by A L Berridge
‘They won’t get far,’ said the lance-corporal, lashing a giant handkerchief round his wounded ankle. ‘Look behind us, we’re not alone.’
Ryder knew it, he’d been hearing gunfire and the yelling of infantry for a long time, but now he found he could see it too. The fog was dissolving into floating ribbons, and all around him were little pockets of resistance, distant skirmishes, glimpses of individual heroism. Four linesmen were fighting through dozens of Russians to bring an ammunition mule to the Barrier, two NCOs bringing in a wounded officer in the face of a hail of fire from the Kitspur, and a bunch of Zouaves were charging up Home Ridge to beat off an attack on the British guns. Distant Shell Hill was a cloud of smoke and tumult of firing, the Sandbag Battery swarmed with bearskins as the Coldstream stormed it in triumph, Inkerman Tusk was bright with red-trousered Frenchmen, the Heights thundered with the ceaseless pounding of artillery, and away to their left was the constant crash of volley fire from the Barrier, that steady little wall that had stood hour after hour against numbers sometimes ten times greater than its own. This was the biggest battle Ryder had ever seen or heard of, and set beside it their own ragged action seemed suddenly very small.
But it wasn’t. Waves of Russians were still attacking them, and as he ran the line with the last of the cartridges he saw the same astonishing heroism right in front of him. Some had died for it, like Bloomer’s friend Morry who’d gone on crawling down the line with ammunition long after his foot was shot away. Others had no intention of dying, and when the Rangers’ guns were empty they simply hurled rocks and Irish curses instead, jeering at the Russians as they lured them onto their bayonets. A Scots Fusilier was using his rifle like a club, standing on a pile of dead Russians to smash down on the heads of their comrades below. A dark-haired young Frenchman was still firing, but he was standing forward to do it, covering the retreat of a blinded linesman who was being dragged to safety behind him. Bloomer was in his element, brawling joyously with fists and rifle butt, roaring like the terrifying and glorious bruiser he really was.
They were all heroes, every one of them, and as Ryder stooped to pick up a rifle his eyes blurred with a sheen of tears. The scale of the battle didn’t diminish what they were doing, it made them part of something huge and unbreakable. This was what an army really was, and why not even an incompetent commander could destroy it. This was why all the Angelos in the world would always fail in the end.
It was already happening, and the Russians to their front were beginning to waver and break away. Cheering drifted down from the Sandbag Battery, and all along the line men stepped back to take breath and look around them. Ryder called, ‘Reload while you can! Bloomer, get me a volunteer for an ammunition party!’ but the ground in front stayed empty and he became aware of a new quietness around him. There was less firing from the Barrier, it was lighter and more sporadic than it had been. The fighting round Shell Hill still sounded tremendous, but the weight of the battle was shifting away from them, moving north and back to the Russians.
His legs were trembling as he walked back to the left flank. Some of the men tried to cheer him, and the lance-corporal reached out to bang him agonizingly on the back, but it all seemed very far away, and he was seeing only that little huddled patch of dark blue lying still at the end of the line. This was Oliver’s triumph, and Ryder could only pray he’d lived long enough to know it.
He knelt down beside Oliver’s body. The eyes were closed, no awareness in him, but a tiny rise and fall of the chest told Ryder his friend had kept his end of the bargain. He should be dead, should have died hours ago, but somehow and impossibly Oliver had held on.
‘Good show,’ said a voice, and he looked up to see a mounted major of the 21st Fusiliers beaming down at him out of a smoke-blackened face. ‘Damned good show, and there’ll be something in it for you, I shouldn’t wonder. Give me your name, I’ll write to your officer.’
The irony twisted in his gut like a ball. A ‘mention’, no doubt, the glory Polly always wanted, but all the boy got for it was agony and at best a trip to the horror of Scutari. He took a deep breath and looked the officer square in the face.
‘Thank you, sir,’ he said politely. ‘The name’s Oliver. Charles Oliver, of the 13th Light Dragoons.’
24
7 November 1854
Ryder slung his boots in a corner of the tent and sat down heavily on the ground. The battle had dragged on into evening, there’d been a day and two nights of burying the dead, he was exhausted, filthy and unshaven, and every bit of him ached. Outside came the clatter of field kitchens, the voices and laughter of men cooking supper, but he wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and sleep.
