‘Pick off those breakaways,’ he yelled at his men. ‘Peterson, Ali . . .’
The peloton discharged their weapons at the Cossacks but emptied only one saddle. Fortunately, instead of keeping their heads and dismounting, the front two Cossacks rode on to the bridge. It was plainly only a footbridge and an old one at that, the woodwork rotten in places. Within a few seconds both horses and riders had plunged through the planks and crashed on to the rocks below. The other Cossacks reined their mounts and turned them from the bridge.
Crossman and his men reached the two Cossacks. One was on his feet, drawing his sabre. Ali plunged a dagger into his chest on the run, leaving him to fall with a groan beside his screaming charger. The other was trapped under a struggling beast, which was unable to rise because of a broken leg. They did not bother with him. In the meantime the remainder of the Cossack vanguard had finally dismounted and were climbing along the remains of the bridge. Crossman and Ali were able to pick them off with careful aim, using revolvers. Devlin, Wynter and the others reloaded and discharged their weapons at the rest of the oncoming cavalry, causing them to wheel away from the bridge.
Once the bridge was behind them the river bed widened again and Crossman’s men were safe from a direct encounter.
All afternoon and into the evening the two parties travelled like this, with the Cossacks sometimes within range of the carbines, and at others just blue dots on the horizon. Never did the two groups lose sight of each other, so that when darkness came and both had to stop because of danger of injuries, they could see each other’s camp fires in the distance.
‘No point in not having a fire,’ said Crossman, ‘since they know where we are anyway and they can’t cross that black piece of wilderness without endangering themselves, even without their horses. We might as well be comfortable. They’re probably thinking the same.’
Still, he roused his men at first light and urged them to break camp quickly. Before the sun was over the hills they were on their way into the next valley. Unfortunately the Cossacks had risen even earlier and had gone off in half-darkness. Again the game of tag continued throughout the morning, with the Rangers sticking to rough ground and the Cossacks circling them, trailing alongside, using the better paths.
Finally the Rangers came to the gorge which led to the fishing village of Balaclava. Here they had to make a run for it, down the gorge, with the Cossacks now in full pursuit. When the horsemen were in range, the small peloton of the 88th turned and fired, unseating two of the riders. There were at least fifty of them. They came on at full gallop.
‘Steady lads,’ said Crossman, realizing they had to make a stand. ‘Take your positions. Pick your man. Don’t waste shots – aim for the horses.’
‘These damn carbines,’ complained Peterson. ‘If I had a Minié now I’d take more than one of them with me . . .’
They fired at will, Crossman emptying his revolver into the main wedge of blue horsemen. It seemed as if they were going to be overwhelmed this time. There were too many Cossacks to hold back for ever. Soon they were close enough for the Rangers to see their weathered, creased faces and almond eyes. There was a determined look in those eyes, the eyes of plainsmen who know when they have their quarry cornered. Sabres were unsheathed at the gallop. A rush of wind billowed through blue cloth, Crossman could see rows of even teeth in the wide mouths of the oncoming Cossacks.
‘They’re laughing, damn them,’ he cried. ‘They think they’ve got us at last. Give them all you’ve got lads. Fire your weapons one more time, then use them as clubs. Take them out of their saddles . . .’
The foremost Cossack rode straight at Crossman, knowing him to be the leader. Crossman had one last round in his Tranter five-shot pistol, an unofficial weapon but one dear to the sergeant’s heart. He squeezed the first trigger, bringing the loaded chamber into line with the hammer, then squeezed the second, the firing trigger. The round went through the Cossacks’ face just left of his nose, flipping him backwards from his saddle. His wild little charger went careering away, swerving off to the side, its leathers flapping.
Crossman rushed forward and snatched the sabre from the dead man’s hand. Then he stood there, waiting as the rest of the troop bore down on him. He swished the sword menacingly, defiantly, ready to do battle with the next man.
