Soldiers in the Mist

by Garry Douglas Kilworth

  Normally this man strode around, tall, straight and square-shouldered.

  It was indeed Major Lovelace.

  He was escorted to some latrines nearby and allowed to relieve himself, though the guards left the door wide open. Major Lovelace was in the latrine a long time, still using the lavatory, which indicated that his captors had not allowed him to go for quite some time. No doubt this was part of their humiliation technique, the debasing of the victim.

  Then another, greatcoated, figure came out of the barn at a leisurely pace. This man looked comfortable and casual, languidly smoking a long cigar. He stood watching Major Lovelace with impassive eyes. When the prisoner was returned to the barn, the man spoke in English to him.

  ‘These interruptions will only prolong your ordeal, major. You must talk to us. The sooner you tell me what I want to know, the quicker we will shoot you. You surely do not wish to extend your period of torture indefinitely? I find that inflicting pain is a distasteful exercise.’

  ‘I doubt that,’ came the thickly-spoken reply.

  Then the two men and the guards disappeared inside the barn once more. A few moments later the groans were clearly audible in the night air. One of the guards turned and frowned at another one, before glancing at the barn. Then he turned his face out to the night again.

  Crossman stayed another three hours, then finally gave up and returned the way he had come.

  ‘He’s there all right, but I couldn’t reach him,’ he told the others. ‘There’s someone I know with him.’

  ‘Who’s that?’ asked Jarrard.

  ‘A Major Zinski. The same man who had me tortured when I was a prisoner in Sebastopol. The same man who would have hung me, had not Wynter and Ali managed to set me free. The same man I wounded in the Battle of Balaclava.’

  ‘He appears to be your nemesis,’ said Jarrard.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Crossman, through narrowed eyes, ‘or I his.’

  He explained the position down by the farm.

  ‘If we attack the barn and try to rescue him, we’ll be cut down. There are too many firelocks and a squadron of cavalry nearby. For once I haven’t the faintest idea what to do next.’

  ‘We wait until the morning,’ suggested Ali, ‘maybe the cavalry go away then?’

  ‘If they don’t, we’re in very grave trouble. And all the while Major Lovelace is undergoing terrible torture. Perhaps it might be better to post Peterson in a good spot and have him shoot Major Lovelace the next time they take him to the latrine – it would end his terrible agony.’

  Peterson paled. ‘Shoot Major Lovelace? I – I couldn’t do that, sergeant. Don’t order me.’

  ‘Would you rather he suffered? They’re cutting pieces off him in there. That Major Zinski is an animal.’

  ‘I couldn’t do it. Don’t make me, please, sergeant.’

  ‘You may have to, Peterson – I’m sorry.’

  The rest of the night was spent in uncomfortable circumstances. At least the cries stopped about an hour later.

  When Crossman saw Zinski leave the barn he guessed that Major Lovelace had probably fainted and Zinski was going to get some rest. Even torturers need sleep. Hopefully Lovelace would stay unconscious until the morning.

  Around six o’clock, a brisk wind sprang up and there was rain in the air. Then a strange silence fell on the land and the awakening sky revealed a colour Crossman had never seen before. It was an eerie sky, a pale yellow, with streaks of cloud like lazy paintbrush strokes. On the horizon was a dark band which seemed to grow with every minute.

  ‘What’s happenin’, sergeant?’ asked Wynter. ‘I can smell a bit of rain in the air.’

  Wynter was a country boy and was instinctively aware of changes in the weather.

  ‘Looks like some sort of storm coming in,’ said Crossman. ‘I don’t know . . .’

  Within an hour they were in the middle of a hurricane. Torrents of rain and sleet fell, hammering into the hillside, causing flood water to gush down to the plain below. Crossman and his men had to cling to the rocks to prevent themselves being blown away, so fierce was the wind. A landslip occurred to the right of them, with mud, shale and rocks tumbling down into the vineyards below. Visibility was down to almost zero at times.

