He found the surroundings ideal for attacking supply wagons and mentally studied the landscape for an escape route, one which would hamper heavily-armed troops but allow the peloton to slip through. There were some narrow craggy passes that would be suitable for such an exit, plus some slopes with loose scree, which would hamper a larger force of men. There were also numerous thorny shrubs, rocky outcrops, and various other obstacles that would slow down pursuit.
Satisfied with the location, Crossman went back to the camp site. On reaching there he sent down Devlin and Wynter, posting them by the road to watch for any signs of company. They were not to attack anything yet, but were simply there to record any activity. Peterson came down from sentry duty, handing it over to Yusuf Ali for a while.
Clancy tended the fire and made a bush kitchen. He loved outdoor craft, which the others were pleased to let him do. He would build a rack for their camp kettle, make pegs from which to hang their water bottles, a wooden spit for roasting birds when they were able to use an open fire. He made an art of it, impressing even the jaded Bashi-Bazouk with his efforts.
Clancy had learned how to make earth-ovens in India, so that the smoke was contained by loose soil or chambers dug parallel to the fire. In these ovens he would cook pigeons and small mammals to supplement their meat ration, or roast vegetables until they were soft and succulent in their own juices. Peterson was enthralled by the backwoodsmanship of Clancy and her eyes would watch every splice of a rope. He taught her various knots and lashings, showed her how to make a bivouac out of branches and leaves, taught her how to measure vertical heights by the shadows they cast, and tell the time from the stars.
Crossman was sitting on a log making notes in a small pocket-book which he kept for the purpose, just in case he was asked at a later date where he had been, what he had been doing and for what purpose he had been doing it. Suddenly, in the late afternoon’s sunlight slanting through the trees, a set of shadows fell on him. He shivered and looked up, hearing a noise.
It was Wynter and Devlin coming back to report that they had seen travellers on the road. A squadron of Cossacks had gone through, an army detachment of sorts with wagonloads of fuel, food and ammunition: a group of young officers with an Orthodox priest, and a company of marching infantry.
‘Well done,’ said Crossman. ‘We’ll have to choose our first target carefully, strike, then move on to another part of the trail. Now, Clancy has made us some bread in that underground oven of his. We’ll need to maintain our strength for the action ahead.’
Crossman chose an easy target for his first attack on a Russian caravan, probably coming from Yalta in the east, heading towards Sebastopol. The escort amounted to only six men – Cossacks – and the booty itself was in large crates stacked on an araba drawn by four hefty oxen. Wynter was convinced it was gold. He saw himself becoming rich in prize money. Already he had taken a sword from one of the previous Cossacks he had killed and sold it to the regiment’s paymaster for a healthy sum.
It was mid-morning, with a weak sun scattering its light amongst the trees. Crossman and his men had been waiting since dawn. They were all impatient for some action.
‘What, gold? With only six cavalrymen to guard it?’ said Peterson, sceptically.
Wynter argued, ‘But that’s only to fool us, don’t you see? It’s to make us think the load is not worth very much. I reckon it is, though. I know what I’m going to spend my money on. There’s some of the women camp-followers who give out their favours for a coin or two. I haven’t had a good shag since I left home.’
‘You had several in Turkey, you liar,’ said Peterson. ‘I’m surprised you didn’t get the pox.’
‘I don’t know as I didn’t,’ replied Wynter with a worried look, ‘but there an’t much I can do about it at the minute. I know it hurts when I piss. I’ll have to see the surgeon for some powders.’
They had no further time for discussion, because Crossman was signalling to them that the wagon was coming.
Four of the Cossacks were cut down in the first volley. Peterson got one of them through the head. Crossman and Devlin got theirs. Wynter’s target was only wounded. This man started to ride off, back along the road. Peterson tried to finish that one off too, after reloading, over a distance of about seven hundred yards. The man appeared to be hit again, but the horse carried on with the figure on its back. If he were still alive the peloton was in a little trouble. Others would be back to hunt them down.
