by A L Berridge
‘No, cully, we’re not,’ said Bloomer, and his voice was suddenly very grim. ‘I was there, I saw what happened, I know what it cost and I know we were blowed upon.’
Ryder knotted his hands until the knuckles shone white. He remembered Bloomer describing the direct hit on Mont Rodolphe, fifty men burned to black in a single instant.
Something gripped on his shoulder, a single hard squeeze from a meaty hand. ‘I knows something else too,’ said Bloomer’s voice. ‘The nob was with us the day before – remember? He was in our dog-leg fixing it for his pals to come chucking grenades. He spoke to us lobsters, he spoke to our officers, if there’d been a bleeding dog he’d have spoke to that too. You may have told him about the bombardment, but there’s a score of us did the same.’
He couldn’t even feel relief at first. His hands were hurting, he prised them apart, then turned to look in Bloomer’s face.
‘That’s right, pal,’ said the Fusilier. ‘So stop hugging your guilt and drink your bleeding coffee.’ He thumped Ryder on the shoulder and sat himself back down.
His raw skin throbbed from the thump. ‘Doesn’t make me any less stupid though, does it?’
‘That depends,’ said Mackenzie serenely. ‘Did you tell him anything else now? This attack there was meant to be on Tuesday, did you say anything about that?’
‘I would have done,’ he said, and couldn’t hide the bitterness. ‘I couldn’t get hold of him, that’s all.’ It made him sick to think how close it had been, how easily he could have told the bastard about Kamara, how Sally could have walked alone into a trap.
‘Then there’s no harm,’ said Mackenzie. ‘He was just what we’d all been seeking, a regular officer friendly enough to listen. No harm in it at all.’
Woodall cleared his throat. ‘May even be good. You’ve seen him, haven’t you? In broad day? You’d know him again.’
‘Aye, and I would too,’ said Mackenzie. ‘Ryder held a candle while I poured the devil his coffee. I mind the face of him very well.’ His fingers closed tightly round his mug, and behind those tranquil eyes something burned.
Bloomer pulled at his nose. ‘I’d know him too, cully, but what good is it? Not likely to come strolling my way again, is he? Not now he knows we’re fly.’
‘But in a battle,’ said Mackenzie. ‘If he tries his tricks again, he’ll no succeed with the 93rd.’
Bloomer snorted. ‘That’s prime, that is. Say I stops him with the 7th. Say Ryder gives him the bum’s rush with the horseboys. What’s that leave? Sixteen thousand?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Oliver quickly. ‘Colonel Doherty will warn the commanders, we won’t need to do a thing.’
‘The commanders,’ said Bloomer, and rolled his eyes. ‘All right, maybe there won’t be no more lying billy-doos from Raglan, but what about the swaddies? Is he going to tell them not to take orders from anyone they don’t know? Nah, be your age, Polly, this wants more than warning. We’ve got to catch this Joe and do it quick.’
He was right. Ryder looked at the candles stuttering on their tin lids and pictured a storehouse at Balaklava, the voice of an officer who’d said he could call him ‘Angelo’. Irony? He remembered the man’s humour and felt a sudden certainty that his real name was Michael. What other clues had he given? What was there in that conversation he could use?
His mind stopped at the sound of gunshots outside. Muskets – and the boom of a distant cannon. Impossible, not again, and for a second he saw the shock on all their faces, then the trumpet called and it was real. He extinguished the candles and crawled after the others into the night.
Darkness, and men running blindly for horses that had died the day before. A few were getting saddles up, the poor remnant of the Light Brigade, but many stood as helpless and horseless as himself. Woodall had a rifle, and Oliver took out his Adams, but Ryder had neither sword nor gun, and could only stand in frustration as he listened to the hundreds of hooves galloping towards them out of the dark.
But only hooves. He heard no shouts, no more gunfire, just hooves and snorting and the whinnying of frightened beasts. An officer yelled ‘Hold your fire, hold your fire!’ and then shapes began to form, looming nearer, cavalry horses galloping into camp, but all with empty saddles. The back of his neck felt suddenly cold. It was as if their own horses were come back out of the valley, carrying only the ghosts of the riders they’d left behind.
