The Cossack reached for his sword just as Logan turned back to see what was happening. Both men hesitated; Logan stepped forward, and the Cossack released the hilt of his sword and stepped back, jerking his head toward the street outside.
'Here,' Logan thundered, 'you're the Russian fellow that Snoddie was going to leave.' He held out his hand, as to an old friend. 'Glad you got back safely.'
Jack watched in bewilderment as the Cossack shook Logan's hand. He waited for an instant to hustle the last of his men outside and banged shut the door in case the Russian changed his mind.
'You're a lucky man, Logan,' he said. Will I ever understand these men of the 113th?
Logan nodded down to his right sleeve. 'It's all right, sir. I knew what I was doing.' He flicked his wrist, and a khanjali dropped into his hand. 'I got that off one of they Cossack fellows, sir. If he had been unfriendly…'
'Well done, Logan.' No, I never will understand these men. Maybe that's a good thing.
Maxwell stopped them immediately outside the building, and Jack looked around. They were in a broad street jostling with people, grey-coated soldiers marching past in columns, groups of black-clad sailors with their distinctive swaying gait, and bodies of horsemen, Cossack or hussars, as well as slow moving carts, piled with barrels of gunpowder or cannonballs. As they watched, a long line of horses pulled green field artillery pieces with one gunner casually puffing at his pipe as he sat on a wagon of ammunition. Next came five officious looking men who may have been low-level staff officers and finally a droshky, the heavy four-wheeled Russian carriage, which was forced to stop as a slow-moving column of infantry blocked the road.
Watching everything was a scattering of civilians, moujik's selling hot drinks, colourfully dressed women offering rolls and milk to the passing infantrymen and some younger girls cheering the marching troops and being soundly kissed in return as the Russian officers ignored such indiscipline.
'They don't look all that different from us,' Riley observed.
'Maybe not from you, Riley,' Coleman said, 'I always thought you were half foreign anyway.'
'Mind your bloody mouth,' Logan snarled. 'You look more like a bloody Cossacks than the Cossacks do in that coat.'
'And you?' Coleman gave a brief laugh. 'You're a Sawney bastard; more foreign than all these Ruskies, you bloody savage.'
Ignoring the by-play as the habitual banter of British soldiers, Jack noticed that Maxwell was watching everything with intense interest.
'Something's happening,' Maxwell said. 'This is not just normal troop movement. These men are moving far too purposefully for that. Look at their faces; they are grim, not merely men moving from one barrack to another.'
'Maybe we've broken in, sir?' Jack asked hopefully.
'I can't hear gunfire,' Maxwell said. 'Except for the usual desultory stuff. If there were a battle that would be all we would hear. No; there is something else. I think these boys are marching to a battle that hasn't started yet.'
'Do you think they are going to sortie against us?' Jack asked. 'If the garrison came out and these Russian generals out there in the interior, Menshikov and Liprandi attack at the same time we would be caught between two fires.'
'We would be in a position of serious difficulty,' Maxwell glanced at him. 'That is possible. In the meantime, our duty is to get out. By the way, I never got the chance to thank you for rescuing me, Windrush.'
'It was just my duty, sir.'
Maxwell looked away with a small smile on his face. 'Oh, was that what it was. Now, here's our opportunity to get out of here, if your nerve holds, Windrush.' He nodded, 'the general has left his droshky.'
For a second Jack was perplexed, and then he realised that the general had left his carriage to try and force his way through the column of infantry.
'It's open sir; they'll see that most of us are wearing British uniforms.'
'There's nothing like a bit of bluff and rank pulling to make people do as you wish,' Maxwell seemed to be enjoying the situation. He shouted in Russian and ushered everybody into the droshky, where they had to squeeze together in a great huddle. 'Act like a guard!' Maxwell hissed so Jack looked as menacing as he could.
As the British clambered on board, the driver looked around in surprise. Maxwell shouted at him, grabbed him by the lapels of his coat and threw him off the driving seat. Grabbing hold of the reins himself, he guided the droshky in a half circle past the strangely apathetic crowd, so it was heading the opposite direction.
'If we did that in Britain the people would be clamouring to find out what was happening,' Jack said, wonderingly.