The other two Cossacks died in the hands of Yusuf Ali, who had positioned himself behind the caravan, at the mouth of the gorge. He stood by a rock with two pistols in his hands and blazed away as the Cossacks tried to retreat into the woods. Ali caught their horses and hobbled them before joining the others at the araba.
There were two men up on the wagon, one of them a Tartar, the other a Russian soldier. The Russian was on his knees, ready to die. He had carefully placed his rifle beside him and was waiting with head bowed for the shot that would blow out his brains. The Tartar was glaring at his captors, chewing steadily on some weed or other. Staring at the bulge in the man’s cheek, Crossman guessed he was ruminating on qat, a grass drug which would have come up from one of the Arab countries.
‘Strip the Russian of his weapons and send him on his way – we can’t take prisoners,’ Crossman said.
‘I’ll have his purse,’ said Wynter, reaching into the kneeling man’s greatcoat pocket. ‘I saw him first.’
‘The sergeant said weapons,’ growled Corporal Devlin. ‘Leave the man’s personal belongings where they are, Wynter. You should be ashamed of yourself, man.’
‘Well I an’t, and that’s a fact,’ Wynter replied.
‘I’ll have your name posted up in your parish church one of these days, so help me,’ said Crossman. ‘There’ll be no looting a soldier’s private property. You may take his weapons and horse only, not his purse.’
‘Finicky,’ muttered Wynter, giving the Russian a prod with his Victoria carbine. ‘Go on, imshi. Get running.’
The man got to his feet, clearly unsure whether he should go or not. But then he saw the Tartar walking away, scowling over his shoulder, and he ran off and joined the man. The pair of them left through the end of the gorge.
‘Come on then,’ Crossman ordered, ‘get these crates opened. We need to be gone before those two bring back a whole regiment of infantry.’
Clancy and Wynter jumped up on the araba and began to prise open the lids to the crates. They were bitterly disappointed with the outcome. Jars and jars of pickled food.
‘Bloody red cabbage,’ snarled Wynter. ‘What good is that to a man?’
Crossman had to admit that he himself was a little disappointed. Here was an opportunity for some prize money, yet the one wagon they had to choose to stop was full of pickled red cabbage.
‘All right,’ he told them. ‘Take a few jars for ourselves, then smash the others. Turn the oxen loose. We’ve got six horses now. Who can ride?’
Wynter grinned. ‘We’re farm boys, Sergeant, all except Clancy. O’ course we can ride.’
‘You’ve been on plough horses, no doubt, but can you ride a Cossack charger?’
‘I can damn well try,’ Wynter grunted.
Devlin and Peterson agreed. They had been on a variety of horses, back on the farms they worked in their shires. The pair of them mounted their horses, who immediately became frisky feeling unfamiliar riders. The soldiers struggled with them, Devlin being unseated once, but after a while the horses grew calmer and began to obey commands. Wynter leaped on his chosen steed and fought it until it was under control. Ali and Crossman, both of whom could ride to an inch, subdued their mounts in a very short time.
Clancy stood and held the reins of his little charger. It shuffled and shied away from him, showing the whites of its eyes. He stared at the beast in horror. Like the others it was a small animal, almost a pony, but it frightened the wits out of him. He was obviously trying not to show his fear in front of his comrad
es.
Wynter crowed, ‘What’s the matter, an’t they got no horses in India then, eh? Good at riding a desk, I’ll be bound, but never had flesh between your thighs, Clancy. You ought to just get on quick and show him who’s master.’
Clancy bit his lip and attempted to mount, finding that the horse kicked and shied away from him.
‘Mount on the left,’ Peterson screamed at him, making him more nervous than ever. ‘Don’t ever get on a horse from the right side.’
‘I know that,’ Clancy replied desperately. ‘I was just testing him.’
Sergeant Crossman knew that Clancy had to learn how to ride very quickly. They all had horses and they were going to leave the area immediately. Clancy could not possibly stay on foot.
‘Here, I’ll hold him,’ said Crossman, feeling sorry for the man. ‘You stand on that rock over there.’