Jordan’s voice cried, ‘Russian horses, by damn! They’ve had a stampede!’ A horse charged right by him, white vapour puffing from its panicked nostrils, and he saw it was true. Russian horses, scared by an alarm in the redoubts, looking for the safety of horse-lines and familiarity, and the Light Brigade camp had seemed to provide both. Laughing men trampled the scrub as they grabbed at bridles, soothing the animals, leading them to capture, a voice crying ‘I’m calling mine Menschikoff!’ and then another, nearer and softer, saying ‘There, it’s all right, I’ll look after you, you’re safe.’ Polly Oliver holding the reins of a massive grey, stroking its nose and murmuring. It wasn’t his lost mare, but perhaps at that moment it might as well have been.
For some it really was, and one horse cantering by wore a saddlecloth of the 4th Light Dragoons. Then another, and he stared in disbelief at a familiar chestnut form with his own saddle on its back. ‘Tally!’ he called, and then louder, ‘Tally!’ She saw him, and trotted over, calmed at once by a familiar voice. He patted her in a daze, noting his own black lambskin still in place, just as he’d fastened it himself. She was a Russian horse, but they’d ridden together through the fire of the charge, there was a bond between them, and when he’d called her, she’d come.
His hand froze on her bridle. When he’d called her, she’d come.
‘Ryder?’ Oliver was beside him, holding the grey’s bridle with shy pride. ‘Are you all right?’
He grinned in sudden exaltation. ‘Come on, Poll, let’s get the beasts seen to, then it’s time to open the champagne.’
Oliver’s smile echoed his, but without understanding. ‘Because … ?’
‘Because Bloomer’s right,’ he said. ‘Because we’ve got to catch this bastard, and I know just how we’re going to do it.’
20
28 October to 5 November 1854
Ryder’s boots crunched in the morning frost as he tramped down the track for Kadikoi. The last time he’d walked this road the wind had been howling, his back had been bleeding, and a cavalryman who’d never fought a battle had toiled at his side. Now the air was still and cold, the stripes on his back were healed by the three on his sleeve, and he walked with only the invisible company of an agent of Mr Calvert who was watching him all the way.
It was all Doherty’s doing. He’d checked everything, he’d even had a quiet word with Sally, but it was he himself who’d provided the final proof. The ADC who accompanied them on patrol that day had given his name as Major Soames, and Doherty had only to ask General Airey to find no such man existed. He was red-faced with fury when he told Ryder about it, and tugged his beard hard enough to pull it out, but all he could say was, ‘It’s got to stop, my boy. Whatever you like, just make it stop.’
Nothing had been too much trouble for him. He’d briefed Calvert himself, he’d let Grainger into his confidence so Ryder was released from duty when he needed it, and he’d even told Jarvis enough to stop him interfering. He couldn’t clear Ryder publicly, the affair still had to be secret for the sake of morale, but everyone knew he was admitted to Doherty whenever he chose, and no one was surprised when he appeared with his brand-new sergeant’s stripes. It was the highest honour in the Old Man’s gift, and if it couldn’t take away Ryder’s scars it was still more than he could ever have dreamed of before.
But not quite. What he really wanted was the man who’d caused all this in the first place, and at last they stood a chance of getting him. The mysterious Mr Calvert had issued a few words of command, the entire Turkish sick camp had been moved, and the well at Kadikoi was once more open for
business. Doherty wasn’t sure Angelo would bother to check it, but Ryder had no such doubts. The thing had been blocked for near three weeks, they could have found out anything in that time, and of course the bastard would want to know. Not to check would be like playing biritch without looking to see what was in dummy’s hand, and this man was a far better player than that.
Better than himself, probably. He’d spent hours crafting the letter, enough to draw him, not enough to scare him, it had to be a queen to finesse the king. At last he’d written only Must see you. I learned something at Sebastopol and am very confused. I must go to my officers but will wait a week in the hope of hearing from you first. Angelo wouldn’t dare let it go, the queen might be a trick-winner if Ryder had evidence sufficiently dangerous, he’d have to cover it with the king – and then Calvert would take it with his ace.