'This is Russia,' Maxwell said. 'They are different to us. They're used to obeying authority without question. Now sit tight,' Maxwell flicked the reins, giving the horse a hearty crack that set him trotting down the street. Soldiers and civilians scattered before him as he raced along with Jack trying to look important.
'Stop grinning, Riley: and the rest of you, look like dejected prisoners, not mill-workers on a trip!' Jack snatched at the side of the droshky as they swayed alarmingly.
The guns started again. Jack heard the rumble like distant thunder, and then the individual barks of cannon and rolling volleys of infantry fire.
'The boys are fighting,' Logan said.
'Here we go,' Maxwell spoke over his shoulder. All at once Jack realised that the happy-go-lucky attitude was only a pose. Maxwell's eyes were as level and hard as any he had ever seen. Rather than some man acting out his boyhood, Maxwell was living on a very precarious edge between life and death. He was no mere regimental officer captured by chance and escaping with luck, but somebody far more dangerous.
Who and what the devil are you, Colonel Maxwell?
Jack did not know where they were; he only knew that they were passing through an area of Sebastopol that had been under bombardment. There were damaged gun caissons, the barrel of a cannon that had split under fire, a thin trail of wounded men limping past, troops of haggard looking horsemen and a waggon packed with bodies trailing an ominous thread of blood.
'Duck down,' Jack ordered his men. 'We won't be popular with all these wounded Russians.' He heard Maxwell shouting in Russian and saw the droshky swerve to avoid another waggon, and then they were squeezing through a deep gateway where guards jumped to attention, and passing earthworks crowded with soldiers. Jack had time to see bearded and moustached artillerymen peered outward and piles of cannonballs waited to be fired at the British lines. Except for the uniforms, they looked the mirror image of their compatriots on the Allied side.
Sentries stared or saluted, officers stepped aside, and a body of cavalry split smartly into two lines so the droshky could pass through. Maxwell acknowledged their salutes with all the arrogance of a senior officer, cracked the reins on the rump of the horse and powered on, through the Russian lines and into a bank of smoke. There was the sound of gunfire ahead and a block of stolidly marching Russian infantry. The cheering from ahead was undoubtedly Russian.
'Oh dear God,' Maxwell hauled on the reins. 'What the deuce is happening here?'
Chapter Fifteen
Balaklava
25th October 1854
The ear-battering batter of a volley of cannon shook the air around them, followed by another, and then another. The infantry marched on, grey coats seemingly constricting, eyes fixed ahead.
'We're entering a battle,' Jack shouted above the noise. 'From the Russian side.'
Maxwell flicked the reins again, pulled the droshky aside and headed for the meagre shelter of a dip beside the road. The vehicle creaked and jolted over the rough ground, with the horse straining with the extra weight it had to pull.
'This beast won't last much longer,' Maxwell said. When he looked at Jack, even his ready smile appeared forced. 'I had hoped to race across the space between Sebastopol and our lines and hope for luck to protect us, but it appears that the Russians have mounted an attack. Do you know where we are?'
'No, sir,' Jack said. 'I
am not sure at all.'
'We are about a quarter of a mile behind the Russian front line.' Maxwell explained. 'Over to our right is the escarpment of Sapoune Ridge.' He pointed. 'That holds three roads including that which passes our port of Balaklava. You will know it as the Woronzov Road, and it's called that because the estates of Count Woronzov lie across it: not that you care a two-penny damn about that. What is more important, and as you are aware, it dips and then rises to the Causeway Heights, with the North Valley on one side and the South Valley on the other.'
'Yes, sir,' Jack nodded.
'As you know, we have gun emplacements along the Causeway Heights as part of the outer defences of Balaklava.' Maxwell said. 'And Balaklava is vital to our army as all our supplies land there. It appears that the Russians are trying to capture or cut our supply line. If Balaklava falls, then we cannot remain here; the Russians have won.'
'Yes, sir,' Jack realised that Maxwell's attitude had altered entirely; he was deadly serious. The contrast emphasised how much danger they were in.
'Beyond the Causeway Heights and to the north of Balaklava is the village of Kadikoi,' Maxwell continued, 'you will have passed through it as you travelled from the port to the siege lines around Sebastopol.'
