by A L Berridge
He stepped forward, but something banged to the floor and darkness sprang between them as the candle fell. ‘Damn,’ said his voice. ‘Can you … ?’
It was right by Ryder’s feet. He stooped to retrieve it, but froze with his hand on the tin. The voices were coming nearer again, someone speaking with angry authority.
‘Then you find them, Captain, I don’t care how long it takes. I’ve the best part of a thousand men sleeping rough in the trenches and I’m not going back without those tents.’
Someone mumbled, then a rattle and creak suggested the opening of a door near by.
Ryder straightened with the dead candle and found Angelo standing right next to him. His figure was rigid with tension, and Ryder understood what was at stake. To be found in a dark room with a private soldier was a crime even more shameful than his father’s.
He said quickly, ‘It’ll look better if we …’
The officer hesitated, then seemed to relax. ‘Quite right,’ he said, and slipped the knife back in his coat. ‘Meet back at my horse. Will you … ?’ He nodded at the door.
Ryder opened it and stepped out into the lamp-lit dusk. Angelo was right behind him, tall and straight of back and already bursting into speech. ‘A disgrace!’ he declared. ‘Utter disgrace, you did quite right to tell me. My Lord Raglan will have something to say …’ He turned as if only just noticing the commissary officer a few feet away and beyond him a furious colonel of the Light Division. ‘You there, you – Captain! What the devil do you mean by it? These stores should have been distributed weeks ago!’
Ryder slipped discreetly past, marvelling at his companion’s effrontery. Whatever rank he was hiding under the greatcoat his voice had enough authority to terrify the commissary officer into babbling explanations and the colonel to complacent silence.
He waited outside Cattle Wharf and a minute later Angelo joined him, smiling with suppressed glee. ‘Time to go, I think, before they start asking questions. But I’ll need you to contact me if you find out any more.’
He was serious about this, he really was. ‘Of course, sir. Right away.’
‘And no one else,’ said Angelo sternly. ‘Me first before anyone, do you understand? There’s a disused well outside Kadikoi, you can tuck a note under the canopy and I’ll check it every couple of days. All right?’
Ryder nodded wordlessly.
‘But you’re to tell no one else. No one’s to know you’ve spoken to me, not even your friends. That’s a condition, Ryder. Do you swear it?’
The man was trusting him, he couldn’t be asked to trust other people he didn’t know. ‘All right, sir. But you won’t just ignore it, will you? You will do something?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Angelo, and smiled at him. ‘I think I can promise you that. Now off you go, we can’t be seen to leave together.’
He was right, of course, and Ryder’s confidence rose as he walked away. Angelo knew what he was doing, he understood the seriousness, he was exactly the ally Ryder had prayed for. He turned at the hospital for the long walk back up the gorge, but the steepness was nothing now, and even his knowledge of the coming bombardment was only a sign that somehow and at last the Allies were fighting back.
Angelo watched him go with regret. Harry Ryder seemed a likeable young man, decidedly intelligent for his rank, and it was scarcely surprising his officers resented him. The whole thing was altogether a pity.
Not least for himself. He stood irresolute for a moment, then led his mare back round the bend, up the winding road toward the headland, then off into the yard of the last farm. There was no sign of its Bulgarian owner, but that was of no consequence. It saved him the tedium of explanations.
There was no one in the stable either, but he’d always enjoyed tending his own horses. No servant ever put the same care into it, and the bond between a man and his beast might be the only thing that saved him on a battlefield. He worked without hurry, seeing the mare comfortably settled in her stall before grooming the bay and laying the saddlecloth with some reluctance on his polished back. Blue was such a flat, dull colour, and did nothing to highlight the stallion’s magnificent bronze tones. He looked so much better in the red.
Well then, the red it would be. One last time for the joy of the danger in it, then he would put it safely away for the war. It would hardly be wise to leave it here anyway, since Kostoff could never be trusted to burn it. He would promise to do it, he would swear on his mother’s grave, then he would sell it to buy the attentions of some poor wretched serving girl too poor to refuse. That was the kind of mistake he himself would never make. He couldn’t afford to make any at all.
