The Brave Captains

by V. A. Stuart

  “What is it, O’Leary?” he demanded.

  “Drink this, sorr,” the seaman urged, thrusting a pannikin into his hand. “’Twill put fresh heart into ye, so it will, and drive the stiffness from your leg. ’Tis a drop of the good stuff, sorr. I’ll have your horse saddled and waiting by the time you have the last drop swallowed. The pity is I’ve not any more to be giving that horse of yours, too, for in truth, sorr, the poor crater’s in a worse state than you are yourself.”

  Still dazed with sleep, Phillip thanked him. He gulped down the potent mixture of rum and lime juice in the pannikin and this had the effect his orderly had promised it would—probably, he thought gratefully, because O’Leary had added his own grog ration to it. Fully dressed, as he had lain down, save for his cap and pilot jacket, he donned these and limped to the entrance of the tent aware, as he drew back the flap, that it was daylight but that a thick, impenetrable mist hid even his own outstretched hand from his sight. He had shaved, after a fashion, the previous evening but, passing his fingers over his chin and feeling the night’s growth of stubble on it, he sighed, and reached for his razor again. Shaving with cold water was by no means easy and he found himself wishing, as he scraped at his chin, that the Navy might be granted official permission to grow full beards, in addition to the permitted side and chinwhiskers, particularly in conditions such as these.

  His shave finished, he again donned his cap and stepped out into the grey dimness, to look about him in bleary-eyed bewilderment. Only O’Leary’s shouted, “Over here, sorr!” enabled him to grope his way to his horse. “Sure, you can’t see a thing,” the big Irishman said, with irrepressible cheerfulness. “But they say Sir Colin Campbell’s about to ride to the Scotchmen’s position, so I took the liberty of waking ye, for I thought you’d be wanting to go with him. They’re over yonder …” He waved vaguely into the damp curtain of mist. “If you’ll get up, sorr, I’ll take ye to them.”

  “Can you find them, in this?” Phillip asked.

  O’Leary assisted him into the saddle. “I’ve a fine bump of locality … I’ll find ’em. And if you’re back here in a couple of hours, sorr”—he lowered his voice to a confidential whisper—“the naval cooks have rigged some kind of an oven contraption and they say they’ll give us all a hot meal without another soul being the wiser. Sure, a man can’t lay a gun properly on an empty belly, can he, sorr? And with your permission, Mr Hazard, I’ve volunteered to lay one of the Vesuvius’ guns in Number Four Battery, seeing the gunlayer’s down with the cholera.”

  He was a good man, Phillip thought, for all his reputation as a “Queen’s hard bargain” and a rebel, and, in any case, most of the trouble he had got himself into aboard the Trojan had been a direct result of the late Captain North’s persecution of him. In a situation like this, Able-Seaman Joseph O’Leary was worth his weight in gold.

  “Certainly you can have my permission, O’Leary,” he agreed, as the horse moved hesitantly forward. “That’s what you came ashore for, is it not?”

  “It is, sorr …” The mist hid his grin but it was there. “Now, if you’ll steer a mite to port, I believe you’ll find the other gentlemen getting mounted. Good luck, sorr!”

  “And to you, O’Leary,” Phillip answered warmly. He steered the required course and duly found himself among Sir Colin Campbell’s staff, sitting their horses patiently, as they waited for the mist to disperse. But Sir Colin, he realized, was not with them.

  “Sir Colin has gone ahead,” a young lieutenant of the 93rd informed him, “guided by one of my platoon sergeants on foot. I’ve never seen him so impatient. It’s as if he feels it in his bones that an attack is coming and, although he ordered the rest of us to wait until we could see where we’re going, he had to be there. But you can see nothing in this infernal mist, can you? I only hope my fellow doesn’t contrive to lose his way because that would be a disaster!”

  With the first lightening of the eastern sky, the mounted officers moved forward to the rising ground occupied by the 93rd, where—to their relief—the shadowy figure of their Brigade commander could be seen pacing slowly up and down between the Highlanders’ ranks. To a diffident enquiry from Colonel Sterling as to whether he wished to ride on to the Cavalry Division Camp, which was his usual practice at this hour, Sir Colin shook his head.