  During a clear patch, through a swirling tunnel of light, Crossman saw the sails of the windmill being torn from the tower and sent crashing into the Hussars’ camp. The horses down there were panicking and kicking out, while the men fought with the bridles, holding their mounts, trying to calm them in the chaos and confusion. Crossman saw tents ripped from their guys and swept away like ghosts. One of these tents covered a charger, causing it to bolt and drag its owner along the ground.

  Crossman realised it was a good thing they had their own mounts stabled in the cave. Wynter was sent back to calm them if they were jittery. The lance-corporal returned to say the animals were restless, but deep enough in the cave to prevent the wind from reaching them. It was only the howling noise across the entrance which bothered them at all.

  Part of the farmhouse roof below them was now ripped off, the slates flashing through the air in a deadly fashion, likely to decapitate any unfortunate guard who happened to be in their path. Barrels were being blown around, farm equipment was whisked up into the air and thrown against walls. It was mayhem. Infantry soldiers deserted their posts and sought refuge in nooks and crannies around the farmyard.

  After a shrieking and groaning, the tall farmhouse chimney came crashing down, smashing through the roof of the building, shattering slates and timbers. A water tower did the same just a few moments later, breaking its timbers on the yard. Its tank burst and the flood of water carried a soldier off his feet and swept him a hundred yards to leave him pinned against a fence.

  The livestock did not escape the wind either. Terrified chickens were snatched up into the air and carried away like flapping pieces of paper. A squealing piglet was blown over the ground like a rolling ball, to end up stuck on the curved spikes of a hay-turning machine. Even waggons were disintegrating, being blown apart, the pieces scattered over the farm area.

  ‘Now,’ yelled Crossman, into Jarrard’s ear. ‘We go down now!’

  Jarrard passed the word down the short line of men, who prepared to descend the dangerous muddy slope before them. God had sent them a storm to mask their activities. They would be fools if they did not take this opportunity, no matter how difficult it was going to be. Peterson went first and was almost immediately blown off her feet and carried twenty yards across the face of the hill. The others linked arms and snaked down the escarpment, collecting her on the way.

  35

  When the five men reached the vineyard, the wind was tearing the vines from their roots. Crossman indicated that they should go straight to the barn, shooting anyone who got in their way. The sleet was coming down thickly now. Visibility was down to a few yards. Wind was screaming around the buildings, tearing at everything it could loosen. Certainly it was doubtful that the cavalry could be summoned to the assistance of those in and around the barn. The noise of the wind would drown any bugle call, any drum beat, and even if a messenger could reach them, the Hussars were in no condition to mount an attack.

  Crossman’s fingers were freezing and he was having difficulty in keeping on his feet. A guard hunched in the doorway of the farm opposite saw him and evinced surprise. The sentry raised his weapon, but before he could fire Ali had launched himself at the man and pistol-whipped him to the ground. Crossman and Ali then fought their way across the yard to where the barn door was banging and rattling on its hinges.

  Before they reached the door, shouts went up to be flung away by the wind. Peterson and Wynter engaged with some of the other guards, who began to emerge from behind stalls and from underneath pigsties. Shots went wild, as the force of the storm destroyed men’s ability to aim: their firelocks wavered in the hurricane, their eyes were sore from bearing the brunt of the wind. Sleet destroyed their concentration. Musket balls flew back and
forth, but not a single man was hit on either side.

  Crossman reached the barn door and, lifting a latch, threw it open. It crashed back against the barn, instantly ripped from its hinges, and flew over the yard to slam against the farmhouse wall. Crossman and Ali ran into the barn. There were three soldiers inside the swaying, creaking building.

  The first man reached for a pistol and was shot in the arm by Ali. Sorely wounded, this soldier clutched at a hanging rope to save himself from falling to the ground. He held on there, gritting his teeth against his pain, now unable to reach into his coat for his pistol.

  Another young officer drew his sword. Crossman put two rounds in his chest and he was dead before he hit the dirt floor.

  The third man’s face registered alarm and fear. He threw his arms above his head and shouted something in Russian.

