‘You could say that,’ replied Crossman, wryly. ‘Lovelace has gone missing. I’ve got to find him to clear up a serious misunderstanding. Ali and I are going out to look amongst the bodies in St Clements Ravine. That’s where he was last seen, with Cathcart’s men.’
‘I heard Cathcart was killed and his men were cut up pretty fiercely. I’ll come with you. I haven’t been to that area yet. I need to get all the information I can before writing my piece for the Banner.’
‘You don’t have to do this, Rupert.’
‘No, no – I do have to do it. I’m a war correspondent. I have to see these things to report on them. Lead the way.’
Above them the sky rolled with dark clouds. It was a grey dismal day. There were people picking amongst the corpses, some of them doing decent and proper things, others perhaps scavenging from the dead. There were all manner and nation of men out there, as well as women. The place had become a ghastly, haunted landscape dotted with figures as numerous as had been the hundreds of picquets the day before, cut off from their comrades and from their line.
The three men went down past the sandbag battery, scene of some of the bitterest fighting the day before. This spot had no particular strategic importance so far as the topography went, but both sides had decided it was a matter of prestige to take it, and retake it, several times, many men dying in the process. Russians and British had been slaughtered on the battery, which had been empty of guns, for no apparent reason, unless it be that the battery was a symbol of victory for both armies.
Now there were arabas, such as could be found, being piled high with corpses. The Russians on one cart, the British on another. Those working were sweating, even though it was a cold day, while others watched in a numbed state of silence. The arms of these men were placed in piles by the battery. Crossman was reminded that he no longer had his German hunting knife and his Tranter 5-shot pistol. He would need to retrieve these from Major Paynte. It would not be a pleasant task.
The three men went down into St Clement Ravine, where Major Lovelace had last been seen. There they searched amongst the bodies, already showing small signs of decomposition. Some were horribly scarred and broken. Others were literally in pieces. Crossman was reminded of a gory history lesson, during which, as a boy of twelve, he had been told by his father of bishops in King Henry VIII’s time, who were hung, drawn and then quartered. There were men here whose faces bore the look of a strangled man; who had their entrails hanging out; who had been blown into four pieces and the bits scattered.
They spent several hours scouring the area, finding pockets where men were still alive. Some were Russian, some were British. Jarrard called to other search parties of bandsmen, who were out finding the wounded, directing them to these unfortunates who had probably been lying there for thirty hours or more. The evening began to close in and still they had not found Lovelace’s body. This was a good sign, but it was getting Crossman no nearer to the major’s whereabouts.
While they were searching, Crossman went into a narrow crevice in the rocks, to come face-to-face with a live Russian.
The man was wedged there in a sitting position. His legs had been broken with the fall from the ridge above and were projecting at peculiar angles. His bloodshot eyes regarded Crossman feverishly. He was an officer and in his right hand he held a pistol which he pointed at Crossman’s face.
‘Easy, sir,’ said Crossman. ‘I mean you no harm.’
‘I suppose,’ said the Russian officer in reasonably good English, ‘that the soldier who shot me in the shoulder and knocked me down here meant no harm either.’
Crossman kept his eye on the injured man’s trigger finger, to see if it was being tightened. He was ready to leap aside if the other squeezed off a shot. Whether such action would save him or not, Crossman did not stop to think. He only knew that until something definite happened, he should not make any sudden moves.
Ali and Jarrard had heard him talking and were making their way stealthily towards the spot. Jarrard had his Navy Colt in his hand at the ready, but Crossman waved with his fingers, not looking at the American, to caution him not to use the weapon. Jarrard holstered it.
‘Who are you signalling to?’ gasped the Russian captain in a hollow, strained voice. He was obviously exhausted and in a state of confusion. His pistol hand wavered. ‘I do not want to have to kill you.’
‘Two friends of mine. We are searching for the body of another friend, a British major. We mean you no harm, captain.’