  “No, no … I’ll stay here. Something is wrong, I can sense it but—” he was interrupted by the dull echo of a single gun, fired from his right front, and Phillip heard him stifle an exclamation as he turned to an immensely tall officer who stood close by. “That,” he asserted positively, “came from Canrobert’s Hill.”

  A moment later, as if in confirmation of his words, came the crackle of musketry and the deep roar of heavy gunfire from the same direction and when, with a suddenness that was startling, the mist receded, an aide-de-camp could be seen approaching at full gallop, leaning low over his horse’s neck.

  “And that,” a deep voice observed gravely, “means trouble, I fancy, Sir Colin.” Phillip recognized the tall officer in green cavalry uniform, who stood at Sir Colin Campbell’s side, as Colonel Beatson, the Bashi-Bazook commander of whom Alex Sheridan had spoken the previous day. His voice, although grave, was without a tremor and he added quietly, “The Turks, it seems, are being attacked on two sides.”

  “Pray God they hold, Colonel,” Sir Colin answered.

  “Pray God that Lord Lucan is able to give them some support, sir. Judging by the volume of that gunfire, they are being attacked by a large force and”—Beatson’s heavy brows met in a frown as, head on one side, he listened—“I fear they are only replying with musketry at present. Well, sir, if you will permit me to do so, I think I had better rejoin my brigade. It is possible that General Scarlett may have need of me, in the circumstances.”

  Sir Colin held out his hand and the two men took leave of each other with a mutual respect and liking that, Phillip thought, watching them, was very evident. Then, as a dragoon orderly led the Colonel’s horse up, Sir Colin turned and resumed his measured pacing of the Highlanders’ ranks, pausing here and there to address the men, his voice raised so that they might all hear him.

  “Remember, 93rd, there’s no retreat from here …” His accent was rich and strong. “Ye maun die where ye stand, if need be.”

  “Aye, Sir Colin, we’ll dae that, never fear,” one of the sergeants assured him and, from man to man and rank to rank, the Highlanders responded in similar heartening fashion to his stern injunction. “We’ll hae nane but Hie’land bonnets here!” a young grenadier company subaltern shouted, and the men about him grinned and raised a subdued cheer. They stood to their arms on the crest of the hill and, with two Turkish battalions on the right flank and a company of a hundred invalids—lately returned from hospital at Scutari—in support, awaited the arrival of the galloping cavalry aide. As they did so, Phillip saw one of the invalids, a tall, fair-haired Regimental Sergeant-Major of the 42nd, suddenly break ranks and approach Colonel Ainslie, limping perceptibly.

  “Sir!” The 93rd’s commanding officer turned to face him and he saluted, standing smartly to attention. “Will you grant me permission, sir, to join the 93rd? My place is with them, sir.” He smiled and added, echoing the young ensign who had quoted Sir Colin Campbell, “Amang the Hie’land bonnets, where I belong and where I had the honour to be at the Alma. My regiment is not here but I doubt, sir, if that’s their fault or their wish.”

  The Colonel eyed him approvingly. “I doubt very much if it is. What is your name, Sergeant-Major?”

  “Menzies, sir—Peter Menzies.”

  Colonel Ainslie gave the required permission. “We shall be proud to have you with us, Sergeant-Major Menzies.”

  “Thank you very much, sir.” Phillip watched him go, a tall, determined figure in his fine Highland bonnet and patched scarlet jacket and saw him, a few minutes later—his limp hardly noticeable now—place himself in the front rank of the Grenadier Company of the 93rd … just as Lord Lucan’s aide jerked his pan
ting horse to a standstill beside Sir Colin Campbell and breathlessly delivered his message.

  “The Turks in Number 1 Redoubt on Canrobert’s Hill are under attack, sir, from the direction of Kamara as well as to their front. Lord Lucan has instructed me to tell you that the Russians are advancing in very large numbers, supported by cavalry and field guns, from the direction of Tchergoun and the Baidar Valley, having crossed the river. They appear to be about to attack the Causeway Heights, sir, and the Turkish redoubts guarding the road.”

  “Have you any estimate of their numbers?” Sir Colin asked.

  The young officer shook his head. “I can only tell you that they are in very considerable strength, sir. His lordship has sent word of the attack to Lord Raglan and has requested immediate infantry support. He has ordered out the Cavalry Division, together with a troop of Horse Artillery, and they are mounting now.”

