Crossman flayed them, rather than struck them, with the sharp-edged blade. They raised their muskets over their heads to stop the blows from raining down on their shoulders. The strikes were swift, with short backswings, so they did little damage except frighten the Russians with their fury. It kept them at bay long enough for Crossman’s energy to run out, before he dropped back exhausted, sucking breath into his lungs with long painful gasps.
When he recovered his senses enough to see a path back, he began a swift running retreat, shots from both sides humming past his ears. Then somehow he found himself behind the Barrier again, the only survivor of that mad rush at the Russian column. The last thing he did, before a wave of men wearing British uniforms swept past him and propelled him to the rear like the backwash of a wave, was to throw Younghusband’s sword point-first into a body of pale-faced Russian soldiers bent on a new assault.
Behind and to the sides of the Barrier, the French were coming into the battleground in larger numbers. More Zouaves had arrived, the Chasseurs à Pied, the Algerians and the Chasseurs d’Afrique, accompanied by what was left of the British Light Brigade. The Zouaves and Algerians immediately began a great struggle with the Selenghinsk regiment at the sandbag barrier, in which the two sides swayed back and forth. The Coldstream Guards, who admired the Zouaves, threw in their lot alongside these dash-and-verve French troops.
Some long-range guns too had finally appeared on the ridge behind the struggling infantry. Previously the 12-pounders of the Royal Artillery had been outgunned and outdistanced by Russian 32-pounder howitzers on Shell Hill. Now two 18-pounders with long barrels had been brought up from the siege line, to start worrying the Russian gunners. The two guns had had to be manhandled through the mud and clay to the ridge because there were no animals available to pull them.
(Mrs Durham, on seeing the swearing men drag the guns, pushing and heaving, all over the landscape, said, ‘So we lack drayhorses now? Perhaps one day the army will be equipped to deal with any contingency, but not today – nor tomorrow I fancy – they shall ever come up short during this campaign!’)
Once the two 18-pounders were in position they proceeded to wreak havoc amongst the Russian guns, which were crowded together on the distant hill. Their unusually long barrels gave them greater distance and accuracy over the 12-pounders on both sides.
The Russians immediately replied in kind, raining shells and shot on the position where the two guns pounded out their rhythmic message of defiance. Then some French guns, 12-pounders, arrived to support the British ordnance, and a serious artillery battle took place.
If there were two things Crossman did not like they were canister and grapeshot, especially the latter which could take off an arm or leg in the blink of an eye. A limb was lost so quickly, in the heat and confusion of the battle, that sometimes the owner was not aware it was gone. There was so much grapeshot in the air now that it was like iron hail the size of cricket balls whizzing around them.
More than once, Crossman witnessed the horrible sight of a man’s arm flying off, while the owner was busy with some small necessary one-handed task. Then the slow realisation when the man sat down in stunned surprise to see that there was no left hand with which to reach inside his ammunition pouch.
Crossman had heard tales of worried, retreating men who had seen an arm somersaulting out in front of them and had felt a momentary pang of pity for the owner of that limb, only to find a little later that the wayward arm was their own.
It was not easy to cauterise a bloody stump out on the battlefield, and sometimes the soldiers walked back to the surgeons’ tents themselves, to receive treatment for their ugly wounds. Others were carried back by bandsmen, many of whom were now fit only to drop from exhaustion.
‘Here they come again!’ cried a bearded sergeant-major. ‘Give ’em your best!’
Crossman fired, loaded, fired, loaded, fired, until his hands were red with ramrodding. The gunpowder found its way into the cracks of his hands, where it stung and caused a sore rawness to further irritate him. The sweat ran into his eyes, carrying with it the dust and grit of ridge and ravine. It clotted his nostrils and matted his hair. All this discomfort was only noticed during the brief lulls in the fighting, then, when the Russians came on again, it was forgotten, or at most was an annoyance which he could have well done without.