Finally, the man’s arm went down. It seemed he was very weak and that the action had been the result of the sheer weight of his pistol. He sat there looking pathetic. Ali and Jarrard came up now.
‘Jammed between the boulders, eh?’ murmured Jarrard. ‘It’s going to hurt him when we pull him out.’
‘He speaks English,’ warned Crossman.
The captain, who had closed his eyes in pain, opened them again and regarded his rescuers.
‘I realise I am not going to escape pain.’
Ali gave the man some water. He drank it down gratefully. Then Crossman and Jarrard each took a side and tried to ease the captain out from the crevice. He screamed at them and clawed their shoulders, but they knew they had to continue. Finally they wrenched him free, just as the captain went into a swoon. They laid him out carefully on a blanket Ali always carried around his shoulders like a bandolier. The captain’s poor broken legs hung one over each side of the makeshift litter. It was perhaps a good thing that he remained unconscious while they carried him back to the British lines.
They dropped him off at a staff surgeon’s tent and went on to Crossman’s quarters. Wynter and Peterson were still asleep when they arrived. Crossman found his chibouque and within minutes was happily puffing away. They discussed the day’s failure.
‘There’s nothing for it but to try again tomorrow,’ said Crossman. ‘You don’t have to be there, Rupert. I’ll use those two sluggards now that they’ve had some rest.’
‘Oh, I don’t mind. As I said, I need some copy. This makes for an interesting story.’
‘What, “Sergeant will hang, if major not found”?’
‘Something like that,’ grinned the American, ruefully.
The three of them played whist in the dim light of a candle to pass the time, with Ali continually winning.
‘We should have pitted Ali against Captain Sterling Campbell,’ said Jarrard, sorting through his hand for some nonexistent trumps. ‘We wouldn’t have needed to send him to India then. Ali would have cleaned him out.’
Crossman felt a pang of guilt on remembering Campbell, who was now somewhere on the high seas.
‘Just lucky,’ said Ali, modestly. ‘All the time I lose my goats to my cousin when we play cards. I make him a rich man. My cousin is very good player, not like you, Mr Jarrard.’
‘Be careful you don’t praise me too highly,’ replied Jarrard, sarcastically. ‘It might go to my head.’
At that moment a messenger arrived at the hovel asking for Crossman.
‘The Russe captain you brought in, sergeant? He wants to speak to you. Says it’s urgent.’
Crossman put on a fur cap and went out into the cold night, followed by the other two, who were as curious as he was himself to find out what the captain had to say.
They found the Russian officer lying in a hut. His legs had been straightened and his shoulder wound bandaged, but he looked a ghastly grey colour. He seemed only just on the waking side of consciousness. His hand came out and gripped Crossman’s sleeve, when the sergeant knelt beside him.
‘Thank you, sergeant, for saving my life. And I thank your friends too. I must speak quickly for my mind is spinning. You spoke of a major? We took a major prisoner. He was not in the uniform of the others. He was a Green Fly.’
Crossman knew that the Russians called the Rifle Brigade ‘Green Flies’, because of the colour of their uniforms and the way they swarmed about when skirmishing. Like Dalton-James, Lovelace had originally bee
n from the Rifles, before taking up special duties with General Buller. Although in his capacity as a spy he wore a variety of uniforms, Rifle Greens would be the uniform he would choose to fight a battle in.
‘Do you know what happened to this major?’
The captain closed his eyes and looked as if he were about to faint away, but he rallied, and came round again.
‘They would take such prisoners back to Sebastopol, or march them to Kerch. I think probably he has gone to Kerch, to be taken on a ship to Russia. There was one of our majors who was much interested in your major, if indeed he is the man you seek. His name is Zinski – Major Zinski.’
Crossman knew at once that they were on the right track. Zinski was the major in whose cruel hands Crossman had found himself not so long ago. The major had seen to it that Crossman was tortured and beaten, to try to obtain required information. Wynter and Ali had rescued Crossman from that predicament, but the sergeant carried a hatred of the major, who had almost taken his life. On an attack on a hill, Crossman had been lucky enough to encounter Major Zinski again. Crossman had tried to kill the man, but had only wounded him.