  “Does Lord Lucan intend to support the Turks?” was Sir Colin’s next question and, once again, the A.D.C. could only shake his head. “I am instructed to inform you that his lordship will take the first opportunity that occurs to confer with you, sir. In the meantime he will send you what news of the enemy’s movements he is able to obtain, sir.”

  Sir Colin thanked and dismissed him, with a composed, “Assure his lordship, if you please, that I shall be here, whenever he is at liberty to confer with me. And tell him that I will send Captain Barker’s battery to aid him in his endeavour to support the Turks.” He added, to no one in particular, as his own staff gathered about him, “Let us say that it will take forty minutes for Lord Lucan’s request for support to reach Lord Raglan. Then a further two or three hours for one of the infantry divisions to march down from the plateau … even if the order is given at once, which may not be the case. That means, gentlemen, that we must hold on here for the next three hours at least, with the force we have now and such support as the Cavalry Division is able to provide. Well, I suppose it must be done and every minute the Turks can delay the enemy’s advance will be in our favour. But I should like more information concerning the enemy’s movements and numbers—and General Bosquet must be told, of course.”

  He gave his orders with calm confidence. An alert Captain Barker was instructed to support the Cavalry Division; three mounted officers were sent forward to report the position on Canrobert’s Hill and the Causeway, and another to the French First Division on the Sapouné Ridge, with orders to bring back a report of all that could be seen from General Bosquet’s command post. Sir Colin then despatched Captain Shadwell in search of the Turkish commander, Rustem Pasha, and, turning to Phillip, began, “Mr Hazard, it would be as well if you were to arrange to have a message transmitted to Admiral Lyons. Inform him that—” with a murmured apology, Colonel Sterling interrupted him, “A galloper is here with a dispatch from Colonel Hurdle on the Marine Heights, sir. He says that it is urgent.”

  Sir Colin read the dispatch, a grim little smile playing about his lips. “It would seem,” he told his staff, “that our Turkish spy brought us a most exact estimate of the enemy’s strength and intentions last night. Colonel Hurdle tells me that Liprandi appears to be about to launch a full-scale attack on our forward position. His main body is moving forward in five columns from the river, with a very large force of cavalry, which he estimates at over thirty squadrons, and they are escorting more than this number of field guns. The Turks will be overwhelmed …” he added a few technical details and then told Phillip, “Your Admiral has signalled that he is coming ashore at once. He expects to join us here within the next hour or—” again he was interrupted, this time by Colonel Ainslie, who rode over to announce that Lord Lucan had his cavalry mounted and formed up in front of their camp.

  “And look, Sir Colin,” the 93rd’s commanding officer went on, “are those not the Greys advancing now to the support of the Turks?” He pointed and, following the direction he had indicated, Phillip saw that some squadrons of the Greys were crossing the South Valley and making for Canrobert’s Hill. Easily distinguished, even at that distance, by their tall bearskins and fine grey horses, they were galloping resolutely across the open ground, a troop of Horse Artillery with them and Barker’s a little way behind, spurring after them. As the watchers gathered about Sir Colin Campbell held their breath, the first troop unlimbered and, turning their six-pounder guns on a tightly packed column of Russian infantry advancing from Kamara, opened a rapid and determined fire. The Russian column halted and, when the second troop caught up with and unlimbered to the right of the first, the whole enemy column was seen to be withdrawing out of range.

  The British Horse Artillery’s success was, however, short lived. As the column of infantry fell back, a Russian battery, escorted by Cossacks, advanced to take their place, followed by two others, which opened up unexpectedly from the south-eastern slopes of the Causeway Heights. Their fire was accurate and deadly, and the British six-and nine-pounders were no match for the Russian twelve’s. Under a withering cannonade, the British gunners received the signal to retire, but, as they started to limber up a shell burst in their midst, killing a number of men and horses and—as Phillip learnt later—severely wounding the able and gallant battery commander, Captain Maude. They were too far away for those watching from the 93rd’s position to see clearly what was happening and the whole area was clouded with gunsmoke, but one of Sir Colin Campbell’s aides came dashing back at that moment, with the alarming intelligence that the Tunisian auxiliaries in No. 1 Redoubt were no longer returning the enemy’s fire.

