you, Polly.’
Ryder waved them over to the mouth of a track. It was rough, but Oliver had no qualms about following. Somewhere ahead might be the truth, an end to uncertainty, something that would be proof enough to take to their officers. The ground crunched purposefully under Misty’s hooves as they went down, down into the ravine.
Someone shouted. The gully was bare, no one in sight, but a voice was bellowing ‘Get back! Marksmen, get back!’
Misty’s nose bumped into the back of Ryder’s mare as she stopped. Ryder was already leaping from the saddle, dragging the pistol from his belt and yelling ‘Get out of it, Polly, get back!’ as he turned to run towards the voice.
Oliver’s hands tugged at the reins before it hit him, Ryder sending him back, a child dismissed from the battle zone. He dragged Misty round and tried to bring his leg over to dismount, but Woodall was still hugging into his back and holding him in the saddle. He screamed ‘Let go’ and kicked back to free himself, plunging heavily and off balance onto a pile of loose stones. His knee crunched on rocks, but his hands scrabbled at turf, he ignored the thud of Woodall landing behind him and hurled himself forward onto soft ground. The voice yelled again ‘Get back!’ but a bang wiped out its echo, something cracked off the stones, then another shot, another gun, oh God, how many? He sat up on his tortured knee, saw no one and nothing and shouted, ‘Mackenzie!’
‘This way,’ said a deep voice, and Woodall’s arm was round him again, propelling him forward over naked, powdery earth. ‘Come on, there’s cover.’
He saw it ahead of him, a mound of boulders like the remnants of a landslide, grey and smooth and safe. But Ryder was leaping past it, swinging to point his pistol at something Oliver couldn’t see, and from its barrel shot a flash of flame. Bang and another bang, then Oliver was at the boulders, Woodall pressing him down, and Ryder crashed in behind them with another man. Shirtsleeved and muddy, torn hose and dishevelled hair, it was Mackenzie himself and in a towering temper.
‘Are you deaf, the lot of you? Go back, I said, not run right into it and get yourselves stuck!’
‘Our mistake,’ said Ryder politely. ‘But if you will go running about in front of a nest of Russian sharpshooters, what do you expect your friends to do?’
‘I had to warn you, didn’t I?’ Mackenzie glared at them, then shrugged himself lower into cover. ‘And I was right to come. I’ve found out what we wanted to know.’
For a second no one spoke. A pebble skipped loose under Oliver’s boot, and rattled ping and ping and ping to the gully below.
‘It’s true, then,’ said Ryder.
Mackenzie’s face looked older. ‘They didn’t shoot at him, they shot at me. He saw them do it, and he rode away. Aye, it’s true.’
Ryder’s face didn’t change. Woodall said, ‘Unbelievable. Unbelievable,’ but he did believe it, it showed in the bewilderment in his eyes. Oliver believed it too. It was the certainty he’d wanted, but now he had it he’d have given anything to be wrong.
He said miserably, ‘Well, at least we can tell the officers now.’
Ryder gave a little grunt of amusement. ‘If we get out alive. How many are there, Niall?’
Mackenzie pursed his lips. ‘At least three, I’m thinking more likely four or five.’
The far slope of the ravine bulged with cracks and crevices, and yawned with shadowy cave entrances half overgrown by thorn bushes. There could be a whole army facing them and they wouldn’t know.
Woodall rested his rifle over a boulder to point at one of the caves. ‘That’s where the last shot came from. They’re in there.’
‘If they’re all in the same one,’ said Ryder.
There was a little silence. Oliver looked up at a faint rattling sound and saw Woodall loosening a packet of cartridges. ‘I’ve got two dozen shots, easy. Ryder?’
Ryder shook his head. ‘Only what’s in the chambers. Five. The rest’s on the mare.’
The silence this time was longer. The musket needed thirty seconds between shots, the pistol was their only realistic chance of cover.
Mackenzie settled himself more comfortably against a boulder. ‘We’ll have to bide the gloaming. There’s o’er many guns against us to risk in daylight.’
Oliver tried not to picture the look on Jarvis’s face if they missed parade and came in after dark. He said hesitantly, ‘I’ve an Adams in my blanket roll. And balls and powder.’
They all looked back at the horses. Natalia had stayed near the top where Ryder left her, but Misty had trotted further down and was cropping the grass about forty yards away.
‘Not much good there, is it?’ said Woodall sourly. ‘Why didn’t you keep it in your belt? Worried it’s not regulation?’
Oliver felt his face burn. He was off duty, he’d thought they were coming out for a talk, he’d been a fool and let them all down.
Ryder leaned over to study the distance. ‘Will she come to you, Polly? If you call?’
