by A L Berridge
Sweat began to prickle on his upper lip. He saw cover all round him, long grass and straggly bushes, but if they broke for it they’d be taken for deserters. He kept marching with his head up, as if staring ahead might make him less noticeable from behind; then his boot knocked into the heel of the man in front, and he saw the column was slowing to a halt.
Something was happening. Ahead lay the hub of paths he’d noticed on the way up, and another column was crossing their own, marines with black cross-belts heading down one of the side paths he’d guessed would follow the Careenage Ravine. But there was a third column approaching down another path, men dressed like themselves and heading in the same direction, and they too were creating delay as the lines overlapped on the route to the arch.
Delay – and confusion. He whispered, ‘Change columns, get in the middle,’ and Jarvis nodded in fervent agreement. Their own column started moving again, a stop-and-start shuffle as the ranks bulged and overlapped, and Ryder broke across in two steps to plant himself on the outside of another marching line. His neighbours looked startled, but he groped at his greatcoat as if buttoning himself after a furtive piss in the bushes, and was rewarded with a conspiratorial smile of understanding. A second later and Jarvis tucked in beside him, and as they funnelled into the bottleneck for the arch another pair stepped smartly up on their right to make a four. No one commented, no one even stared, and then the sky darkened over him as they passed through the tunnel. No challenge, no password, not for an army. They were through the arch and out, turning smart right for the Chersonese Uplands and home.
And the marching was easy. The road was level, to his left was the low wall that bordered the Careenage Bay, and when the bay met the Roadstead they continued hugging its shore. It made sense for a stealthy attack, they were keeping Mount Sapoune between themselves and the Allies, and it wasn’t until they reached the Volivia Gorge that they turned south, off the road and onto the bumpy terrain of the Uplands. Somewhere ahead of them lay British-held Shell Hill, and their chance to break for freedom.
Beside him Jarvis stumbled, and at once Ryder’s unease returned. The sergeant-major had managed all right on the road, but now his gait was stiff and uneven, and after five minutes he was virtually staggering. Ryder slipped a hand under his elbow to support him and prayed he could hold out long enough to get them in reach of the British lines. At least his neighbours didn’t seem to have noticed. Their faces showed only grim indifference as they marched on, left-right, left-right, men going into battle and probably feeling the way the British had before the Alma.
Jarvis stumbled again. Ryder steadied him, but the NCO’s face was contorted with pain and he was obviously only minutes from collapse. Maybe they should risk it and just run, maybe the Russians wouldn’t fire for fear of giving away their approach, but Jarvis couldn’t run, he could hardly bloody walk, and the Russians didn’t need noise to capture a cripple. No. They had to get clear and out of sight before anyone could think to come after them.
He scanned the ground. Grass, stunted oak, thorn bushes, boulders, gullies, lots of places to hide if your companions didn’t actually see you doing it. Over, further, and dark blobs ahead in a fold of the slopes, horses standing alone and cropping the arid grass. Two, no, three of them without riders, saddled but empty, standing by themselves as calmly as ponies on Exmoor. He saw the black lambskins of the Light Brigade, knew what they were and what they’d run from, but they were here, they were transport and speed and a chance. He pressed Jarvis’s arm and indicated them with his eyes.
‘Not a hope,’ muttered Jarvis. ‘We run at them, they’ll bolt.’
‘Just one,’ he whispered back. ‘They’re big, one can take two men. Don’t tell me we can’t get at least one.’
The horses were only twenty yards from the track and clearly unbothered by the movement of troops. Their own rank would draw level with them in maybe one minute.
‘All right,’ said Jarvis suddenly. ‘But I’ve only got one leg that works, remember that.’
Ryder grinned. ‘You can bloody limp it, we’ll still be away before the Russians react.’
His neighbour glanced round. Ryder wondered if the English had been too loud, and hastily gave a vague mumble, brushed his forehead and tried to look hungover. The lad smiled broadly, said something incomprehensible, and actually patted his shoulder.