He paused as he tightened the girth and wondered briefly if he’d made one this evening. He’d hesitated, certainly, and it was a shame he’d been interrupted, but the truth was he’d liked Harry Ryder and couldn’t honestly regret not killing him. There were other ways of keeping him quiet, and what, after all, could the man do? A private soldier without the support of his officers, what could he possibly do? Poor Ryder. He wasn’t even on the right track.
He swung into the saddle with a sense of elation and rode straight out for the headland. There was a British battery sited on one of the slopes, but he gave them a friendly wave and rode by. He waved to the Highlanders’ picquet too, to the cavalry vedettes at Kamara, to the Turks labouring at the redoubts, he waved to them all and rode by, speeding to the gallop for the North Valley and the race to the Chernaya. It didn’t matter who saw him, they’d never recognize him again. None of them would ever know that Mikhail Andreievich Kalmykoff had just given them a wave and passed by.
12
17 October 1854, 5.30 a.m. to 2.00 p.m.
Ryder was dreaming of Sally Jarvis touching his thigh. A faint rumble disturbed him, but Sally’s hands were warm, her dress seemed to be falling off, and he didn’t want to wake just yet. Then a second deep vibration trembled through the ground and he opened his eyes. Oliver was sitting up one side of him, Bolton opposite, the others responding to the movement with groans and curses.
‘The bombardment,’ said Oliver. ‘Must be.’
‘Not yet, Ol-Pol,’ said Bolton blearily. ‘We’d have been called.’
A third boom, unmistakably cannon, and then a trumpet calling ‘Boots and Saddles’.
‘Now we bloody are,’ said Fisk, bashing his elbow into Ryder’s shoulder as he hauled up his braces. ‘Trumpet’s late, that’s all.’
It wasn’t. Ryder struck a match when he got outside and his watch gave the time as half after five. The bombardment had started all right, the sky above the Sapoune Ridge was lit in intermittent flashes to the distant boom of artillery, but something had gone wrong.
Everyone knew it. The parade in the dark was a fumbling, awkward business, sergeants’ voices rough from abrupt awakening, responses slow from men half-asleep at their horses’ heads, and all eyes fixed on those ominous cracks of light that illuminated faces like signals from a shuttered lantern. Horses fidgeted at the sound of the guns.
‘Wait a bit,’ muttered Jordan. ‘The light’s wrong, ain’t it? Oughtn’t it to be away from us, blazing at the Russians?’
Lieutenant Grainger heard him, and Ryder saw that old-young intelligent face turn to the hills, the orange flicker striking his cheek like a slap. Then he faced front again, and his silence was worse than words.
Another, louder boom, then another even deeper, a whole salvo of artillery from beyond the ridge. The noises were overlapping now, faster and more frequent as cannon answered cannon, a solo bombardment becoming a battle.
‘They’re firing back,’ said Cornet Hoare. ‘I bet that woke the beggars!’
No one answered. Distance made the sounds deceptive, the Sapoune blocked anything like a meaningful view, but the bombardment had started early and Ryder felt a deep, sick certainty as to why. The Russians had fired first. They’d shot at men still asleep and unprepared, robbing the Allied attack of surprise and coordination, reducing it to a ragged fire of reprisal
as one by one the batteries hurried into readiness. The Russians had known exactly what was planned, and it wasn’t hard to guess who’d told them.
Light was coming, a faint yellowing of the gloom, then the self-important clip-clop of hooves as old ‘Look-On’ arrived for his usual morning visit. Lucan seemed not to notice the flashes and bangs as he trotted with his entourage to inspect the terrain, and when he returned to their lines the order was the same as every day. Stand down.
File away in turn, secure the horses in the lines, shove a handful of forage at the poor beasts who probably wanted water more than anything, then crawl away to be miserable at leisure. Only one thing was different. The RSM stood at the horse-lines telling everyone, ‘No leave, no permissions, all confined to camp. We’re on stand-by for when the attack goes in.’
It was beginning to feel more like ‘if’ to Ryder. The bombardment had got off to the worst possible start, and if the Russians had done serious damage before their own guns opened then it was unlikely to get better. The men knew it, they were murmuring in groups, looking ominously towards the Col de Balaklava. ‘What about the fleet?’ Fisk was saying. ‘I thought the ships were going to blast the Russian forts.’ ‘Oh weren’t they, though?’ said Jordan, unsmiling. ‘I don’t hear nothing from the sea, do you?’ Ryder heard only the gulls, their calls high and plaintive at the disturbance in the sky.