They were all looking at him now. ‘She might. If she can see me.’
‘Try it, then,’ said Ryder, lifting his pistol and looking back towards the caves. ‘Woodall and I will cover, but jump back if we shout.’
He wriggled obediently to the edge of their enclosure and
poked his head out between the boulders. ‘Misty!’ he hissed, feeling stupidly self-conscious. ‘Come on, girl. Misty!’
She lifted her head, twitched her ears, then settled back to her cropping.
He heard a stifled snigger behind. Ryder’s voice said, ‘He can call her Queen Victoria as long as she bloody comes.’
He took a deep breath and edged forward, crouching full in the open. ‘Misty, come on!’ He groped in his pocket, found half a biscuit, and held it out invitingly. ‘Come on, girl.’
She looked at him again, chewing thoughtfully. Then one hoof moved forward, the back leg followed, she was coming, picking her way towards him over the stones. Oliver held his breath, aware of the sudden hush behind him, then called softly, ‘That’s right, Misty. Biscuit.’
She broke into a gentle trot. She was halfway, more than half, just a little further, and then shouts behind, the bang of Woodall’s rifle, and Oliver jumped back. A ball whined past where his head had been, then another crunched into the ground by Misty’s hooves. She whinnied and skipped back, tossing her head and looking for Oliver. He half rose, driven desperate by her nearness, but another shot whistled under her nose, she backed and turned away. A moment later and she was back at the grass, as out of reach as ever.
He called wretchedly after her, ‘Misty!’
‘Leave it,’ said Ryder. ‘They know what we’re at now. They’d like her alive, but if she comes near us again they’ll shoot her.’
Oliver slumped down in defeat. It had been their one chance, and he’d lost it.
‘Ryder,’ said Mackenzie urgently. ‘Movement in that opening – there, again. Are they signalling?’
Oliver could see only stony ground between the boulders, but the others ducked their heads and he guessed someone was emerging from the cave below.
‘Talk!’ a man shouted. ‘Just talk – all right?’
The voice was harsh, the words staccato, but it was English and understandable. Ryder looked over his shoulder with raised eyebrows, but when no one else moved he turned back and raised his head a few inches over the boulder. ‘All right! Come out!’
Oliver shifted forward to peer down the ravine. He saw movement on the opposite slope, a lone figure emerging from a jagged cave entrance and pushing aside thorn bushes to stand in the open. He was hard to see even there. The long baggy coat was grey, his hat shapeless and black, and only the black cross-belt and ammunition pouch suggested the military.
‘The plastuny,’ said Woodall knowledgeably. ‘They hang about the front lines a lot, sniping and looking for prisoners. They’ve got the Liège carbine, blast them.’
The man cupped his hands to his mouth. ‘Surrender now and no one is killed. Throw down your guns and come out.’
‘Cheeky beggar,’ said Woodall. He finished reloading and clutched the rifle possessively in his hands.
Ryder yelled back. ‘Why should we?’
The man spread his hands, open and enticing. ‘You have one musket, one pistol. Two shots. We have many more. You may hurt two when we come, but you will all be killed. Surrender now.’
Ryder looked round again, the question in his face.
‘We can’t,’ said Oliver quickly. ‘The horses, the guns, the things we know. We can’t.’
Woodall was sliding out his ramrod and passing it to Mackenzie. ‘Here, if you hand for me we can cut the load time.’
‘We can that,’ said Mackenzie. ‘Give me the cartridges and cap box.’
Ryder smiled and turned back to the Russian. ‘Sorry. Here’s another offer – just let us leave and we’ll wait ten minutes before telling anyone you’re here.’
‘Sorry,’ said the man, with the exact intonation Ryder had used. He gave a single wave, a salute or a goodbye, then turned and walked back to the cave.
Ryder wiped his sleeve over his mouth, and Oliver heard the click as he cocked the revolver. Beside him Woodall laid the rifle again on the boulder, while Mackenzie took out a cartridge and bit off the top. It was only himself who was useless.
‘Watch your horse, Polly,’ said Ryder. ‘See if you can get her nearer when it starts. At worst she’ll draw a ball meant for us, at best she’ll be close enough for a dash when they’re reloading.’
For a moment it was hope, and then he saw the flaw. ‘But we don’t know how many they are. We can’t know when they’re reloading.’
Ryder gave him a rueful smile, a schoolboy caught out in a lie. ‘Well, it’s not all bad. Remember there’s something they don’t know too.’
The revolver, thought Ryder. It was all going to come down to that. Two shots, they’d said, never realizing he had an officer’s gun that fired six balls to every one of theirs. Only five in his case, but he’d got to make every one count.