Zinski would certainly be the officer who would take charge of Major Lovelace, for interrogation purposes.
‘Thank you, captain,’ Crossman told the injured Russian, ‘you have been most helpful.’
But the man had now slipped into unconsciousness. Crossman enquired of the surgeon whether the captain was going to live, and received the expected shrug of the shoulders. The sergeant then turned to his two companions.
‘Rupert, Ali and I are going to have to go out on a fox hunt. Thank you for your help. We shall see you when we return.’
‘The hell you will. I’m coming too.’
‘You’re a civilian, Rupert,’ said an exasperated Crossman. ‘I would get into deep trouble for taking you with me.’
‘You’re in deep trouble already.’
This was of course true. Crossman sighed. ‘All right, but try not to get killed. I must stop off on the way. I have to see another major. The world is full of majors, isn’t it? Sergeants like me seem to be a rarity.’
‘They are in your line of work,’ agreed Jarrard.
Crossman left the other two to make his visit. He walked to the house where he had been taken by the arresting lieutenant. A light was glowing in the window. Without knocking, he threw open the door and marched into the room beyond. Major Paynte was sitting behind a table, writing some reports.
He looked up, startled by the intrusion, thoroughly shaken on seeing a ragamuffin bandit in the room. Before he could recover, Crossman snapped up a salute causing the major to almost fall off his chair in alarm. It was as if he were expecting to be assassinated in his own quarters.
‘Sir, I have come for my weapons! They were taken by the lieutenant when I was arrested. A German hunting knife and a Tranter 5-shot pistol. I would be grateful, sir, if they could be returned to my possession. I am going out on a mission to rescue Major Lovelace and I need them.’
Major Paynte, now recognising the intruder, quickly recovered his composure, obviously put out by the fact that he had shown fear to this man.
‘Oh, you need them, do you? I seem to recall these weapons were not army issue.’
‘Nevertheless, sir, they are mine by right. I purchased them in London. Many officers and men carry weapons not of army issue. I would appreciate their return.’
‘By God you have the impudence of a monkey,’ snapped the major, going bright red. ‘I ought to have you flogged for barging in here like this . . .’
‘Sir, you are wasting valuable time,’ replied Crossman. ‘I came here quickly because it is imperative I have my weapons before going out into the field. You are endangering the life of an officer, a major like yourself, by holding back. General Buller would see it of the utmost importance to go after his captors straight away, without delay – sir. When I return, you may flog me all you like, but I must go now, out into the hills, to rescue Major Lovelace and bring him back.’
Major Paynte crumpled, though his eyes were full of hate. He went to a greasy-looking rickety cupboard which had once stood in a Tartar kitchen. He opened it and took out Crossman’s weapons, handing them to him without another word. The sergeant took them and saluted again, smartly, before marching to the door.
‘I’m sure Major Lovelace will be the first to thank you for your co-operation on his return,’ said Crossman.
‘You are just after saving your own skin,’ hissed Paynte, ‘but I will have you yet, sergeant.’
Crossman turned with his hand on the door handle and looked at the major as if he were a bug crawling in the dirt.
‘I am after saving a good friend and a brave officer,’ he said, scathingly, ‘and I would do the same for you, major. If you ever fall into the hands of the enemy – and I have been there too – you will pray for someone like me to come for you.’
With that he left the room.
33
Crossman next went to see General Buller to request the use of four horses.
‘We need to be near Kerch before the prisoners arrive,’ Crossman said. ‘They should be fast mounts, sir.’
‘You will have your horses, sergeant, but listen to what I am about to say. I am ordering you not to try to save any of the other prisoners, if it will jeopardise your mission. The officers and other ranks taken captive will be treated with a certain respect. Major Lovelace, on the other hand, is a spy, and sooner or later he is going to be recognised as such.