Clancy, his legs shaking violently, did as he was told. Crossman, himself on horseback, led the mount to the rock. There he stroked its nose, calming it down, while Clancy clambered awkwardly into the saddle. There he sat, bolt upright, while the horse fidgeted below him. Crossman handed him the reins.
‘Now just give him a little kick in the ribs with your heels,’ cried Wynter, delighting at Clancy’s nightmare. ‘Just a bit of a nudge . . .’
Clancy did as Wynter suggested. Immediately the stocky little horse bolted, with Clancy bouncing up and down on its back. It galloped full speed down the gorge. Clancy was white with fear, the reins loose in his hands, his legs wide apart.
‘Rein him in, rein him in,’ cried Peterson.
But her advice fell on deaf ears, for Clancy was in no mood to listen to more counsel. All the wisdom in the world would have gone in one ear and out of the other. Finally the horse bucked, sending Clancy flying through the air. His carbine went one way, and he the other. Luckily he landed on some gorse bushes, which broke his fall. He lay there amongst the prickles, stunned and unhappy, while the horse charged on out of the gorge, to some unknown destination.
Crossman rode over and looked down on the private.
‘Get up,’ he said. ‘Go and fetch your carbine and then climb up behind Peterson.’
‘I’m not going on another horse,’ said Clancy, pathetically. ‘I’m never going on another horse.’
‘Get up behind Peterson, and that’s an order,’ said Crossman. ‘He’s the lightest. If we leave you behind the Cossacks will cut off your testicles and put them on a lance to dry like nuts.’
‘I don’t think they’re good for much, anyway,’ Clancy moaned, feeling himself. ‘They got crushed by that horse, then punctured on a thorn bush.’
‘They’ll also cut out your tongue, prise out your eyes, and cut off your nose – then sew the lot inside your mouth. Up, up, lad, unless you want to die a very slow death. Get behind Peterson.’
Clancy collected his rifle. He looked a scruffy sight. His sheepskin coat was covered in gorse thorns and bits of twig. Since he was bareheaded his hair was full of dust and grit. Nevertheless he managed to find a suitable rock and was able to climb up behind his comrade. Sitting on the horse’s rump, he was as stiff as a board. There was still terror registering on his face. He gripped her around the waist, holding on painfully hard.
‘Not so tight,’ she told him angrily.
‘I’m just trying to hold on,’ complained Clancy, in a tone of exasperation. ‘That’s all I’m trying to do. God never intended us to ride beasts, of that I’m certain. They’re the devil’s own creatures.’
‘Since we’re the Devil’s Own,’ said Wynter, ‘that’s what you might call . . . somethin’,’ he ended, weakly.
‘Appropriate is the word you’re looking for, Wynter,’ said Crossman. ‘Now lead off, Ali. Take us up into the high country. They’ll be after us as soon as those two men we released find their way back to friends.’
‘We should’ve killed ’em,’ said Wynter. ‘Major Lovelace would’ve done.’
‘Do not threaten me with Major Lovelace. He is not in command, I am,’ Crossman told him. ‘Anyway, I’m not so sure even the major would kill helpless prisoners. Who would I get to blow out their brains in cold blood, eh, Wynter? You, man? Would you do it?’
‘I’d do it all right,’ Wynter replied. ‘You just watch.’
Crossman believed him. Wynter was probably capable of doing away with a Russian as he might a chicken or a wild rabbit. The Wynters of the world had a way of viewing men as animals when there was slaughter to be done.
The group made their way to a safe place that had an escape route to the rear, yet the approaches could all be seen without the watchers being observed. They hobbled the five horses and made camp for the night. Yusuf Ali ate a whole jar of pickled cabbage by himself, but the others had smaller, varying amounts, mostly just enough to stave off their hunger.
The horses had to be fed and watered. Peterson seemed quite happy to be made responsible for their well-being. Clancy offered to help her but she declined, saying that he had enough to do with his cooking and making contraptions.
All knew that she did not want to let Clancy near the creatures, for fear they would lose every mount before morning due to some act of stupidity on his part. Crossman did not blame the man. Cossack horses were almost wild animals and to start a man’s riding lessons on one of them was tantamount to committing murder.