The rider came, swept by Crossman, reaching down and slicing with his sabre. Crossman felt it shave by his left shoulder as he was striking out himself. His own sword bit into the cavalryman’s boot, cutting through the leather and into the foot as if it were cheese. A yell came from the rider’s mouth, but whether it was pain or anger Crossman never learned, for at that moment he noticed something extraordinary.
A woman was riding along a ridge high above them, looking down on the battle scene. She was dressed in riding habit, with a long, flowing chiffon scarf tied around her hat. The wounded Cossack had noticed her too and his eyes followed her for a moment in astonishment. She seemed calm but interested, staring down at them, looking for all the world as if she were hacking in Rotten Row and had come upon a troop of Her Majesty’s Guards training in Hyde Park.
Just then Wynter shouted, and there was joy in his voice: ‘We’re saved! Our lads are coming! Sergeant!’
Crossman did not turn round for fear of being ridden down by the Cossacks. He watched though, as those in front reined their horses, wheeled, and began galloping off to the north. The injured one joined them. At the same time there was the sound of a fusillade behind his Rangers. Finally, he turned to see the picquets of the 93rd Foot, the red-coated Sutherland Highlanders, firing over their heads from their positions on the sides of the gorge.
Another company of the 93rd came at a run, down the throat of the valley. A troop of Royal Horse Artillery were also approaching at the gallop, bringing up field guns.
Wynter let out a cheer and was joined by the other Rangers.
‘Hurrah for the ladies in kilts,’ shouted Clancy. ‘To the rescue, my Scotchmen friends.’
‘A week ago you were punching them on the jaw,’ grunted Grossman, still unable to cure his men of their preference for using the incorrect term, Scotchmen. ‘Now they’re your best friends.’
Crossman and his men gathered themselves together and walked towards the 93rd’s picquets. Looking as they did like a band of renegade brigands they were challenged and Crossman called out that they were a group of 88th in civilian clothes, coming in to report to Major Lovelace, staff officer to General Buller.
‘You’re 88th?’ cried a Highlander’s voice. ‘Ah’m no so sure I wouldna prefer to shoot a few Paddies rather than Cossacks.’
There was general laughter from the soldiers around him.
‘I’ll give him Paddy,’ growled the cherubic-looking Clancy. ‘I’ll mash his face for him.’
‘Now, now, lad, just a joke, ye ken,’ said a sergeant-major, stepping out of a cluster of boulders. ‘Don’t take it tae heart sae quick, like.’
Crossman grinned and shook his head. ‘Well, well, Sarn-Major McIntyre. How do you do, Jock? To the rescue once again, eh? This time you saved me and my lads from a tussle with the Cossacks which we were not likely to win.’
‘Sergeant Jack Crossman? Is that you under that rotting beast? What are ye doing inside a mountain goat?’
Crossman laughed, delighted to see his old friend.
‘The sheepskin coat? It’s what all the best Irish regiments are wearing this autumn. You Highlanders are so far behind the fashion of the day, Jock.’
Jock McIntyre shook his head sadly. ‘What a set of rogues. I don’t know how you do it, Jack Crossman, I’m sure I don’t. Here we are, the best regiment in the British army – the best in the world, in fact – and we get the boring jobs of guarding the passes. Well, on your way, man. I’ll be looking for a dram later, by way of reward.’
‘And you shall have it, Jock.’
Crossman took his men on down through the gorge, giving the sergeant-major a last wave.
Clancy sai
d, ‘Pretty pally with the ladies, aren’t we?’
Crossman glowered. ‘You keep a civil tongue in your head, sir. If you want to hate someone, try the Cossacks. My advice is to try to get along with everyone, but I doubt you’ll take it, lad, because you’re of a mind to hate.’
Clancy thus silenced, he turned around to find that a woman on a horse blocked the path. The only way around her was out on the road, which was ankle-deep mud. She sat high on a side-saddle, peering down at him with a strange expression. He knew her name of course. It was Mrs Durham. Mrs Lavinia Durham.
‘Alexander?’ she said in a shocked voice. ‘Is that you? I’d know that voice anywhere, even if the man did look like an Assyrian wolf come down from the hills. That is you, isn’t it Alexander Kirk? Speak again. Let me hear your voice.’