Hot tin brushed his fingers, Oliver passing him a mug. ‘Coffee.’
‘Thanks, Poll.’ He took a sip, and let the truth of their situation sink in.
Oliver said, ‘It’s our traitor, isn’t it? He met the Russians last night and told them.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It’s him.’
Dawn brightened to full morning, and the constant dull rumble began to seem like something that had always been there. Marsh relaxed the orders to send them in threes to water, but otherwise there was nothing to do but sit and speculate. In desperation Ryder dealt a game of two-handed whist, but even that couldn’t keep out the sound of guns that hammered relentlessly like punctuation to his thoughts.
Oliver wasn’t much better, and Ryder watched with dry amusement as he scooped up a trick he hadn’t won. ‘It’s not our fault, Harry We did all we could. Even if Colonel Doherty had acted, it would have been too late.’
Perhaps. But the fact remained the bombardment had been crippled, maybe fatally, and there would be no battle today. Again they’d been delayed, again the Russians had bought time, and it was the same bastard responsible for all of it. He’d got to be stopped, got to be, but all Ryder could do was pin his hope on Angelo and play bloody cards.
An even louder thunderclap crashed in the distance, and the ground shook. The sky above the Col shimmered in a brighter flash from below.
‘A magazine,’ said Oliver, staring at the Sapoune Ridge as if to look right through it. ‘That’s a magazine, isn’t it?’
‘Ours or theirs?’ said Ryder. ‘Lift your hand, Poll, I can see every single card.’
Ten minutes later and there came another, a crash that echoed in the ground beneath them and blew brown dust over their cards. A group from ‘B’ Troop clapped and cheered, and someone called ‘Go it, the gunners!’ but Ryder dealt the new hand in silence. The firing continued, but the noise seemed thinner than before, as if he’d lost hearing in one ear. Then heads were turning to the front of their own camp, and Ryder heard it himself, the rattle of wheels rounding the Col.
Carts. Three, four, a little stream of them with infantry escort, casualties being brought down to Balaklava. Men surged towards them, all pretence lost, and even Marsh called, ‘Hey, you there, any news?’ Ryder and Oliver threw down their cards and ran with the rest.
The first cart didn’t stop, but one of the linesmen called over his shoulder ‘Mont Rodolphe’s gone, the French battery. The Frogs are out of it.’ The second cart halted and was immediately surrounded by clamouring dragoons, but Ryder ran past it to the back of the procession. The last cart had stopped by a crowd of 8th Hussars, but its escort were 7th Fusiliers and the one at the back was Bloomer.
He was already talking to the Hussars, but his voice was quieter than usual and Ryder had to strain to hear. ‘We was cover-party, bringing up shells to the Left Attack, we saw it all. Bang-smack on the magazine on Monty Rudolph, fifty men dead in a second. Smoke cleared and there they were, black as burned crackling and nothing white but their teeth.’
‘Stow it, Flowers,’ said a sergeant. ‘No need for croaking. The Frogs will have it up again in no time.’
‘Not they,’ said Bloomer. ‘They’d another blow straight after. They’ve no heart in them, poor beggars, their officers are standing them down.’
‘Ah, but we’re Englishmen,’ said the sergeant, grinning round at the assembled cavalry. ‘Trust me, lads, we’ll have the Redan down this afternoon, then it’s in with the steel. We might even leave something for you “look-ons” to do!’
The sally was greeted by predictable groans and hoots of derision, but Ryder knew it was meaningless. There’d be no attack today, and with the French out there mightn’t be one for weeks. He looked at Bloomer and the Fusilier gave him the tiniest nod of his head.
He backed out of the crowd and waited for Bloomer to sidle out to join them. ‘You all right?’
‘Oh, in prime twig,’ said Bloomer. He took off his forage cap and blew out his cheeks. ‘The Russkies fired first, you know that?’
‘We guessed,’ said Ryder.
