Soldiers in the Mist

by Garry Douglas Kilworth

  It was a simple action, but his heart was hammering in his chest. The Tranter felt like a ton weight in his right hand. He used the trigger under the guard to cock the weapon. In the silence of the hills the metallic click seemed loud and intrusive. Crossman winced. A quick glance at the oncoming man, however, told him that the sound had not been heard.

  Feet crunched on gravel and shale, coming closer and closer. An elongated shadow stretched into view at Crossman’s feet. Suddenly, the man was there. Crossman stepped out quickly, his arm outstretched. He pointed the muzzle of the revolver at the side of the man’s head. In that second the other turned his face, startled, suddenly aware of Crossman’s presence. There was an expression of puzzlement on the man’s features.

  Crossman began to squeeze the trigger, but at the last instant relaxed.

  The face before him, albeit hidden under a layer of grime, belonged unmistakably to Lieutenant Dalton-James.

  ‘Sergeant Crossman?’ cried the lieutenant, his eyes full of surprise, ‘what are you doing?’

  Dalton-James was the traitor. Dressed in the clothes of a Tartar, his face purposefully dirtied under a filthy fur-lined leather hat with earflaps, he had a waterproof envelope beneath his arm which probably contained the papers he was about to sell to the enemy. The lieutenant looked every inch the spy and traitor he obviously was. It was difficult to believe that such a man, from a good family, would betray his country, his queen, and his friends, but such seemed the case.

  Crossman tried to squeeze the trigger again. He found it impossible. His finger had frozen. He could not assassinate the lieutenant in cold blood. The trigger might have been welded to the pistol. His finger might have been made of granite. He let out a sob of frustration, angered by his own ineptitude.

  Unable to do the deed at that moment, Crossman vowed to himself he would do it later. He had to talk to the man. Find out why he was selling his soul. Perhaps Crossman could build up enough courage to kill him later. After some sort of trial at least. Even if he had to be the judge and jury all rolled into one.

  ‘Move!’ he said, prodding the officer. ‘Up the slope. Quickly. I swear if someone comes out of that farm and catches us I’ll shoot you dead where you stand.’

  If Dalton-James had been about to protest, there was something in Crossman’s expression which prevented the words coming from his mouth. He certainly looked outraged, but held his tongue. The lieutenant allowed himself to be prodded up the slope, away from the farm. Crossman hurried his prisoner over the ridge on a goat track which was hidden from the farm’s view. Whenever Dalton-James opened his mouth, Crossman warned him to save his breath and keep walking.

  ‘How dare you! How dare you! You will suffer for this, sergeant,’ snarled the lieutenant. ‘I’ll see you broken on the wheel. I’ll have you flayed until you bleed.’

  If it was acting, Dalton-James was good at it. His sense of drama was perfect. The officer seemed so incensed he kept tripping over his own feet in frustration, but Crossman merely kicked him on with his right boot, anxious to put some distance between the farm and himself. When Dalton-James turned to protest at what he considered to be disgraceful treatment, the taller and stronger Crossman grabbed him by the back of his collar and literally manhandled him up a gradient.

  Finally the lieutenant could take no more of Crossman’s bullying, and with a cry he reached into his pocket for his own revolver. Crossman brought the barrel of the Tranter savagely down on the man’s wrist, hearing the bone crack. Dalton-James let out a sob of pain and dropped his gun. Crossman picked it up and put it in his own pocket.

  Dalton-James stared into the sergeant’s eyes. For the first time he seemed to realise he was in serious trouble. He held his broken wrist and stumbled on white-faced in front of Crossman, who prodded his back.

  Finally, they reached a spot where Crossman felt it safe to stop, in amongst a covering spinney.

  ‘My arm-bone is fractured,’ complained Dalton-James. ‘It needs attention.’

  ‘You won’t be worrying about the pain for very much longer,’ replied Crossman. ‘Just tell me why you did it. Why did you turn traitor? You know I have orders to kill you? I should have done it back there, but I was shocked to find it was you selling secrets to the enemy. Tell me, and then we’ll get it over with quickly. It’s no use pleading – there can be no other way.’