Two more companies, albeit undermanned and well short of two hundred men, joined those at the Barrier to face the Russian thousands. One of the 77th and one of the 49th. These were welcome new faces, some of them from well behind the lines and fresh to the battle.
‘Come on in and join the party,’ growled a soldier who had been fighting now for over four hours on an empty stomach and very little sleep, ‘we’re having a fine old dance here with Mrs Russe!’
‘Thank ’ee,’ replied one of the fresh faces, ‘but I think I left my dancin’ shoes at home.’
‘You won’t need ’em. We’re all jigging along fine in our hobnail boots.’
29
Sergeant Crossman had seen a lot of action in his time in the Crimea, but nothing compared with this day, the 5th of November, 1854. He had been fighting now for nearly four hours and his joints felt as if they had been lubricated with sand. And this was only two-thirds of the time some soldiers had been on the battlefield.
He could see men falling to the ground from exhaustion. Others wandering around without a weapon in their hands, numb to the noise of danger and death around them, bemused and beaten by fatigue. Still others dead on their feet, but mechanically loading their rifles, firing at an immediate enemy, which was also weary and close to collapse.
‘Here they come again!’ came the eternal cry, as the Iakoutsk and Okhotsk formed another attack.
Those British soldiers without a rifle or musket picked up rocks and hurled them at the Russians, who were sometimes so near they could have tweaked each other’s noses. Bayonets were used as daggers, sometimes thrown in desperation. Anything which could be employed as a weapon of war was snatched up and either wielded or cast. The lucky ones, those still with a firelock in their hands, clubbed, bayoneted and shot those who tried to get over the Barrier and overwhelm its occupants.
In other parts of the battlefield, British soldiers were wandering around, making up their own lines from what remained of the assorted regiments. There were men without officers and officers without men, sometimes seeking each other, sometimes simply going it alone. Wounded soldiers unable to walk and left on their own were being bayoneted to death by angry or frightened Russians. Some men, hale and whole, hid in bushes trembling with battle fatigue, shocked into a state of bewilderment, or frightened beyond the reach of any call to duty.
Several British generals were already dead: commanders of divisions or brigades.
Crossman was dispirited, both with the fighting and with himself. He knew he had not overly distinguished himself in this battle. He had fought well and hard, but had done nothing extraordinary, like some men. There were those who had risked certain death to save a fallen officer or friend; those who had followed or led where others dared not go; those who had made foolhardy but immensely courageous charges. Crossman had done none of these things, but simply fought steadily. He realised he was not a man to win great medals in a battle.
It must be my selfishness, he thought. I’m a selfish man.
But if Lovelace had been there he would have told Crossman there were tasks for the many and tasks for the few. And even tasks for the individual. Crossman was one of those men who worked best on his own or with a small group. He did not suit formation fighting on a large scale. He was a lone wolf.
Crossman jerked himself out of the fatigue zone into which he was slipping. Something important had happened. The two 18-pounders, the long-range field guns, had ceased to fire from the ridge behind. Shell Hill was now no longer under attack from the British guns, and in the distance the Russian gunners were going back to work with zeal. Now that they were not being bombarded, the
y worked enthusiastically to resume their own barrage.
‘What’s happened, sir?’ Crossman asked a nearby captain. ‘Our guns have stopped.’
‘Out of ammunition is my guess,’ said the officer. ‘Lieutenant-Colonel Haines believes we must take Shell Hill ourselves.’
It seemed like work for a group of suicides.
There were still some fourteen thousand Russians facing them, albeit many of them battle-weary and dispirited. Yet another twenty-two thousand Russians were at this moment facing the French, but were reasonably fresh and could easily be turned towards the British. The sixteen Susdal, Uglitz, Vladimir and Bourtirsk battalions had still not been used and were as bright as a new day.
The French had sent some reinforcements to the British, but the majority of the French Army was still waiting for those Russian columns poised to attack its own lines.
Crossman said, ‘We’ll never make it, sir. Some of the men are without weapons.’