‘Well, I’m guessing too,’ said Bloomer. There was a hard red line on his forehead where the cap had bitten into the flesh. ‘I’m guessing your man had something to do with it. You know where he went last night? Sebastopolly, that’s where. He was twigged crossing Traktir Bridge.’
More proof, useless proof of what they already knew. ‘Maybe he’ll stay there.’
‘And maybe he won’t,’ said Bloomer. ‘How’d the parlay go with your officer pal?’
Ryder looked away from the cynicism in his eyes. ‘He’s sick.’
‘Sick,’ said Bloomer expressionlessly. ‘I near as a toucher shot the cat when I saw Monty Rudolph. But I can’t say I expected no better from an officer. Did you?’
He wasn’t going to blame the Old Man. ‘He’ll act if we get the name.’
‘So will I,’ said Bloomer. ‘And I may just have something handy.’ He glanced back to see the sergeant still holding his audience, then lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper. ‘You know a village called Kamara?’
‘Of course.’ It was on the lower slopes of the Causeway Heights, not far from their own camp.
‘Good,’ said Bloomer. ‘Because I’m blowed if I do. But whisper says there’s nice pickings there, and a bunch of prigging coves have spotted Mr Claret-Top hopping along regular of a Sunday morning to visit a flash crib down the lane. Something of the fish smell about it, he always slinks round the hedges so no one don’t see which house. The lads reckon he’s got himself a convenient, but nine’s a funny time of day to chase a skirt.’
‘Always nine?’ said Ryder, ignoring Oliver’s mystified face.
‘Very particular,’ said Bloomer. ‘Stays an hour, maybe more, but always there for nine.’
The cart was beginning to move again. ‘Thanks, Bloomer. I won’t forget.’
‘Nah,’ said Bloomer, sticking his cap back on. ‘Like I said, this is army business. Forget the officers, pal, we’ll nail this Joe ourselves.’
The cart bumped away, and Ryder’s excitement rose in the rattle of its wheels. A mistake at last, and a big one. It was the first rule of war, never to let the enemy know where you were going before you got there, and this stupid bastard traitor had broken it in trumps.
‘We can’t really forget the officers though, can we?’ said Oliver, as they set off back to the fire. ‘You’ll have to tell the colonel.’
‘He’s sick, remember? He wouldn’t listen anyway, he told me to leave it alone.’
Oliver stopped in consternation. ‘Then we must. That’s an ord
er, an order from our commanding officer. We can’t just ignore it.’
‘Oh, can’t we?’ Ryder said cheerfully, walking on regardless. ‘It’s for the good of the army, he’ll thank us in the end.’
Oliver hurried after him. ‘He won’t. You couldn’t even tell him, you’d be admitting we disobeyed orders.’
He’d forgotten what an irritating prig Oliver could be. ‘He won’t argue with success, Polly, the military never does. Look at Nelson.’
‘We’re not Nelson,’ said Oliver passionately. ‘We’re private soldiers, we can’t act like officers. We can’t do it, Harry, you must see that.’
They were back at the fire, the cards lying exactly as they’d left them. ‘Look, leave Doherty to me, will you? I told you, I know him a little, he’ll be only too pleased if we catch this bastard out.’
‘How can we?’ said Oliver. ‘I’ll be on vedettes, I start on Friday.’
He was just making difficulties. ‘Swap with someone for the day. You’re with Grainger, you know he doesn’t mind.’
‘There’s no point,’ said Oliver. He sat down like a sulky child and began to collect the scattered cards. ‘We can’t watch the meeting without an officer.’
He looked at the top of that blond head and wondered at its obstinacy. There’d been a time when Polly Oliver trembled at his sarcasm, but never again, not now. He’d fought a damn good action yesterday, and the frightened boy was gone for good.
He sat back down. ‘All right, why can’t we?’
‘Because it’s Sunday,’ said Oliver, blowing dust off a card. ‘We’ll still be at Divine Service.’
He stared in disbelief. ‘That’s ridiculous. We’ll just have to miss it, that’s all.’
Oliver looked nervous again. ‘It finishes round about nine. You could still be at Kamara for quarter past.’
‘And what good’s that? We’ll never know which house he’s in unless we’re there to see him arrive. No, we can’t let the chance go for something as stupid as a Church Parade.’