  Dalton-James blanched even more at these words, the blood draining from his face.

  ‘I’m no traitor,’ he said, in an obstinate tone. ‘I’m following orders too.’

  Crossman reached forward and snatched the oilskin envelope from under the lieutenant’s arm. He opened it, keeping a wary eye on his prisoner. Inside the envelope there were drawings of British and French positions along the siege line. Crossman held one up so that the lieutenant could see it.

  ‘What’s this, sir?’ he asked. ‘A plan of a child’s nursery?’

  Dalton-James peered at the sketch. ‘Don’t be facetious, sergeant. You know what it is. My orders were to deliver this package to a lieutenant-general of the Sardinian forces, who has landed secretly in the Crimea. The Sardinian Bersaglieri, don’t you know, are considering joining the allies in their fight against Russian expansion. The general wishes to assess the situation before committing his own army to the cause.’

  Crossman considered this explanation, seeing how flimsy it was when held up to inspection.

  ‘Why would a Sardinian general want our troop positions at this point in time? Surely if he was considering joining us he would take a ship to Balaclava and see the position for himself? He would not land at some other port and then hide in a farm in what is effectively enemy territory.’

  ‘These are not questions I have the authority, nor even the knowledge, to answer. I am merely a courier. I have been given my orders by a senior officer. The explanations which lie behind these devious schemes are unknown to me. You and I are part of a complex espionage network created by Major Lovelace under General Buller’s orders. We do not question. We merely obey orders and leave the complicated machinations to those above us.’

  Crossman became irritated with the lieutenant.

  ‘Are you telling me, sir, that you obey orders without considering their implication?’

  ‘It is a soldier’s duty.’

  Crossman said drily, ‘The Light Brigade can attest to that.’

  ‘Mistakes will happen. That is inevitable,’ said Dalton-James, rubbing his now swollen wrist. ‘I do not understand how you, a common soldier, can consider questioning the wisdom of our superiors, while I – a commissioned officer – am willing to die without lengthy enquiries as to the nature of the intelligence of our orders. I am proud to serve without question. I cannot live in distrust of those whose acumen I admire. We neither of us understand the other, sergeant, and that is a fact.’

  Crossman realised this was quite true. He knew he was unusual in the army, for being a sceptic. It was probably down to the fact that he had grown up with a father who he considered to be infallible, and had found out quite suddenly later that his hero was a blackguard. That sort of shock tends to turn a man into a sceptic: into a man who questions authority at every turn.

  ‘Who is the senior officer who ordered you to take this envelope to the farm?’

  Dalton-James lifted his head, his expression defiant.

  ‘That I would not tell you if you broke my other wrist and my legs too. I am under an obligation to keep the officer’s name in complete confidence.’

  ‘Was it Major Lovelace?’

  ‘I cannot say.’

  ‘General Buller?’

  ‘I refuse to say.’

  ‘You, sir,’ cried Crossman, angrily, ‘are a blamed fool.’

  Dalton-James’s head came up and some of the old fire of his prejudices and bigotry entered his voice.

  ‘How dare you? I will not be insulted by a common sergeant from the ranks. If you are here to murder me, do so now. Shoot me and have done with it. But I will hear no mo
re of your abuse. It offends my dignity to speak with you further.’

  ‘Fair enough. I hope you realise it was Major Lovelace who ordered your assassination. I am merely the executioner. I think you are entitled to know that your judge and jury was he. You may go to your death cursing his name if you wish.’

  Dalton-James stared in disbelief.

  ‘Lovelace? No, you are lying, sergeant.’

  ‘I was told to wait at Mackenzies Farm for a traitor and to execute him. No name. Just a man delivering secrets to enemy agents at the farm. You are he. Major Lovelace’s orders, I’m afraid, and according to you I should obey without question.’

  For the second time Crossman raised his revolver to the head of the officer he had despised long before he had discovered he was a traitor. Dalton-James’s eyes widened and his lips began to move as if in silent prayer. Crossman’s hand started to shake as he squeezed on the trigger. Finally, he let his arm fall to his side without firing. He cursed out loud.