Jack nodded. The last time I passed that way I was coming back from meeting Helen and what a fudge that turned out. 'It is a nothing sort of place sir,' he said.
'It is a nothing place yet it is also the key to the defence of Balaklava, and so the lynchpin of this whole war.' Although Maxwell was calm, the tension in his voice was evident.
Jack nodded, trying to build up a map of the area in his head. As a junior officer, his day-to-day world did not extend to such things. He was aware of the position of his men, and how to get them fed, he worried about their health and any casualties, and he was mindful of any Russians in his immediate vicinity. The larger picture he left to men of far higher rank than he had although he had spent many hours trying to study military theory when his duties permitted.
'Have you got that?' Maxwell asked.
'Yes, sir,' Jack said.
'Good, now this ridge,' Maxwell indicated the bleak, bare undulating area on which they stood, 'is known as the Fedioukine Hills. 'As you see, the Russians have occupied them. Over there,' he pointed to the Causeway Heights and the Woronzov Road, 'is our front line. That's where we have our artillery positions, manned by the Turks, and that is where I had hoped to go.'
'I see sir,' Jack said.
'Aye,' Maxwell took a deep breath. 'Unfortunately, it seems that the Russians have got there first. They have found the weakest point in our positions, which are strong nowhere, and it looks as if they are probing hard. I doubt the Turks will hold for long; they may already have broken.' He looked over his shoulder. 'You men: is there a telescope in the carriage? A senior officer may have one.'
'Come on lads! Give it over!' Jack knew his men too well; they would have lifted everything of value within seconds of entering the droshky.
Grinning without shame, Coleman produced a leather-bound case from beneath his tunic.
'Thank you,' Maxwell said dryly. 'We can't see much from here, Windrush. Follow me, and we'll see what progress General Liprandi is making.' Leaving the men in shelter and with orders to keep well out of sight, Maxwell took Jack to a small knoll where, still wearing their Cossack uniforms, they watched Liprandi's march to capture Balaklava.
Jack swallowed as he saw the Russian army uncoiling on its advance toward the terribly thin British defences. 'How many men do they have, sir?'
'As far as our intelligence reckons,' Maxwell said, 'they have around 22,000 infantry, 3,400 cavalry and 78 guns.' He handed over the telescope. 'Of course Lord Raglan does not believe in intelligence. He does not agree with using such ungentlemanly methods of warfare as spies so we must blunder in the dark, while the Russians read the Times and have their agents reporting all our movements.'
'Look,' Maxwell pointed to the Causeway Heights. 'As I thought, the Russians have already taken our gun positions on the Heights. That would be the firing we heard, and the cause of the wounded we saw. The Turks must have put up a fight: good for Johnny Turk!'
Jack scanned the area, noting the drifting smoke and watching the Russians moving seemingly lazily over the gun positions that were intended to defend Balaklava. He had a sudden image of Kutuzov and his Cossacks galloping into Balaklava, booting down the door of Helen's house, bursting in … oh dear God! Helen!
'Sir!' Jack spoke with new urgency. 'They are moving against Balaklava! Where are our men? I hope Lord Raglan knows what he is doing.'
Maxwell's look was not pleasant. 'Lord Raglan is a fool to his gentlemanly nature,' he said. 'He has divided the command to ensure that nobody's feelings are hurt.' He closed his mouth with a snap. 'I only hope that Campbell can rectify the situation.'
Jack decided it was best to say no more, despite the racing of his heart. He remembered Campbell as the craggy-faced Scotsman who had commanded the Highland Brigade with such skill at the Alma. If anybody can stop the Russians, Campbell can.
'Sir!' Jack pointed. Faint in the distance, he saw a mass of Russian cavalry head toward Balaklava. The Russians had already destroyed the outer line of British defences. If they captured Kadikoi, they would hold the lynchpin of the entire British Army and could take the port of Balaklava.
'What happens now will decide who wins this battle,' Maxwell said, 'and perhaps who wins this war.'
'Oh God!' Jack felt sick. 'I wish I was there to help!'
'Calm yourself, Windrush,' Maxwell said sternly. 'There is nothing we can do save watch.' He lowered his head and his voice. 'And perhaps pray, if you will. My wife is in Balaklava; and my daughter.'