  At that moment the barn began to shake violently. While the large doors had been closed, the barn had held together, but now the wind was swelling inside, blasting full-force into the wooden building. The walls flexed and expanded, first sucking in, then bulging out. Finally the whole barn began to rip at the seams. One wall went slapping down in the yard, crushing a sentry.

  The roof was ripped away and thrown up into the crashing, whirlwind sky. The young Russian soldier who was holding on to the rope was whipped upwards like a toy into the air. They did not see him come down. Bales of straw and hay were tumbling about now, being blown from the exposed shelves in the barn’s roof space, where they had been stored. A cow was standing foursquare in the middle of the floor, its eyes wide with fright.

  Lovelace was bound to a harrow at the far end of the barn. Crossman and Ali rushed to him and cut his bonds. The major was unconscious. Ali heaved the inert body up on to his broad shoulders and then walked with it as a Smithfield market porter walks with a side of beef on his back.

  The Turk headed straight for the hills, while Crossman found himself entangled with plough chains, that whipped around his legs. He struggled to get them off as the Russian soldier with his hands in the air ran away, towards the farmhouse, yelling for assistance. Crossman could do nothing to stop him.

  While Crossman was trying to disentangle himself, a man came out of the farmhouse, struggling against the force of the wind. He was barely visible in the driving, heavy sleet which had increased in vigour during the last few minutes. As he came closer, Crossman could see he was a bulky man, whose dark hair blew wildly in the raging storm. His angry eyes were fixed on Crossman in a determined way and the sergeant knew that the man had come to kill him.

  It was Major Zinski and he had a sword in his hand.

  Crossman grappled with the chains around his ankles and at last managed to free himself. Zinski had reached him and stood over him, two hands on the handle of his sword, which was poised to drive down into Crossman’s chest. In the swirling sleet and fierce wind the actions of both men were slow and laborious. Even the lifting of an arm took great effort. The two men formed a dark sluggishly-moving scene within the remains of the barn. It was like some ghastly act of two monsters battling it out in primeval ooze.

  Crossman aimed his revolver at the major’s face and pulled the trigger. A dull click came from the pistol, which made Zinski jerk backwards and blink. Then Zinski smiled wolfishly down at Crossman.

  ‘Misfire,’ murmured the major, and he drove the sword hard down.

  Crossman rolled aside, but the point of the sword went through the fleshy part of his underarm, pinning him to the mud. Zinski however had overbalanced, slipping in the slush on the ground. He fell heavily on top of Crossman. The sergeant smelt Zinski’s breath in his nostrils, an offensive odour of red cabbage and meat. Crossman dropped his pistol and wrenched his German hunting knife from his belt.

  Zinski tried to get to his feet, but Crossman had gripped the officer’s coat collar with his injured hand. Zinski punched Crossman several times in the face, trying to make him let go of the coat. Crossman held on like grim death.

  Finally, there was an opening. Crossman drove the knife blade into Zinski’s throat, downwards towards the lungs, opening up the man’s chest. Zinski’s eyes widened. The Russian major clutched at Crossman, eventually managing to get a hold on Crossman’s neck. He pressed down hard with his thick thumbs in the hollow below the Adam’s apple, trying to cut off Crossman’s oxygen.

  Crossman savagely twisted the knife still lodged in the major’s throat and chest. He worked it back and forth until the fingers around his neck gradually loosened. The major finally let go and attempted to wrench himself free of the blade. Crossman’s response was to force it in further, using both hands. Zinski rattled out a choking sound and rolled away from Crossman, clutching the gushing wound.

  As Crossman freed himself from the sword, Zinski staggered away into the wind, choking and gasping. Then the Russian fell full length and face down in the slush. He lay there gargling.

  Crossman felt a thump on the shoulder.

  He looked up. Peterson had returned for him. There were other shapes in the distance behind her, presumably Russians, like phantoms battling against the storm. She helped Crossman to his feet and the two of them went off into the remains of the vineyard.