  ‘Damn you! I can’t do it. I’m a bloody failure as an assassin. I’m too bloody soft.’

  Dalton-James’s legs gave way and he sank to his knees, the sweat shining on his brow.

  He said in a choked voice, ‘Forgive me for saying so, sergeant, but right at this moment I’m of the opinion that such a feeling does you credit.’

  Crossman allowed the man before him some time to gather his faculties together and collect himself. Both men were considerably shaken. Dalton-James knew that he had escaped death by a whisker, and Crossman knew that he had almost murdered a man in cold blood. The threat of violence had clouded the atmosphere with red mist for a while. It took a few minutes of reflection to reintroduce a calmness to the scene.

  ‘I must confess, sir, I don’t know what to do with you now. I can’t kill you – not this way – and I can’t take you back with me. Major Lovelace does not want a scandal. It was to be done quietly and without any fuss, so as to save embarrassment to family, friends and regiment . . .’

  ‘Oh, that’s capital!’ said Dalton-James, with bitter cynicism. ‘Never mind that it’s murder, so long as no one is embarrassed.’

  ‘Well, I have to say I agree with your sentiments there. I believe in a candid and open assessment of such damage, but I have superior officers who believe otherwise. Major Lovelace also has to take his orders from those above him.’

  ‘Major Lovelace again,’ said Dalton-James, darkly. ‘Major Lovelace? Has it not occurred to you that Major Lovelace might be getting rid of us both, for his own reasons? What if my mission were genuine and yours the one which is false? Do you know for sure that Major Lovelace was given orders to have me – all right, you didn’t know it would be me – but the courier then – do you know for sure he had orders to assassinate the courier of these papers?’

  ‘No,’ replied Crossman, hollowly.

  ‘What if Major Lovelace is steeped in some dark plot or other and needs a scapegoat? Perhaps he is the traitor and thinks that by assassinating me he will divert attention from himself? Once I am dead there will be no need to look for the traitor any longer. And you. He would have a stranglehold over you for the rest of your life. You would be the murderer of a lieutenant of Her Majesty’s Rifle Brigade!

  ‘Have you thought of that, Sergeant Crossman, or is your idle brain incapable of entertaining such ideas?’

  Crossman did not know what to say to this logical argument. It seemed to boil down to a choice between believing his lieutenant, or believing his major. Neither one seemed a likely candidate for a traitorous career: neither one was so spotless he could be chosen over the other. Crossman was stuck between two unknown quantities and with no means of answering any questions.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he replied at last. ‘I just don’t know.’

  4

  Crossman brooded on his problem as they walked through the hills. He knew now that he could not shoot Dalton-James. Yet if he took him back to camp there would be a terrible scandal, which was just what Lovelace did not want. It boiled down to the fact that he, Sergeant Crossman, had been sent out to do a job and had failed. He felt thoroughly miserable.

  ‘We can’t wander these hills forever,’ said Dalton-James, bringing the problem to a head. ‘You have to make up your mind what to do with me.’

  ‘Perhaps Yusuf Ali will come out to us? He’s good at finding me when I don’t need him with me, so let’s hope for once he finds me when I do. I shall send a message with him back to Major Lovelace. Then we’ll see.’

  ‘And if Lovelace is the traitor?’

  Crossman did not know what to say to this.

  They stopped for a rest by a narrow brook which ran down through a cleft in the rocks. Crossman used a strip of torn shirt to bind tightly the broken wrist of Dalton-James, employing a piece of slate as a splint. The lieutenant winced several times during the operation, but once it was done he looked relieved. He rubbed the wrist, then nodded.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, though Crossman knew the words almost choked him. ‘A competent job.’

  There was not a great deal of surface water to be had in the region, despite the autumn rains. It seemed judicious to fill their water bottles, and Crossman asked Dalton-James to perform this task.

  As the lieutenant bent down to do this, he was shot in the face.

  Dalton-James flew backwards with the impact of the bullet, colliding with Crossman and knocking the sergeant off his feet.