That was a new side to the devil-may-care Colonel Maxwell. 'I know that sir.' Jack had seldom been more aware of anything in his life.
At first, there seemed nothing to stop the Russian advance. Campbell had withdrawn the single British defending regiment, the 93rd Sutherland Highlanders, and the Turks were broken. The Russian cavalry powered on, squadron after squadron of mounted men, the vanguard of tens of thousands of men intent on driving these invaders out of their sacred homeland.
'Have a look youngster,' Maxwell handed over his telescope. 'You are witnessing history in the making.'
'Thank you, sir.' With his heart heavy with the knowledge of impending defeat, Jack took the telescope and focussed on the Russians. All at once they leapt into his vision, tall men, blue or black-clad on large horses riding in perfect formation, side by side in great blocks and nothing before them except the bare slope. Once they took Kadikoi, they would debouch through the cutting and clatter through the streets of Balaklava, butchering everyone that stood in their path. Helen…
'Dear God!' Even as Jack looked a miracle occurred. A long double line of red-coated infantry appeared on the crest of the slight ridge in front of Kadikoi, flanked by a body of Turks on either side. 'It's the 93rd!' For a moment Jack saw the entire scene, the thin scarlet line of Scottish infantry, the shifting mass of Turks and the hundreds of Russian cavalry cantering toward them.
'There's Campbell now,' Maxwell sounded calm as if he had expected no less.
And then the situation altered. The Turks on either flank fired a single ragged volley and scattered to the rear, leaving the 93rd Highlanders isolated and unsupported against the advancing Russians. Jack knew that according to all the axioms of warfare, infantry not supported by artillery and with exposed flanks would be overrun by cavalry, but neither Campbell nor the 93rd Highlanders seemed to let that fact bother them.
'They're going to die where they stand,' Maxwell must have had extraordinary eyesight to watch the encounter from this distance, but Jack was so engrossed with the unfolding drama that he had no intention of relinquishing control of the telescope. He saw the spurts of smoke merging into a cloud of powder-smoke a second before he heard the high cracking of the Highlanders' volley. The Russian cavalry continued to advance.
The 93rd fired a second volley, this time backed by some British artillery that Jack heard but did not see. Rather than advance straight toward the thin red line, the Russians faltered, and the squadrons of cavalry veered smartly to the left.
'They're trying to turn Campbell's right flank,' Maxwell said. 'They would as well try and rake moonshine from a pond.'
Jack flinched as a shiver ran through the ranks of the 93rd as if they wished to charge the Russian cavalry but Campbell had them in hand. He ordered his grenadier company on the right to turn to meet this new perceived threat, and again the Highlanders fired a volley which took decisive effect on the Russian ranks. Jack saw cavalrymen reel in the saddle, with one man fall backwards across the rump of his horse. The horsemen immediately wheeled around and retreated over the causeway.
'Well done, Campbell,' Maxwell said quietly. 'We may have been witness to one of the decisive moments of the entire war. Three volleys that turned everything around.'
Jack nodded. His studies of military history and tactics had not included any encounter where infantry had fought off large numbers of cavalry without forming a defensive square.
'Now, more importantly,' Maxwell said, 'how are we going to get ourselves through the Russian lines and back to our men?' Taking back the telescope, he scanned the ground. 'I think the best way is to go westward around the Russian flank and try to get to the Sapoune Ridge; our cavalry still seems to be there, the Lights and Heavies. With Lord Raglan in charge anything could happen so we had better move quickly. Are you game?'
Jack nodded. Two nights without sleep added to the strain of skirmishes with the Russians and watching a battle were taking their toll. 'I am game, sir.'
'Get the men together. We'll have to go on foot. That Russian carriage will be too conspicuous in the middle of an army.'
It was nerve-wracking moving over that bare countryside, seeking what cover there was while formations of Russian troops marched or rode past them. There was the occasional sputter of gunfire, followed by periods of eerie silence when all they heard was gruff orders carried by the wind, the jingle of horses' bits or the rattle of equipment as a gun battery altered its position. As they moved over the undulating ground, they had brief visions of troop movements, and then they descended into hollows where they could see nothing at all.
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