Here was the field, and there was the well. He wondered if Angelo had noticed it was clear yet. He wondered if he was watching now. Ryder was taking no chances, which was why he was delivering the message himself and alone. He folded the paper small, groped to find the gap behind the rafters under the little tiled canopy, and slid the letter inside. There was his bid. No trumps, he was calling ‘biritch’, just two men and their cards and their skill. ‘Come on then, you bastard,’ he whispered. ‘Just you and me. Let’s play.’
Sally watched him every day. Every morning she walked the Kadikoi gorge on her way to Balaklava, and every morning he was walking back from the well with slumped shoulders and a look of sulky determination that told her at once there was no answer.
Jarvis watched him too, and in a way that frightened her. He hardly ever drank, he kept himself clean and steady for the army, but the day he learned of Ryder’s promotion he threw back the rum till it sweated from the pores of his skin. ‘You know how long it took me to make sergeant, Sal?’ he said as she cleaned the vomit from his new coat. ‘Eleven years. Eleven years of never putting a single foot wrong. Ryder doesn’t give a whore’s tit for the army, he’s only in it for himself, and the cocky little shit gets it in less than two.’
‘It’s war, Jarvis,’ she said, wiping his face and thanking God his wound still kept him off duty. ‘Promotion comes quick when men die, you’ve always said so.’
‘Dead men’s boots,’ he said, and laughed as if were funny. ‘But there’s better men could have had it, corporals high on the list. This is for some stupid story about a spy.’
‘But it’s important, isn’t it? That they catch him?’ She reached for his cheek again, but he’d pulled right back and was looking at her as if she were dangerous.
‘What do you know about it? What’s it got to do with you?’
She hesitated, but there could be no harm in it now. Colonel Doherty had told him the most important things, and he should be allowed to know as much as his own wife. So she told him what had happened at Kamara, then put away her basin and started to make tea.
He looked at her with unfocussed eyes. ‘You expect me to believe it was you who listened to those spies? That whole ridiculous story?’
‘Of course,’ she said, wishing the water would boil and she could get some tea down him. ‘You believe Colonel Doherty, don’t you? You know it happened, why shouldn’t you believe I was there?’
He made a spitting noise and glared at the fire. ‘I bloody know you were there. I checked at the hospital, didn’t I? I know you sneaked out to meet a private soldier of my own troop. Doesn’t mean you were out hunting spies, does it? Doesn’t have to mean that at all.’
She stared at him in consternation. ‘Oh, Ned. You’ve been thinking … All this time you’ve been … Oh, my love, why didn’t you tell me?’
He turned his head sideways to look at her. Sometimes he was angry if she said ‘my love’ in public, but his eyes were only sad. ‘Why didn’t you tell me, Sally? Sneaking round behind my back.’
She felt his unhappiness like a blow. ‘You wouldn’t have let me go. And if I’d told you afterwards, what would you have thought then?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘But you’re kind that way, Sal, you’re a fool, always have been. You’d tell a lie to help a presentable lad out of a hole.’
‘Kind’s not stupid,’ she said. The water was ready, and she breathed in the tea smell as she poured into the pot. It was the third time for these leaves, they wouldn’t take a fourth, but if she mashed them well it would still be a decent brew. ‘I did it because it was important, and it is important, Colonel Doherty says so.’
‘Doherty,’ he said, and the sneer was back in his voice. ‘Doherty’s got himself a nice new pet now, hasn’t he? Sergeant Ryder can do what he likes, go where he likes, Sergeant Ryder can do no fucking wrong.’
She wondered how to comfort him. ‘It’s only until Ryder catches the spy. That’s what he’s doing, he says the spy knows him and they’re going to lure him into a trap.’
His voice sounded thick, and she hoped he wouldn’t be sick again. ‘He knows him. What – by name?’
‘That’s right,’ she said, stirring the pot vigorously. ‘He knows Ryder’s after him, and we’re hoping he’ll want to stop him.’
He was silent. She looked up sharply, but he was still conscious, just sitting staring at nothing. ‘Ned?’
After a moment he laughed, a terrible unhappy sound that confused her with tenderness. ‘Tell me, Sal. Is there anyone in the whole fucking Crimea who hasn’t made a fool out of me?’