Nearly there, and the horses hadn’t moved. It was a hard thing to do in cold blood, he needed an emergency to respond to, but there was nothing but themselves marching safe and about to throw themselves into danger. Left-right, left-right, now, and he shoved Jarvis out of the column to stagger blindly onto the grass.
Good, he looked ill and dazed, no one suspected, and Ryder darted after him, a Good Samaritan helping a man who’d fallen out. A mounted officer started towards them but Ryder grabbed Jarvis’s shoulders and staggered back with him, right for the horses, noses up and watching with interest, go for them, grab one, go. A whinny of alarm, the first was off, the second backing away with the look of an elderly virgin finding a man in her bedroom, but his hand was up and grasping, leather, a bridle, he clenched it and shoved Jarvis at the stirrup.
‘Get up, get up!’ He was yelling now, the pretence over and done. ‘Go on, go!’ He boosted the sergeant-major from behind, leg over and up, and the approaching officer actually slowed in surprise. Ryder laughed as he turned, hand up to Jarvis for the pull, but nothing caught him, the horse was wheeling, her flank bumping hard into him as she turned. He staggered, snatched again at the bridle, but it was whisked out of reach, he was groping after a horse already galloping away. He called ‘Jarvis!’, desperate to believe it an accident, but the Russian officer was yelling too, and soldiers breaking after him from the ranks. He was alone and unarmed against four thousand Russians and Jarvis had left him to die.
He ran. Nothing else for it, he wrenched away from the reaching hands of the nearest soldier and bolted like a rabbit over the slopes. The musket banged on his back, his feet stumbled over ruts and bumps, terror stabbed him as his ankle twisted and nearly bent over. The man behind was quicker and nimbler, a hand brushed then seized his arm, jolting him back and round. He rode with it, swinging round faster than the pull, fist hammering out to connect with the face of the boy who’d marched beside him. Crack on the cheekbone, see him down, swivel again and run.
It was hopeless. Hooves pounded behind him, the officer coming up, he couldn’t outrun a bloody horse. He scrabbled to unsling the musket, sprang a foot on a boulder to gain height, and there was the rider, smash out with the butt, hit him and drive him back. Useless. He’d caught the arm, but a horseman wouldn’t retreat from an infantryman with a musket butt, he was wheeling to come again and in his hand was a drawn sword. Whatever the man thought he was, enemy or deserter, he was going to bloody kill him and find out afterwards.
Ryder swung back to face him, desperate and at bay. The sword flashed down, he smashed it away with the musket, then leaped from the boulder and ran. A lance would have caught him, but a sword might be dodged, he twisted and ducked and ran. Pain scorched down his back as the tip of the sabre caught him, but he dived away, sobbing and cursing, still running and with a chance. Use the ground, get trees between them, rocks, and then the miracle, a stone-slide of a gully, he threw himself down and rolled. Stones flew down with him, face and hands tearing over them, hip smashing agonizingly into a rock, but he was going at speed and no horseman could risk following. He jarred to a halt against a tree, forced up his head and saw the rider safe on the skyline looking down.
He waited a moment on hands and knees, panting to catch his breath, then looked up at the sound of distant shots. Small-arms fire from the direction of Shell Hill, the British picquets must have spotted the approaching enemy. He looked back in triumph to see the horseman still watching, and somewhere his brain finished the thought: the alarm was given, the Russians had no more need for silence, which meant they could –
He was already flying for the boul
ders as the shot split the air. A stinging blow burned down his scalp, a spray of sharp dust flew in his face, he squeezed his eyes shut and felt the judder through his skull as his head struck rock. He was lying on pebbles, he felt the bumps all down his side, but daren’t open his eyes to see. His eyelashes were gritty and stinging, tiny splinters of stone, if they went in his eyes he was blind. He lay still as dead, feeling blood trickle down his face and hearing his heart like a drum.