  “They’ve suffered very heavy casualties, sir,” the A.D.C. said breathlessly. “And are being attacked on two sides by Russian field guns. I don’t believe they’ll hold for much longer, they—” He pointed despairingly. “Look, sir, they’re running!”

  He was right, Phillip saw. The Turkish auxiliaries in No. 1 Redoubt, evidently fearing that, with the withdrawal of the British cavalry and artillery, they were about to be left to their fate, had given up all attempts at resistance. Although the remnants of Maude’s battery joined Barker’s and again unlimbered and opened fire, covered by two squadrons of the Greys, it was too late. Led by a mounted officer, the Tunisians came scrambling down the slope to the rear of Canrobert’s Hill in wild disorder, flinging down their muskets and accoutrement as they ran. They screamed their terror aloud when some of the Cossack skirmishers spurred after them, to halt their flight with ruthless barbarity, riding down the wounded and using their lances and pistols on the others.

  A large, massed force of Russian infantry, the pale early morning sunlight glinting on their bayonets, started to move towards the abandoned redoubt, their assault preceded by a prolonged cannonade. Then several Cossacks leapt their wiry little horses over its ramparts and the redoubt was carried, the infantry making a bayonet charge on the heroic handful of defenders who remained. Evidently, Phillip decided, watching through his Dollond, the retreat had been too precipitate to allow time for the three naval twelve-pounder guns to be spiked since, a little later, these were again firing … only this time their fire was directed against the second redoubt, on the south side of the Woronzoff Road.

  The terrified Tunisian gunners fired a single ragged volley of musketry from behind their low parapet, and then, as the Russian shells started to fall among them, they fled from No. 2 Redoubt in the same hopeless confusion as their comrades had displayed earlier, making no attempt to cover their retreat. Again the Cossacks galloped after them and few escaped their merciless pursuit. Some made for No. 3 Redoubt, hoping to find shelter there; one or two, bolder than their fellows, turned on their pursuers, seeking to unhorse them before the lances could strike home, but the majority ran shrieking at the pitch of their lungs towards the 93rd’s lines, leaving the plain below them littered with their dead.

  “They must be stopped,” Sir Colin Campbell said, still not raising his voice. “Lawrence, ask Rustem Pasha, if you please, to send some of his officers to meet and rally them. They can form up with his regiments on our right
.”

  “Sir,” Colonel Sterling put in, “the cavalry are falling back and Captain Barker’s troop is returning.”

  The Heavy Cavalry Brigade was now, Phillip saw, positioned below and to the left of Canrobert’s Hill, the Light Brigade some distance to their rear, below No’s 3 and 4 Redoubts, both of which were still putting up a brave show of resistance. But when the Scots Greys, covering Maude’s troop, rejoined General Scarlett, the whole Brigade—menaced by a large body of Russian cavalry and under fire from Canrobert’s Hill and the eastern end of the Causeway—withdrew still further, the Turco-Tunisians in No. 3 Redoubt followed the example of their fellows and fled.

  Those in No. 4 continued to hold out, delivering a well-directed fire into No. 3 as the Russians made to take possession of it and, from the Sapouné Ridge above them, General Bosquet’s mortars put an end to the Cossacks’ slaughter. As a result, when the time came for them to seek safety in flight, many of the defenders in No. 4—having spiked their guns—deservedly succeeded in reaching the 93rd’s lines.

  The Cavalry Division was forced to fall back still further and their withdrawal brought them into the 93rd’s line of fire and that of Captain Barker’s Battery of nine-pounders which, having received a fresh supply of ammunition, was endeavouring to cover the Turk’s retreat. Observing this, Sir Colin Campbell said, “I will, I think, ride over to confer with Lord Lucan, gentlemen, and suggest that his lordship places his Division so as to guard our left flank. The Turks have gained us an hour and a half … let us use this to the best advantage we can. Colonel Ainslie!”

  “Yes, Sir Colin?” The 93rd’s commanding officer was at his side.

  “The Russians on Canrobert’s Hill will have our range very soon. To avoid unnecessary casualties among your men, order them to retire a few paces and lie down behind the crest of the hill. Our turn is coming next, I fancy, but while we are waiting, I don’t doubt that our naval gunners and the Marine Artillery on the Heights will make good practice. Eh, Mr Hazard?” He turned to Phillip, a faint smile curving his lips.