She reached out, but he grunted angrily and struck her hands away. Touching was for night under the blanket when he couldn’t sleep, not here in the open where someone might see. She said ‘Who? Who’s been … ?’
‘Oh … no one,’ he said, hunching himself up aggressively. ‘Everyone. My own wife to know more than a sergeant-major in the 13th Light Dragoons.’
She was sure he’d meant something else, but he was too drunk to make sense. She poured the tea and hoped he’d stay awake long enough to drink it.
‘Not my fault, was it?’ he said to his boots. ‘I did my best. All I’ve ever done is do my best.’
She held out the tea, but he didn’t take it. He didn’t even seem to see it.
‘Makes no difference anyway,’ he said. ‘Deserved it, didn’t he, the cocky little shit? Look at him now, always needling me, making people laugh. Oh, you just wait till this is over, Sal. You just wait.’
She offered the tea again, but he was collapsing slowly on his side and after a moment he began to snore.
She fetched his blanket, tucked it round him, and sat to drink the tea herself. ‘When this is over,’ he said, but it hadn’t really started, and she was beginning to be afraid. The spy simply had to be caught before another battle came, and when she looked across at the Russian fires in the redoubts she knew it couldn’t be long.
They were so close now! They would only need minutes to bring their cannon in range of Kadikoi. The British base was so small and vulnerable, and all but cut off from their siege lines now the Russians controlled the Woronzoff. The Col was open, but it was a longer route, and reinforcements could never move between their two forces in time. Cavalry could do it, of course, but there weren’t many left of them, not now. There weren’t many left of any of them. Cholera, the Alma, the disaster in the North Valley, people said the whole British force was down to about sixteen thousand men. They could hardly resist a determined attack as it was, and the spy in their midst would be the end of them.
She wasn’t alone in her fears. A few days later the dawn patrol reported a large force heading south for Sebastopol, and there wasn’t a man in the camp who didn’t know what that meant. ‘That’s it, then, isn’t it?’ said Jordan, looking out towards the Russian-held redoubts. ‘They’re reinforced, they’ve got enough to attack. Domino, chum. We’re finished.’
Finished. The morning was grey with rain, but Sally hardly noticed it as she set off for Balaklava. Jordan was right. She was only a woman, she knew nothing about the campaign and less about the war, but she knew a Br
itish army was about to be slaughtered thousands of miles from support and home.
She was nearing the turn to the field when she saw Ryder coming back from the well. They couldn’t talk, of course, this Angelo might be watching, but she wiped the rain from her face and managed to give him a smile of encouragement.
And Ryder smiled back, a real, proper smile that made him look ten years old. They passed with three feet between them but she heard his whisper and it lifted her heart. ‘Got him, Sal,’ he said, and his eyes blazed with a hope she hadn’t seen since they landed in this terrible country. ‘He’s answered, he wants a meeting, and we’ve bloody got him.’
He was a good player, this Angelo. He’d set the rendezvous for midnight by the windmill and ordered Ryder to come alone. It was true the Chersonese Uplands had plenty of cover and darkness would make Calvert’s men even easier to hide, but success at biritch was down to counting losing cards rather than winning ones, and Ryder couldn’t afford to hold any at all. A major Russian attack was inevitable now, and there would be no second chance.
Oliver obviously felt the same. He was grave all evening, and Ryder had an uneasy feeling he was doing a lot of praying. When it was time to leave he lent Ryder his cloak and said, ‘You’re going to be a hero, do you know that? It’s what we all dream of.’
Ryder could guess at least one man who did. ‘What’s a hero, Polly? How do you know when you are one?’
Oliver considered. ‘Well … You might get a medal.’
He was a good kid, and Ryder only wished he had a better army. ‘Medals are for officers. All you or I will get is a campaign medal that says we were there. We’ll probably get one for the bloody Alma.’
‘There are other things,’ said Oliver. ‘Your name being read out at school. A plaque in the chapel. Something in the newspapers. I’ve a sister at home, she’d like that.’
‘Well, I haven’t,’ said Ryder. ‘And you don’t get mentions for playing cards.’
They shook hands solemnly, then Oliver muttered, ‘God bless you, Harry,’ and stumbled back into the tent.