‘I have no doubt they will torture him and then execute him. He is also privy to information which would harm us if it fell into enemy hands. He is a strong man, but who knows what methods will be used to break him down? You are not to try to save everyone – that is not possible – so you will save no one except Major Lovelace.’
The general clasped his hands behind his back and paced the dirt floor of the room.
‘I would like to send a force to Kerch and effect the release of all the prisoners, but it would be detected in advance and would be met with at least an equal force. The only way to do this is for two or three men to sneak about unseen. In which case we have to sacrifice the many to obtain the one who is most important to us and our schemes. Finally, if you cannot release Major Lovelace, but have the opportunity to shoot him, you must do so. They will show him no mercy. He would, I know, prefer a quick death.’
Crossman quailed at the thought of killing Lovelace.
‘Sir, I do not know whether I can do that.’
‘It is an order, sergeant.’
‘I was also ordered to kill Captain Barker, yet I stand accused of his murder. It seems to me that if I shoot Major Lovelace out of kindness, I then lay myself open to hanging on two counts, where one would actually be enough.’
‘I shall protect you against any accusations regarding the death of Major Lovelace.’
‘You might not be able to, sir – begging your pardon, but you might follow the road General Cathcart took.’
Buller stopped pacing and stared at the sergeant.
‘You mean I might be dead? It’s possible. There may be another battle tomorrow, or the next day, or next week. But then again, you might not survive into the next hour, either. Our lives are always on the line here in the Crimea. It’s something we have to live with, the constant threat of death. However, I shall leave a letter for Lord Raglan. Major Paynte will try to have your head, but if I am not here to stand by you, my letter will explain everything to the high command.’
Crossman felt this was all he could ask.
‘Thank you, sir. We’ll be on our way then.’
‘I have every confidence in you, sergeant. It is hoped you will save Major Lovelace and thereby save your own neck. I need both of you even more these days. The enemy is devious and we need to constantly update our information on his disposition.’
‘Yes, sir, but by attempting to release Major Lovelace, if he is indeed still alive, I am not merely trying to s
ave my own neck. Nor am I merely doing my duty. Major Lovelace is a personal friend of mine, if rankers can be said to have friends who are commissioned officers. Also, we went to Harrow together and I’m sure you realise what that means.’
Crossman left the general’s quarters. He had not dared tell General Buller that he was taking a war correspondent with him – an American at that – or the general would have objected and forbidden it. He waited outside the house until a messenger was sent to fetch the horses. Then he took the beasts by the reins and led them to where Jarrard and Ali were waiting. The three men mounted and then rode out of the camp.
They went immediately towards the Fediukine Hills and then struck out eastwards. It was night, but there was light enough to see by. They were soon in familiar territory, Ali and Crossman having used the tracks before when escaping from the Cossacks. They kept the Woronzoff Road in sight, below them, and saw various Russian camps down there. Any one of these might have been an overnight stop for prisoners on their way to Kerch, but they could not investigate them all. It seemed best to get to Kerch and wait there for developments.
In the early hours of the morning they reached a small village. It was a pretty area, with cork oaks, laurels and cypress growing on its outskirts. There were vineyards stepped into the sides of the hills, and cattle and sheep roamed the lower meadowland slopes. A small white house on the edge of the village had an almond tree growing in its yard. They hitched their horses to this tree and broke their fast, helping themselves to water from well and trough, for man and horse while the occupants of the house slept.
Before daylight arrived they were on their horses again, Ali leading the spare mount, following the goat trails into the hills. The land on the eastern side of the Crimean peninsula is fertile and the climate healthful and mild. There was none of the dampness of Kadikoi and Balaclava harbour. Morning mists were quickly dispelled by the sun, and though a sharp crisp frost bit into their bones, it was not a coldness that encouraged respiratory problems.
Soldiers in the Mist Page 26