At least there was room to stretch out. It wouldn’t last, someone would spot he’d a tent to himself and shove another load of smelly bodies into it, but for now he lay full length on his blanket and reached for the cloak to cover him. It was Polly’s, of course, his own gone long ago, but they’d put it round Mackenzie and it was all he’d found when he climbed back up the Kitspur. The Highlander was gone, and there was only Oliver’s cloak on the ground like a reminder of something that was over. The boy had been taken straight to the ships, he’d be on his way to the hellhole of Scutari, and all Ryder was left with was what had been in the tent: a bottle of brandy with maybe four nips in it, a box of cigars, and a battered pack of playing cards.
And that was maybe just as well. He’d always managed best alone, and as he lay in the dark he cursed himself for drifting into such a pitiful state of dependency. He’d been fine till he came to this miserable godforsaken country, spent three nights on a rain-sodden beach, and allowed himself the luxury of friends. That was a mistake in war. It was a mistake any time to get involved with someone you were bound to lose.
Sally was another, and the thought nearly made him reach for the brandy bottle. He’d known it was no good really, the ghost of Jarvis would always be between them, but he’d needed her so much, and more than ever now. He hadn’t pressured her, he’d been prepared to wait, but she hadn’t, she’d gone off this morning and shipped with the wounded to Scutari. He’d tried to tell her what he felt, but she’d only taken his face in her hands and said, ‘You’ve lost your companions and you need a friend. You’re a soldier who’s fought a hard battle and you need a woman. But one day you’re going to find you need more than that, and then you’ll go down on your knees to thank Sally Jarvis for saying no.’ That was one thing he wouldn’t miss about her, her ability to make him feel twelve years old.
The canvas rustled, and Jordan’s voice said, ‘Blimey, what are you doing in bed at this time? You’re not dead, are you?’
He gritted his teeth. ‘You will be if you don’t bugger off.’
‘Not me, Sergeant,’ said Jordan, sounding reproachful. ‘The Old Man wants you, I told his aide I’d dig you out.’
Ryder threw off the cloak, and saw Jordan gazing round the tent with envious eyes.
‘I say, this is a bit lonely, isn’t it? Would you like me and Trotter to –’
‘No,’ said Ryder, shoving on his boots. ‘I can think of nothing I’d like less.’
‘Charming,’ said Jordan, sticking his hands in his pockets. ‘Just thought you might like some company. I mean we all thought you and Mrs Jarvis …’
Ryder turned to stare at him. ‘What?’ he said softly. ‘What did you think, Jordan?’
Jordan’s hands crept out of his pockets and the smile slid off his face. ‘Nothing. Nothing, Sergeant, swear to God.’
‘Good.’ He groped for his shako and stooped for the tent flap, backing Jordan out as he went. ‘We wouldn’t want the wrong kind of news going on the telegraph, would we?’
‘Course not,’ said Jordan obediently, but as Ryder walked away he heard him mutter ‘Humourless bastard’. He grinned to himself, and felt better.
Doherty was in his tent, swathed in a greatcoat and muffler, but still looking stronger and more cheerful than when Ryder had last seen him. ‘Ah, Ry
der, at ease, just a quiet chat.’ He nodded to dismiss the aide, and Ryder realized they were to speak again in complete privacy.
‘Sir?’
‘All right, Harry,’ said Doherty, sitting back on his camp stool with an alarming creak. ‘Come to the point, what? Private Oliver. Sad business, all the rest of it, but I’ve had this letter, d’you see, and he’s to be recommended for a medal.’
Ryder couldn’t conceal his surprise. ‘Medal?’
‘Yes,’ said Doherty, searching vaguely among his papers. ‘May not happen, of course, it’s only planning at this stage, but Her Majesty’s considering a new medal to be awarded regardless of rank.’
About time. ‘I can’t think of anyone who deserves it more than Oliver, sir.’
‘I can,’ said Doherty, and looked up. ‘The letter describes him as a sergeant.’
Ryder thought fast – the fog, confusion of the moment, maybe a swap of jackets because Oliver was wounded – but when he looked into the patient shrewdness of the Old Man’s eyes he swallowed and said just ‘Sir’.