Mackenzie made a hissing noise. Ryder followed his pointing finger down to the wall of the ravine, but the cave entrance was as impenetrably black as ever.
‘Where’s your eyes, man?’ said Mackenzie. ‘Look to your left, among the thorn.’
Ryder stared hard, and now there were glimpses of grey among the dusty green, men moving slowly against the crags behind. He followed their direction and saw another black crack in the stone, a crevice shaped like a pear with the sharp end up. ‘They’re dividing forces to a second cave. They’re looking to outflank us.’
‘Oh, are they, though?’ said Woodall. He shifted his rifle and squinted down the barrel.
‘Don’t,’ said Ryder. ‘There’s no chance in that cover, you’ll waste –’
Woodall fired. Ryder averted his face from the smoke, then stared as a grey figure crashed out from the thorn and lay still. He turned in amazement to the Grenadier, but he was already taking the next cartridge from Mackenzie and beginning to reload.
He said, ‘Bloody hell, Woodall, they’ll be after you to join the sharpshooters.’
Woodall kept reloading. ‘No thanks. They want us to creep about in the mud, scrape holes and lie down in them for days on end. I mean really, can you see it?’
He couldn’t, but the thought made him smile.
‘That’s three gone in the second cave,’ said Oliver. ‘If they can spare four, how many have they got in the first?’
Ryder stopped smiling. But Mackenzie hissed again, and then he heard it himself, distant singing, and the tramp of marching feet. He looked up to the road and yelled, ‘Here, down here! Russians in the ravine!’
They all joined him, even Woodall shouted ‘Here, this way!’ but their voices were lost in the singing of the column as they marched. The strain floated down to them over the slopes, a raucous chorus of ‘What Shall We Do with the Drunken Sailor?’ Naval Brigade, on their way back from the batteries to the ships.
Ryder glanced at Woodall, who nodded, hefted the rifle and fired into the air. Mackenzie’s hand smacked out with the next cartridge before the echo died, but above it Ryder heard the singing from the road gradually fading into the distance, ‘Hoo-ray and up she rises, Early in the morning!’ A stray shot meant nothing on the Chersonese Uplands.
Except to the Russians. A faint rattle of stones to warn him, then he was whipping round with the pistol yelling, ‘Heads down, here they come!’ Woodall was still loading, the bastards knew it, they’d only got himself to beat. They weren’t dawdling either, the front two were bloody running up the slopes, weaving as they came. He pointed the pistol at the leading man, anticipated the turn, and fired.
Winged him at least, he was crawling back to cover, but there were two others behind, and shapes already emerging from the second cave. Too many, but he’d got to buy Woodall time. Behind him Oliver was shouting at his wretched Misty, but they wouldn’t waste a ball on a horse while there were men to be shot before they reloaded. Then he saw it, what they thought and what he’d got to do.
He stood upright behind the boulders and let his pistol sag. Mackenzie called, ‘Get down, you fool!’ but the Russians weren’t firing, they thought his gun was empty, they were running to lay hands on the lot of them and the rang
e was getting better all the time. The spokesman in front even smiled sadly as he bounded forward, and Ryder thought ‘Friendly sort of chap’ as he brought up the revolver and fired.
Got him dead centre, he crumpled at the waist while his companions stopped in shock. Ryder didn’t, he saw one from the flank lifting his carbine, swung the pistol even as he cocked it and snapped off a shot at his chest.
And missed. The bastard had sidestepped, a whole shot wasted, and the gun was levelled at himself. He stumbled back into Oliver as the ball chipped the boulder, but a rifle crashed beside him and there was the other front-runner down – Woodall had fired straight from the reload.
Ryder had two shots left. He jumped back to the barrier, but the Russians were backing to the cave, leaving two of their number flat on the ground. He swung left, the other cave, a man still out there, then a flash, a bang, and a hoarse cry behind. He spun round to see Woodall collapsing, blood on his face and neck and dripping onto his fallen cap. He’d been shot in the head, and Ryder felt a sudden coldness inside his own.
Oliver dropped silently to the Grenadier’s side. Mackenzie reached for the rifle and continued the reload, his face as hard as the rocks behind him. Ryder turned away to scan the ravine, but there was no one in sight, the enemy had gone back to ground.
‘They’ll no try again,’ said Mackenzie, ramming the barrel hard. ‘Not now they know you’ve the revolver. We can bide here safe and slip off in the dark.’
Someone muttered, and Oliver straightened with an exclamation as Woodall’s hand moved. ‘He’s … I think he’s …’
Woodall’s eyes opened. They were bleary and bewildered, but gradually focussed into awareness. He spluttered, moved his head a fraction, then said, ‘I’ve been hit.’
Oliver bent to examine his skull. ‘There’s a hole to one side.’