Moments passed and his mind came back to him. The horseman had paid his grudge, he’d have gone back to his men and the battle, and Ryder could move if he wanted. If he could. All the little pains were talking at once, as if he were being turned on a spit with everything hurting in turn. He made his hand trace the line in his scalp, a clean furrow in the skin oozing out blood as if he had plenty to spare. His leg was throbbing, a familiar ache he thought he’d long conquered, but the skin was cold with wetness and he knew the wound had reopened. His back was the worst, and his other hand crept down to explore the rent in his greatcoat, the slash in the coat beneath, the parted rags of the shirt, the dressing sliced through and the raw bleeding flesh beyond. The sword had gone through all of it, and if it hadn’t been for the thickness of two dressings the blade would have cut to his spine.
But it hadn’t. A ridiculous pleasure coursed through him with this single small triumph, and he slid the hand from his head to stroke the grit from his eyelashes, wetting his fingers to make the particles stick and lift away. He wouldn’t be blind. He wouldn’t give up. He couldn’t just die here without getting his information to Raglan. His eyes opened slowly, cautiously, testing for pain, but there was no more than the sting of sand, a faint prickling that blinked away with tears. He saw blue-grey rocks, a boulder spattered with blood he knew was his own, and a gully that tapered into a dead end. Above him was a battlefield.
But not everywhere. The Inkerman area was getting it, but the only force attacking the west side would be that much smaller column of marines. If they’d kept to the cover of the Careenage Ravine they’d be breaking out by now and he could use it himself to get back. He could follow it to the Victoria Ravine, to the windmill and Light Division camp, everything as he’d planned it last night, before he made himself stay to help Jarvis.
Jarvis. Every other thought receded until he could see only those layered jowls and malicious eyes. He could smell the sweat of him, feel the weight of that wheezing body as he’d supported it with his own. Never mind his life, never mind his information, he was going to get back somehow just to get even with Troop Sergeant-Major Jarvis.
Inch by inch, hand over hand, he crawled up the side of the gully. Handholds were there when he reached for them, a spindly tree trunk, a handful of bramble, the curve of a boulder, he reached out and found them and hauled himself up. He was out of the gully and facing the steep slope of the Careenage Ridge. Behind him came the pounding of artillery, cannon on Shell Hill, heavy firing down towards the Inkerman defences, and underneath the guns the roar of fighting men. He paused a moment, wondering if their spy was already among them, but there was little scope for misdirection when the enemy leaped out and started firing cannon.
But if he wasn’t here today he would be tomorrow and Ryder had to go on. His leg kept buckling, his head throbbed, and blood crept in his eyes, but step by step he made it up the ridge and started gratefully down the other side. The crashing of cannon receded, but now he heard other, lighter sounds, small-arms fire ahead. He couldn’t see anything, the ground was clear, but the firing grew more and more intense and then a ball whined straight past his head. He threw himself down, cursing his own stupidity. Of course he couldn’t see anything, the firefight was in the bloody ravine.
It sounded savage too. As he edged closer he heard more shots flying and ricocheting off the stony slopes, whistling out to spend themselves in the ridge behind. The marines must be down there, they hadn’t broken out after all, and someone was making a very determined effort to stop them. Those were the people he needed. All he had to do was walk on until he got behind the fight, then climb on down to join them.
But he was hardly even walking now, his legs were soft and clumsy and his back wrenched with pain at every step. The fight was driving forward as if the defence were falling back, and his progress felt dreamlike, walking but getting no nearer. Still he went on, yard after yard, and gradually the shots grew louder and more distinct, howling back and forth down the walls of the ravine. The resisting force weren’t falling back any more but had found somewhere to make a stand. He forced up his head and saw orange flashes cracking from behind a grey line of earthworks, a trench across the junction of the Mikriakoff Glen and the Wellway. The men firing from it would be British.
He thought he could make it. The ravine was growing shallower to its end, but the Russians were still firing from inside. A few were on the slopes and banks, but if he kept low to the ground they mightn’t notice him as he edged the last yards to that trench. He crouched down for one last effort, and the ball spat right past his ear.
Idiot, idiot, fool and idiot, he was wearing Russian cross-belts over the coat, of course his own side would fire on him. He stayed low, waved frantically, and yelled, ‘British! I’m British! Prisoner coming back in!’