  Jarrard was waiting for them. The American blazed away with his Colt at the dark shapes following Crossman and Peterson, causing the figures to fade away for cover. Jarrard then went on ahead, while Peterson helped the wounded sergeant up the slope. It was a case of two steps forward, one step back, but they eventually made it to the top. Finally they reached the cave where the horses were corralled. Inside the cave, Jarrard, Wynter and Ali were already discussing a defence.

  Such preparations proved to be unnecessary, for the storm did not abate, in fact it increased in intensity. For twenty-four hours the wind and rain raged at the Crimean peninsula. In the cave, five soldiers and a war correspondent waited patiently, ready to ride out when the wind dropped to a safe velocity.

  Lovelace slipped in and out of consciousness. Ali was doing his best for the injured man. The Bashi-Bazouk had lit a fire from the charcoal of an old goatherd’s fire in the cave. He had wrapped the major in a blanket and was cleaning up the abrasions and cuts on his body.

  Crossman knew that if the major died, he too would probably die, but that was not his main reason for hoping that Lovelace lived. He had strong feelings for Major Lovelace – regarded him almost as an older brother – and it would have hurt him deeply to lose that adopted brother.

  As Jarrard bandaged Crossman’s wounded shoulder, he said, ‘You’ve been punctured so many times now it’s a wonder the air doesn’t hiss out of you, leaving you a shrivelled balloon!’

  Crossman sighed. ‘Rupert, I swear your knowledge of science is appalling sometimes.’

  ‘My knowledge of science is far superior to yours, Jack, and well you know it. I can see you’re worried about Major Lovelace. I think he will live. But you have no need to worry. We questioned him before you and Peterson got back to the cave. It seems you told the truth about the traitor, Captain Barker. Ali, Wynter and I will testify to that at any court martial. Isn’t that so, you men?’

  Ali and Wynter gruffly agreed with the American, though something in their faces made Crossman think it was the first time they had heard of such a thing.

  Crossman looked keenly and suspiciously at Jarrard.

  ‘Major Lovelace has not spoken a word, except to groan in pain, the whole time I’ve been in the cave.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ replied Jarrard, now cleaning his Colt revolver in a preoccupied fashion, ‘but nevertheless he did speak before you and Peterson arrived back. He told us Barker was a traitor and that he had ordered you and Dalton-James to assassinate him. There,’ he looked down the barrel into the glowing fire to see that it was clear and shining, ‘you have it on the word of a gentleman. I shall swear it on the Bible at your court martial, Jack, and glaring at me like that will do you no good whatsoever – you can’t subvert the truth with dark looks, you know.’

  ‘If
it is the truth.’

  ‘You doubt my word? I take affront. However, since you are a close friend, I’ll overlook it this time. Next time, beware. I’ll challenge you to a duel. And I am a good shot, as you’ve already witnessed.’

  ‘Rupert, you are an incorrigible rogue.’

  ‘I hope so, for as a Westerner I’m supposed to be rough and tough, though made of good honest dust.’

  When the wind finally dropped, the group mounted their horses and rode out. Major Lovelace had to be held in his saddle by Peterson, who shared the same mount. Because of this, progress was a little slow. Eventually they reached the Woronzoff Road and crossed it without running into any Russians. Peterson and Wynter took the major to the small cottage hospital at Kadikoi, while Crossman went to report to General Buller.

  As Crossman strode towards the general’s quarters, he saw that Major Paynte was waiting outside. It seemed incredible, but it appeared that the major had been waiting for Crossman’s return, loitering daily outside the general’s place. When Crossman passed him, Major Paynte looked into Crossman’s eyes and saw the answer to his question there. Without another word, the corpulent officer turned on his heel and walked away.

  Crossman gave a full report of the peloton’s activities to General Buller, saying that they had Major Lovelace safely in hospital.

  ‘He’s in a bad way, sir, but hopefully he’ll pull through.’

  ‘I’ll question him when he’s better, but I’m sure it’s merely a formality. You would not have returned with the only man who could clear you if you were not innocent of the crime of which you’ve been accused. I’m sure that’s not the only reason you rescued the major, but I am relieved for both of you.’