‘Out of my way, ma’am,’ growled Crossman, highly alarmed. ‘Out of my way, if you please. You have me confused with another man, I’m sure. I’d be obliged if you would pull your mount aside and let me and my men pass.’
She did so, eventually, but he did not like the look in her eyes and guessed that he had not seen the last of Mrs Durham.
5
When Crossman reached the hovel he found Lovelace inside, waiting for his report.
‘Well, Sergeant? No rifles for me?’
‘No, sir,’ said Crossman, taking off his cap. ‘We have them, but they are buried in the hills. There was no caravan. The rifles were being carried by a company of infantry . . .’
Crossman told the story of the fox hunt, while Lovelace listened patiently. Crossman’s men were gathered around, listening also, not correcting any details for that would have earned a rebuke from Major Lovelace. Afterwards, he would talk quietly with each of them in turn, knowing the importance of different perspectives, aware that one man might have noticed something another had not. Always gleaning information, piecing together pictures of the enemy’s movements, size, regiments.
And the men respected Major Lovelace, were gratified that he should ask their opinion, should seek their view on things. It made them realize they were not unimportant, even as lowly soldiers of a line regiment. The major made them feel they were doing a worthwhile job, work of value. It raised their own confidence, their status in their own eyes, and made them more effective to him in terms of striving and loyalty. They were prepared to give their all simply to please the major, to earn a ‘well done’, to stand in the light of his favour.
‘Tell me about the rifles, sir,’ asked Crossman. ‘What was their significance?’
‘You noticed they were breach-loaders? Well, the rifle was the invention of one Captain Patrick Ferguson of the 71st Highlanders. He commanded the Light Infantry Company of his regiment in the Americas in 1776. There were claims that six aimed shots a minute could be fired from his rifle – four when moving forward at walking pace – and the weapon was extremely accurate up to 500 yards, but would of course shoot much further.
‘Unfortunately, Ferguson’s company did not prosper, even though the weapon proved itself. I suspect the manufacturing costs were too great for army purchasers. The army lost interest in the project. Ferguson himself was killed at Kings Mountain in 1780, along with his men, and his rifles fell into American hands. They were preserved in a private armoury, and purchased by Russian agents this year.
‘The weapons were shipped to Sebastopol and arrived just as the allied armies stepped on shore. The Czar heard about the rifles and ordered them to be sent to St Petersburg, where a company is ready to copy the design to supply Russian troops. It appears that our audacity in invading his country has been responsible for opening the coffers of the Czar to an almost limitless degree. Since we blockaded their port, the Russians decided to send them overland. You have prevented those rifles from becoming standard equipment throughout the Russian army.’
Crossman asked, ‘You think if we managed to retrieve the hidden rifles, they could be manufactured for the British army?’
‘I doubt it,’ Lovelace said, sighing. ‘The old problem still holds – the expense. Perhaps even the Russians wouldn’t have produced them in any great numbers, but we had to make sure. It’s possible of course that now the Russians have an idea how the breach-loaders work they may still be able to manufacture them, but it will take them longer to produce them without a Ferguson to use as a template. By the time they do the war will probably be over—’
‘They had Miniés too,’ interrupted Peterson.
Lovelace nodded. ‘Some of the Russian army was supplied with Miniés after their setback at the Alma. I’m afraid we’ve lost our advantage so far as the murderous effect of the Minié is concerned.’
‘They an’t got our calibre of soldier, though, have they?’ said Wynter in a burst of patriotic fervour. ‘They an’t got the likes of us.’
Lovelace gave Crossman an old-fashioned look and then said, ‘No, quite right, Wynter, the British soldier is unique.’
Wynter seemed satisfied with this reply.
Lieutenant Dalton-James came over later and was briefed by Crossman and Lovelace.
‘You’d better come with me, Sergeant,’ said the haughty Dalton-James, ‘and explain to General Buller yourself just why the fox hunt was only partially successful.’