But Crossman had spoken too soon. One of those enterprising NCOs whom Crossman had earlier been admiring, had found a solution to the lack of weapons. A sergeant of the 21st with some other soldiers had just been over the Barrier. They had returned with Russian muskets and had cut ammunition pouches from the enemy dead. Now at least most of the soldiers behind the Barrier had a firelock.
Crossman’s heart sank in dismay as he thought of crossing that wasteland to reach Shell Hill. Yet he knew the officer probably felt the same. Not a man there would believe that after surviving the morning’s holocaust they were not about to die. But Crossman could see that the attack had to take place. It had to be attempted, even if it cost them all their lives. The guns on Shell Hill must be silenced somehow.
‘I want all the men with Miniés to follow me,’ cried the officer, speaking firmly. ‘Our orders are to harass the gunners on Shell Hill as much as possible. We will advance in skirmishing order using the bushes and trees as cover where possible. Those with smoothbore muskets will remain to man the Barrier.’
Those with Miniés! No time now for the scared ones to throw the weapon away, or exchange it for a musket. The sorting had already begun, men moving back and forth, until there was a small group with Miniés, of which Crossman was one. A similar band was being formed amongst the nearby 77th. It seemed the two groups were to attack Shell Hill separately.
Crossman felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to see a grinning Peterson behind him.
‘Together again at last, sergeant. How are you? Have you been hit at all?’
Despite his failing spirit, Crossman smiled at the woman who shamed him with her strength of character.
‘No – you?’
‘A scratch on the shoulder – and some bully struck me on the head with the stock of his firelock. I was out of the fight for a while, but at least I didn’t get bayoneted.’
‘What do you think of this?’ Crossman indicated the ground ahead, where they were to go next.
Peterson licked her lips, and for the first time showed apprehension in her pale face.
‘I’m worried, sergeant. Aren’t you?’
‘Bloody terrified,’ laughed Crossman, almost hysterically. ‘Right now I wish I’d stayed with Wynter. He’s tucked away with the 88th behind some nice cosy mound, where he can pick off Russians at a distance.’
‘Trust Wynter.’
‘Right,’ said the officer, grabbing their attention once more, ‘for those of you not from my regiment, I am Captain Astley. I shall lead you across that stretch of dirt, if you will follow me. I have witnessed your bravery over the last six hours, and I tell you that among the tears of sadness for the fallen there will be fierce tears of pride.
‘You men are a credit to your regiments, to your country and to your Queen. I am proud to be called a man amongst you. I do not care what you once were. Even though you were perhaps ditch-diggers or rat-catchers, you are now great warriors. I shall shake your hand after this day and feel honoured to do so. I ask that you will follow me, one more time.
‘Lieutenant Acton will be leading his 77th on our left, so make sure you don’t mistake them for Russians. I am ready, if you are.’
With that the captain walked off into the brushwood, towards Shell Hill. The men themselves hesitated. Then Crossman and Peterson went out, followed by the rest of them, dodging amongst the bushes and stunted trees, working their way through the scrub. Every so often one of the men, including Crossman, would go down on one knee and fire a shot at the gunners on the hill. Sometimes they would be rewarded by the sight of a man flinging his arms into the air, or slipping down out of sight like a creature suddenly robbed of its bones.
Astley’s men drew fire from the Russian infantry, who poured fusillade after fusillade into the bushes. Musket balls zipped into the foliage, clipping leaves, snicking bark. Sometimes the air around Crossman seemed so thick with metal it was like trying to dodge drops of water in a rain shower. Somehow he and Peterson survived where others fell. Then Peterson went down, crashing hard on to the rocky ground.
Crossman knelt beside her. ‘Are you hit?’ he cried, wildly, as the air still whined and sang around him, sizzling with its deadly insects.
‘No, sergeant. I tripped over a body. I’m all right.’