  The pair of them went tumbling down a slope. Even as they rolled, another bullet zinged from a rock, stinging Crossman’s face with a shower of granite splinters. At the bottom of the slope Crossman scrambled behind a rock. Another shot rang out, the round narrowly missing the sergeant’s head. Dalton-James was still exposed to the fire. Crossman was about to risk his life and dash out to drag him to cover, when the lieutenant scampered away of his own accord, hiding behind a natural rock buttress.

  The two men were about ten feet apart.

  Dalton-James was lucky to be still alive. The ball had entered his mouth obliquely and exited through his left cheek. He looked a little dazed, but essentially his wound was not serious. He had probably lost a couple of teeth in the bargain, but he still had a beating heart. An inch or so higher and the ball would have gone through his left eye.

  ‘Who is it?’ called Dalton-James, with a strange-sounding flurry to his tongue. ‘Who’s up there?’

  Crossman glanced upwards, to a narrow pass between a rock face and a tor-like needle. This brought another shot in his direction, which ricocheted off some stones near his feet.

  ‘One man, I think,’ said Crossman. ‘Up on the heights to our left. He’s a good shot, but not brilliant. If that had been Peterson up there, one of us at least would be dead.’

  ‘A single man?’

  ‘A Cossack, perhaps.’

  ‘Why should it be a Cossack? Why not an infantry soldier?’

  ‘I don’t know. Just a feeling. Those bloody Cossacks have been trying to kill me ever since the Alma. We’ve got a personal vendetta going. I’m sure it’s a Cossack, even though they usually operate in threes.’

  ‘What are you going to do about him?’

  Dalton-James dabbed his cheek with a handkerchief as he spoke. There was blood oozing from his wound. He did not seem too perturbed by this second injury. Crossman reflected that the officer must be tougher than he appeared.

  Crossman considered the situation carefully. There was a natural rock chimney on the other side of Dalton-James, hidden behind a spur. He would have to dash over to the lieutenant to get at that chimney, then ease his way up and perhaps be able to get on a level with their ambusher. That was if their attacker remained where he was for the next thirty minutes.

  If he did not, all well and good, they would both escape with their lives.

  Crossman reflected that if Dalton-James were to be shot during this fracas, it would solve his problem of what to do with him. It would not, however, tell him anything about the real situation, which was obviously
more complicated than he had previously been led to believe. He would hate to think he was partly responsible for the death of an innocent man, even someone he heartily disliked.

  ‘I’m coming over to you,’ he whispered to Dalton-James.

  ‘No – there isn’t room.’

  ‘I’m coming.’

  At that moment a shot clipped the point of Crossman’s boot, where his toe was sticking out from behind the rock.

  ‘You’ll be killed,’ said Dalton-James, matter-of-factly. ‘That Russian is no marksman, but you’ll be a sitting target.’

  ‘I’ll wait until he’s fired again, then do it while he’s reloading.’

  ‘He may have two firearms.’

  Crossman considered further. Dalton-James was probably right. The man was no doubt using a rifle or carbine for better accuracy at the distance. However, there was every reason to suppose he had a pistol too. Which meant there was a good chance Crossman would be shot crossing the gap. If their attacker got him, he would get the lieutenant too, eventually.

  Crossman made a decision and reached inside his tunic. He took out the lieutenant’s side arm.

  ‘Here,’ he said, ‘try and catch this with your good hand.’

  He tossed the revolver to Dalton-James who caught it neatly one-handed, like a good cricketer in the slips.

  ‘Can you fire it with your left hand?’ enquired the sergeant.

  ‘Of course. I practise with both hands. I’m almost as good with the left as I am with the right.’

  Dalton-James checked the chambers, cocked the weapon and then looked across at Crossman. The sergeant stared at the pistol in the lieutenant’s hand. Was his superior officer going to shoot him, now that he had a weapon? If Dalton-James was a traitor, that would seem the sensible thing for him to do, then perhaps shout to the man in the rocks and give himself up. If he were taken to the Russians by this ambusher, he could explain later that he was actually on their side.