Another ball flew past, this time from the ravine. Now he’d got the Russians on him, imagining there were men coming to take them in the flank. Frustration and rage threw him forward, two good strides then down again, crouching behind a miserable bunch of thistles. Someone shouted from the trench, but the words were lost in gunfire, he heard only their Englishness and the single word ‘yourself’. They’d take orders from a Russian, but give them a bloody Englishman and they suddenly remembered the rulebook. He shouted back ‘I’m Ryder, 13th Light Dragoons, now let me in, you bastards!’
He heard gruff laughter. Someone yelled ‘Come on, then’ and he saw with astonished gratitude two men turn to give covering fire at the Russians in the ravine.
One last gasp. He gulped a breath and jerked forward, up from the ground and into the open. Crouching and stumbling, falling and lurching, another ball zipping overhead. A fit man could have run it in ten seconds, but his body couldn’t even stagger, the bloody thing was giving up, and his next thrust forward only pitched him on his face.
And someone was coming at him, feet thudding fast over the ground. He rolled to face the danger, saw a grey coat stooping over him, struck out and hit only cloth. A reproachful voice said ‘Cut that out, will you?’ and strong arms wrapped round his chest, lifting and supporting him onto tottery feet. A hand grasped his wrist, his arm was tugged round a set of broad shoulders, and the face by his own was a friend’s.
‘Come on,’ said Woodall, tightening the grip round his waist. ‘I’ve got you, come on!’
A musket banged, and he was propelled violently forward, half-dragged, half-carried, his feet skimming the grass as they ran. Shots still pinged about them, but they were already leaping over a soft mound, then a sharp jolt down, loose earth sliding under his feet and he landed with a thump in a crowded trench. ‘There,’ said Woodall triumphantly, propping him against the wall. ‘You’re in the lines, you’re safe.’
He wasn’t. As he took in his surroundings he realized the trench was no more than a shallow dug-out, and the grey-coated men packed into it couldn’t number more than sixty. How many Russian marines had there been – seven, eight hundred? His companions were firing with nonchalant steadiness, independently loading and firing, loading and firing, guided only by shouts of ‘Breaking out left!’, ‘Watch your right!’, and the calm voice of an officer calling ‘Come on, chaps, you can hold them’, but they couldn’t, not possibly, and he was no safer down here than he’d been in the open. He struggled up to look for a weapon.
‘Stay down!’ ordered Woodall, slamming him back against the wall. ‘I’m not saving you again, stay down!’
Ryder winced with the pain. ‘Careful, you great ox, mind the back.’
Woodall blinked
in surprise, then actually grinned. ‘And you mind your manners,’ he said. ‘You’re with Her Majesty’s Guards now, you’ll do what you’re ruddy well told.’ He wadded his handkerchief, placed it on Ryder’s head, said ‘Hold it there’, then turned calmly back to the parapet. A second later he fired.
Ryder watched him with confused wonder. It was Woodall all right, the voice was as pompous as ever, the bearing just as stiff, and the little red scratches on his jaw only bore witness to the ferocity with which he’d obviously tried to shave a week’s growth of beard. But he was loading and firing as naturally as a man making tea, thinking of nothing but what he was doing, and spitting his cartridge tops with total unconcern for where they landed. When he missed a shot he yelled ‘Damn it!’ and didn’t care who heard him. He was a soldier among soldiers, and that wretched haunted figure who’d clutched at the blanket in Balaklava had vanished as if he’d never been.
And Ryder envied him. That was what he wanted, to fight with his own side, not sit back helplessly when every man was needed. A soldier without a weapon was unmanned and useless, and Ryder was stained with the memory of his own surrender. He sat up and said, ‘Come on, Woodall, I’ve got to have a gun.’
Woodall hesitated, then seemed to understand. He called down the line, ‘Anybody down? We need another rifle.’
Impossible to believe not one had been hit, but it was still several minutes before a rifle was passed down. The stock was bloodstained and sticky, but it was a weapon and with it came a cartridge pouch and percussion caps. Ryder seized it gratefully and squeezed himself round to face the parapet.
‘Can you load?’ said Woodall, squinting down his barrel and firing another shot. ‘The Minié’s complicated, you know, you don’t just point it and fire.’