Crossman looked back and saw the corpse, lying on its back, staring sightlessly at the sky. It was a man in an English civilian’s brown shooting suit and brown leather shooting boots. The suit was obviously Savile Row and of the kind an aristocrat might wear at a shooting party on some estate or other. In the man’s hand was a British officer’s sword, held in a death-grip. Someone had gruesomely tried to cut part of the hand away, possibly to take the sword for a trophy, but had probably been interrupted, for three fingers still remained tightly locked around the hilt.
With a sudden jolt, Crossman recognised the face of the dead man. It was Lieutenant Dalton-James. He had at least seven wounds in him, most of them appeared to have been caused by bayonets. He had obviously got up and dressed for a walk in his civilian clothes, as many off-duty officers did, and had had no time to change when called to the battle.
‘Good God,’ whispered Crossman. ‘Brave fellow.’
It was always so different when one of those lumps of flesh lying on the battlefield was someone known to you. This was not an anonymous dead body. This was Dalton-James. Crossman had never liked the man, but he knew him. This fact alone was enough to make him reel, and send concerns for his own mortality rushing through his brain. Then Peterson spoke to him.
‘What is it, sergeant?’
‘Nothing,’ replied Crossman, licking the salt from his upper lip. ‘Come on, Peterson. Get up. We have work to do.’
She climbed to her feet without looking back at the body, of which there were many covering the ground. Crossman wondered whether to call her attention to their former superior, but decided against it. She was a hard little woman, packed with sinewy strength, but there was a sentimental streak running through Peterson which she was best without when the situation was still so fraught. Soldiers were dying like cattle, and any lapse of concentration might be fatal.
Bullets still pocked the dust around them. Round shot and shell still hissed over their heads. There was nothing to do but go on towards Captain Astley’s beckoning hand. Together they went forward again, through the blizzard of metal, until they reached a point near to Shell Hill where they crouched in the middle of some knee-high boulders.
It was from here that Captain Astley indicated that his men should find cover from which to harass the Russian gunners.
They set themselves down behind this stone barrier and continued to pick off the gunners above them. From behind came some support. There were men in green coming up. The Rifles had sent a few of their number to help the two groups.
Crossman looked across and back at Lieutenant Acton’s group, which seemed a little more tardy. There was some trouble there. Acton was on his feet, walking forwards, but his men had stopped, had frozen in the advance. Then finally
a private ran out shouting, ‘Sir, I’ll stand by you.’ Then another man joined these two, and finally the rest of the group stirred themselves and went forward. It was yet another example of the kind of courage which had continually emerged from soldiers of all ranks, thus saving a day which should have been lost at dawn.
Incredibly, Lieutenant Acton was urging his men to actually attack Shell Hill, not just harass it with fire from below. Acton’s men fanned out in attack formation. The Russian gunners used canister on them, cutting a hole in the line with a swathe of bunched musket balls. Men fell to the ground groaning, hit in a dozen places. Others did not even sigh as they went down, but simply came apart where they stood, cut to pieces.
The case shot did not stop Acton’s men however, and Astley now called for his own group to support them. The Rifles came up and joined what was now close to three hundred men storming Shell Hill. At that moment, to Crossman’s immense relief, the British 18-pounders opened up again, presumably replenished with ammunition. Shot began falling amongst the Russian gunners above.
The gunners on the hill had had enough. They were being bludgeoned to the ground by the long-range 18-pounders. They began to limber up, fearful that the infantry coming up the slope would capture their guns. Acton’s men were on top first, and when Astley’s party reached there too, with Crossman and Peterson still amongst them, they found the guns gone.
Those who had possession of Shell Hill were joined by a few 21st, and from there they had a view over the battlefield.
Despite being ready for such a sight, Crossman was appalled by the carnage. There were not hundreds, but thousands of bodies and parts of bodies lying over the Heights. It was as if a cloud had opened up and rained bloody lumps of flesh. Some of these lumps were still moving, crying out, crawling for . . . they knew not where. There were blind men stumbling around, falling over the remains of their friends. There were dying men looking for their own limbs, in order to be buried whole. There were men whole in physical form, yet dead in their minds forever.
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