‘Quite,’ said Doherty. ‘Why’d you do it, hey? Don’t want the recognition – is that it?’
No, he just wanted it for Polly. He tried to explain how Oliver had always loved and believed in the army, how he’d trusted Ryder and pushed him into attempting things he’d never have tried for himself. He said, ‘Because he was the real hero, sir. If anything I’ve done has been of use then it was Polly Oliver who made me do it.’
Doherty listened with his head bowed, then sat back with a sigh. ‘All right, I’ll wink at it. The boy can have his medal – if he lives and there is one.’ He reached for a bottle of wine, and poured two generous glasses. ‘I don’t agree with you about him, mind. A fine soldier, a good man, but he’ll never make an officer. You, on the other hand, will.’
Ryder stared. ‘Sir?’
‘Do stop saying that,’ said Doherty irritably. ‘You sound like the village idiot. Sit on that box, have some wine, and try to have an intelligent conversation.’
Ryder sat abruptly. It was the same biscuit box he’d sat on before, that terrible night before the Alma.
‘Don’t think I’m doing you any favours,’ warned Doherty. ‘We lost damn near forty officers at Inkerman alone, and Lord Raglan’s asked every regiment to make up one of its sergeants. You’re the obvious choice, that’s all, and we both know why.’
He sipped the wine and let his mind clear. ‘I can’t afford it, sir. The uniform, the equipments …’
‘Taken care of,’ said Doherty. ‘I can authorize the money, I’ve done it before. It’s the rest that’s the hard part, Harry, trying to fit in out of the ranks. I’m thinking you might do better with a fresh start. Another regiment. Where there’s been no unpleasantness.’
The flogging, of course. No man could be asked to respect an officer they’d seen flogged. Ryder stared at his glass and felt his cheeks burn.
‘It would mean infantry, I’m afraid,’ said Doherty. ‘But their need’s greater than ours, and of course you have the right experience. Besides, this chap Calvert wants you.’
He suppressed the urge to say ‘Sir?’
‘Yes,’ said Doherty, as if he’d said it anyway. ‘He thinks there’s more to Intelligence than just catching the odd spy. This Shepherd of yours, for instance, chap who owns the house in Kamara. Him and his Bulgarians. The Russians are thinking bigger and Calvert says we need to do the same.’
Ryder stirred uncomfortably. ‘I’m not a policeman, sir.’
‘Not what Calvert wants,’ said Doherty. ‘He thinks this is a different kind of war, one where we need to stop following the Russkies and come up with a few new things ourselves. Says we need more men like Goodlake and his sharpshooters, like you and your friends, men prepared to work on their own initiative and hit the enemy in unconventional ways. He wants a unit of such men and he wants you to lead it. What d’you say?’
His own unit, unhampered by line officers, able to carry out his own plans without interference. For the first time since the battle he felt a tingle of returning excitement, a sense of a future and a place for himself in this war. ‘I say yes, sir. Yes, and thank you very much.’
Doherty sat back with a pleased grunt. ‘Good. I’ll miss you, my boy, won’t say I won’t, but it’s a first step to getting you back where you belong. Going to use your own name, hey?’
He didn’t hesitate. ‘Not till I’ve earned it by clearing my father’s. I’ll do it one day, sir, but till then I’m Harry Ryder.’
Doherty considered, then bowed his head. ‘Well, maybe some sense in it. Don’t want your father’s name associated with that … other business, do we, hey?’ He finished his drink and stood in dismissal. ‘We need to assign you a regiment and Calvert will want your advice in choosing the men, but otherwise it’s official from now. It’s your last night of freedom, Ensign Ryder, and if I were you I’d enjoy it.’
He didn’t think there was much chance of that. The men were relaxing as he walked back through the dusk, eating, drinking, playing cards and dominoes, but he’d done with all that anyway. He wouldn’t miss the regiment, he had no friends left in it, and tomorrow he’d stand no chance of making any. Doherty was right, an officer had to be free of personal entanglements.
He’d like to be free of personal history too, but some of it was engraved on his back. ‘That other business,’ Doherty had said; ‘any unpleasantness’. That was something else he’d need to hide if he was to have a bearable life in an officers’ mess. More secrets, more lies, and back to not trusting anyone at all.