Dalton-James moderated his criticism only because of the presence of Major Lovelace. He knew the major would side with Crossman, having himself experienced rebukes from Lovelace in the past when he had given the sergeant a dressing-down. There seemed to be a bond between the major and sergeant which was not quite the thing. Dalton-James disapproved of friendships between commissioned officers and the ranks. It was bad for morale and bad for discipline. He had no doubt the major would come to regret this unwise attachment.
When Dalton-James and Crossman arrived outside General Buller’s room, in a small farmhouse, they found him in conversation with the Commander-in-Chief, Lord Raglan. They waited in the corridor for the conversation to finish. General Campbell, commander of the Highland Brigade, was also present within. The two men outside could not help but overhear the talk.
‘We must attack now, sir,’ Buller was saying. ‘Cathcart has pleaded with you and now I am pleading with you.’
General Cathcart had almost demanded an immediate attack on Sebastopol after the dreadful Flank March down from the Alma, through dense foliage in which men lost sight of one another. Such a hazardous march, ending in catching up with the rear of Prince Menshikoff’s retreating army at Mackenzie’s Farm, the home of a Scottish settler, would only have been justified by a swift storming of the north of the city. In the event all that occurred was a skirmish with Menshikoff’s troops and the capture of a baggage train containing, among other things, ladies’ lingerie and, to the delight of some of the young officers, risqué French novels.
‘Canrobert is against it, General Buller.’
‘Sir,’ said Buller, his voice almost groaning, ‘if we do not attack we shall prolong this war beyond what is tolerable. Every day they build their defences higher. We face a terrible winter in this part of the world. Any losses we suffer during an attack on Sebastopol at this moment will be doubled by the winter if we sit and wait.’
Sir Colin Campbell said, ‘I’m afraid I have to agree with General Buller here, my lord.’
Lord Raglan’s soft and measured tones, his gentle reply, was almost too low for the men outside to hear.
‘Gentlemen, I understand your fears, but Burgoyne believes we have to wait for the siege train. As you know, we are placing guns all around Sebastopol. Soon we shall be in a position to destroy any defences the Russians may or may not have placed in our path. Our primary task is to bombard Sebastopol and our secondary task is to establish a supply base at Balaclava. This is my decision, gentlemen. Now I bid you good morning.’
Lord Raglan came out of the room with his aide, who had remained silent throughout, and left the house.
After their Commander-in-Chief had gone, Buller said to Campbell, ‘We have extended our lines over
six miles of hilly ground to encompass Balaclava – how in blazes does he justify that?’
Campbell sighed. ‘I don’t know – I don’t know – but we have our orders and we must carry them through. I’m going to have a word with General Scarlett. Perhaps he can do something to persuade Lord Raglan of the precariousness of our position and the bleak future we face if we delay our attack any longer.’
Once Campbell had gone Dalton-James took Crossman in to see a brooding Buller. The general was slouched in a rickety chair in front of what appeared to be a butcher’s table, being made of thick wood, deeply scored and hollowed where presumably it had been scrubbed clean of blood. There was a hand-drawn map on the table, open where the general had been studying it. A crude compass lay by this chart. The general had been usefully employing talented soldiers at drawing maps and making rough compasses, since both were in very short supply.
The general’s face brightened on seeing the men before him.
‘Well, how did it go?’ he asked.
Dalton-James nodded to Crossman, who said, ‘Good and bad, sir.’
‘You captured the rifles?’
‘Yes, sir, but we had to bury them. There were no mules or horses to carry them.’
Buller’s face fell for an instant, then it brightened again.
‘You know where they are? We’ll send your Bashi-Bazouk out with a beast of burden or two. The Turk will bring them back for us. He’s a good man – what’s his name . . .?’
‘Yusuf Ali, General,’ supplied Dalton-James, eager to be part of the conversation now that it was clear no row was going to ensue. ‘I’ll find another Turk to go with him.’
‘Right. Well done, Sergeant. See to it, Lieutenant. They might be useful, those Fergusons. Any ammunition with them?’
The Valley of Death Page 7