The evening came on and the low distant sun dipped down between the peaks. Lanes of shadow developed on the valleys below. Crossman ordered that no fires should be lit, not even one of Clancy’s earth-ovens. There would be search parties out for them soon and the Cossacks had one more excuse to hunt down their hated enemies, Sergeant Crossman’s peloton.
24
The rangers managed to avoid the Russians who were out scouring the countryside for the perpetrators of the ambush. Eventually the Russians must have thought the cabbage thieves had headed back to Balaclava. After two days the search parties ceased and the road was once more usable.
Crossman felt his men were beginning to settle in a little too comfortably. He guessed it was time to move on.
Wynter and Devlin had laid snares for rabbits, hares and game birds, and because they were reasonably successful were quite willing to remain there until they had cleared the area of wildlife. These two men were old hands at poaching. In their time they had been the bane of gamekeepers and their lords, and might well have been hanged by now had they not joined the army. Crossman sent them out on patrol together to wean them away from their preoccupation with making animal traps.
Clancy, as a member of the Thugs, had throttled men with knotted cords, but was no good at strangling rabbits by the same method. A grown man with a loud mouth and skin on his back was one thing, but little furry animals were another.
Clancy’s idea of settling in was to make himself comfortable. He had constructed a pillow of dried grass wrapped in a large kerchief, which he laid at the head of his blanket. He had sticks to keep his boots in shape, a drying rack for his socks and shirt, a hook on which to hang his knapsack, and various other contrivances.
On the third evening, Devlin did not return from a two-man patrol consisting of himself and Wynter. Wynter arrived back at the cave where they had made their hideout to inform Crossman that he had last seen Devlin near an orchard.
‘He went into the orchard, while I scouted around on the outside. I thought I heard him yell, but it could have been a magpie or jay or some such bird. You know how them crow birds screech. I went back to look, but Devlin never came out. I tried callin’, not too loud though, but he never answered.’
Crossman asked, ‘You didn’t go in after him?’
‘I thought, if he’s been took by the Russians I don’t want to be took too. There’d be no one to come back here. I decided it’s best I tell you and more of us go down.’
‘Very sensible, Wynter,’ replied Crossman. ‘No point in two of you being taken, is there? Right, let’s get organized. We’ll all go. It’s time we moved camp anyway. Pe
terson, Clancy, get your knapsacks together. Wynter, go and fetch Ali, he’s doing sentry duty . . .’
They covered any traces of their having been at the cave as best they could, then struck out on the trail. Crossman handed out biscuits to everyone. Wynter took his and stuffed them in his knapsack when he thought no one was looking.
‘Not hungry, Wynter?’ asked Peterson, causing Crossman to glance at the soldier being questioned.
‘No, not just yet,’ mumbled Wynter, ‘I’ll eat ’em in a bit.’
However, Crossman observed that Wynter did not eat the biscuits, which made the sergeant a little suspicious. Wynter was never one to pass up food. He wondered whether the lance corporal was feeling sick, but was afraid to say so. The men were terrified of being sent to the hospital. Most soldiers who went there died. He decided to keep an eye on Wynter to watch for signs of exhaustion.
They reached the orchard after dark and could do nothing until light. If they lit torches they might be seen. Crossman told his men to get some sleep. They curled up in ditches and hollows, keeping out of the wind. Luckily the night was dry and they did not have to suffer lying in pools of water.
At first light, Crossman roused them. He noticed that Wynter now ate his biscuits and was relieved that he had not got a sick man on his hands. Ali immediately went into the orchard to see what he could find. The Bashi-Bazouk came out a short while later, having found a patch of dried blood.
‘Is it human blood?’ asked Crossman. ‘Could be a fox got something.’
Ali shrugged his shoulders. ‘I do not know for sure, Sergeant, but if it was fox with rabbit or bird, maybe some feather or piece of fur left too, yes? I see no such telltales. Only flat grass and patch of blood.’
The Valley of Death Page 25