The grass was already frosting in the night air. The cold suited his mood, and when he saw some bastard had lit a fire right outside his tent he was almost glad of the excuse for a row. But it wasn’t Jordan, the man bending over a simmering camp kettle was a red-trousered Frenchman, and next to him was the bulging shape of Bloomer, curled up before the flames like a fat-bodied spider. ‘Evening, cock,’ he said, grinning from a mouth that seemed to have lost three front teeth. ‘We was wondering when you’d turn up.’
‘Bloomer,’ said Ryder feebly, but a third man was turning from the shadows, and he didn’t need to see the kilt and bonnet to recognize Mackenzie. He had a bandage round his leg, another round his middle, a third round his wrist, and the trail of a fourth protruding from under his bonnet, but the sight of him dissolved the last of Ryder’s anger in a smile that made his cheeks ache.
‘Bloody hell,’ he said. ‘You look like a badly wrapped parcel.’
Mackenzie looked at the bandages as if he’d forgotten they were there. ‘Aye, well, I’d a few wee holes in me, but they’re healing fine. Yourself?’
There was no simple answer to that. ‘You must all have a drink. Polly’s gone to Scutari, but he left the bottle, he’d want us to have it. I’ve some coffee somewhere too.’
‘We found it,’ said Bloomer with cheerful amorality. ‘And your mug, we’re nearly ready. Bert’s doing the brew, he says he’s a proper dab at it.’
Ryder looked doubtfully at their companion, and recognized the dark-haired Frenchman who’d helped the blinded soldier at Inkerman. ‘Bert?’
The Frenchman shrugged amiably. ‘Albert. But the Bloomer says no English person can say it, so I am happy to be Bert.’
‘So you should be,’ said Bloomer severely. ‘Good British name. Now hurry up with that coffee, I heard some cove mention brandy.’
Ryder ducked back into his tent to fetch the bottle. He’d have to tell them, it wouldn’t be fair otherwise, but there couldn’t be any harm in one last night of company. After tomorrow he wouldn’t be seeing any of them again.
He stood a moment, listening to the banter outside and feeling the familiar roundness of the bottle in his hand. Maybe it didn’t have to be that way. Doherty said he could choose his unit, and he was going to need NCOs. Who better for an unconventional scrap than Bloomer? Who better to have by his side than the steady, reliable Highlander with the fighting spirit of a berserker Viki
ng? Maybe one day there’d even be another, a young idealistic cavalryman who’d survived through one of the longest, bloodiest battles there’d ever been, and might even survive the horror of Scutari.
On sudden impulse he stooped to pick up the cards. Why not? They were four, weren’t they? It was dark in the tent, but he could picture the box as clearly as if it were bright day. A Light Dragoon called Stokes had brought them out brand new from England, shiny, colourful, and full of hope, and passed them on to a charity boy called Oliver who’d been his friend. Oliver had chosen to share them with the bitter, sharp-tongued corporal who’d never done a thing to deserve it, and as he slipped the box into his pocket he knew finally that he was grateful. For this, and for all of it.
He stepped out into the firelight. Four steaming mugs were immediately thrust at him, and he crouched to divide the brandy equitably between them. They clinked together, drank and sighed pleasurably, then he put down his mug and produced the cards.
‘Ah,’ said Mackenzie, straightening with enthusiasm.
‘Ah,’ said Bloomer, whipping out a pad and pencil stub.
‘Ah,’ said the Frenchman. ‘I have heard. We do not have this game in France, but perhaps you can teach me.’
He’d learn, just as they had, and Ryder let Bloomer explain as he began to deal. He watched himself doing it, one, two, three, four, the movement as natural as it had ever been, his hands building shape into the world with the dealing of a pack of cards.
Epilogue
The world was a floor that moved, walls that creaked, and the moans of the soldier next to him who’d waited nearly two days for a doctor to look at his shattered jaw. The world smelled of blood and sounded like men crying, but Oliver knew it was hell and put it aside. He lived in his own head, and it was quiet there, it felt like school after lights-out and the only thing to fear was whether he could construe well enough in the morning.