by V. A. Stuart
“Great Scott—I believe we’re being attacked!” young Hewett exclaimed, his tone more astonished than alarmed. “Did you see where that volley came from, Mr Hazard?”
Phillip swung his glass in a wide are, equally puzzled. “No—” he began and broke off as a burst of musketry from the parallel immediately in front of the redoubt culminated in a high-pitched scream of agony. A soldier leapt from the trench, with blood streaming down his face, gesticulating wildly to his rear and shouting something which was lost in another prolonged burst of firing.
“The Careening Ravine!” Bully Hewett yelled, at the pitch of his lungs. “They’re coming up the Careening Ridge—hundreds of ’em, by the sound of it!” With one accord, he and Phillip ran to the parapet. Below them and to their right lay the so-called Careening Ravine, a rocky cleft in the ground of considerable depth which, rising steeply, formed the precipitous western boundary of the Inkerman Ridge. Peering over the top of the parapet, with bullets whistling over his head, Phillip saw wave after wave of Russian infantrymen emerge from the ravine—part of the force, he afterwards learned, ordered to engage the Inkerman pickets. So cautious and stealthy had been their approach, and so excellent their concealment, that the first warning the forward observation posts had had of their presence had been when they opened fire.
Their shooting was accurate and the trench guards, taken by surprise, were swiftly overwhelmed, upon which the Russian commander, realizing that his force outnumbered its opponents, evidently decided to change the direction of his attack. Hewitt’s Lancaster gun, a massive piece of 95 cwt., was trained on the Malakoff Tower—its usual daily target—and guarded by only the handful of seamen required to fire and serve it. Because of its greater range, the Lancaster was positioned to the right rear of the other four guns in the battery and some distance from them which meant, Phillip realized, that the advancing Russians could out-flank it with comparative ease once the opposition of the second line of trench guards was overcome.
On the other hand … he drew a quick, uneven breath, his mind racing, cutting corners. To capture and destroy a British gun position on the Upland would undoubtedly be a feather in the cap of any ambitious enemy commander. It might well seem to him of more importance than the mere execution of a successful out-flanking movement that would, at best, enable him to continue his advance along the ravine, in order to join in the attack on a few isolated pickets. He would be aware that the gun, trained as it was, offered no danger to a flank attack or one from the rear, and with the trench guards falling like flies under the sustained fire, from above, of his men’s Minié rifles, would not the risk involved seem small, in comparison with the chance of glory?
Heedless of his own danger, Phillip vaulted on to the top of the parapet. From this vantage point, he saw that his assessment of the situation had not been far out. In the forward trenches and observation posts, not a scarlet jacket moved. In those nearest to the battery, British and Russian infantrymen were engaged in a furious, hand to hand struggle and, even as he watched this, he saw a fresh wave of Russians, with bayonets fixed, come charging down the slope from the head of the ravine. They came like madmen, to be followed by a second wave and then a third while, from the rocks to the right, those who had been firing into the battery started to move in closer, taking advantage of such cover as the ground afforded in an endeavour to conceal their intentions.
These were, however, clear enough. His heart pounding and his mouth suddenly dry, Phillip dropped down behind the protecting wall of the redoubt, the minute or so he had spent on its gabioned top seeming like an hour. He landed awkwardly on his injured leg and Hewett grabbed him, to demand reproachfully, “For pity’s sake, sir, do you want to be killed? Surely you know better than to expose yourself to their fire like that? I was yelling myself hoarse but you—” Phillip cut him short. In a few brusque words, he described what he had seen and the tall young mate emitted a gasp of dismay.
“You mean they’re going to try to take this gun? Over my dead body will any Russian do that!”
“Unless you can bring the gun to bear on them,” Phillip told him. “It will be over your dead body, Mr Hewett.”
“But …” Belying his own recent reproaches, Bully Hewett clambered on to the top of the parapet. He said breathlessly, as he jumped down a moment later, “You’re right, sir. They’re going to try to take us from flank and rear—a whole battalion of them. But they’ve some way to go yet and …” He was interrupted by an infantry officer, a captain, his gold laced scarlet uniform spattered with mud and blood and his right arm hanging limp at his side.
“We’ve lost the forward parallels. I … had to withdraw, they were coming at us from all sides and I’d less than a dozen men left unwounded. You can’t hope to hold this redoubt. You’d better spike the gun and retire.”
Hewett eyed him for an instant in frowning indecision and then, shouting in order to make himself heard above the crackle of musketry and the subdued rumble of cannon fire now echoing across from the Inkerman Ridge, he addressed his gun’s crew. “I’ve had no orders from Captain Lushington to spike this gun or to retire, either. We don’t leave the gun, boys—we’ll bowse her round and give the enemy a taste of their own medicine! Look lively now, it’s going to take all the hands we can muster. Bo’sun’s mate, turn up reliefs and ammunition parties. The rest of you man those traversing tackles and haul for your lives!”
The seamen raised a ragged cheer and, in obedience to his shouted orders, set-to with a will, gallantly joined by a few soldiers who had staggered in, exhausted, from one of the forward outposts. Young Hewett climbed on to the top of the parapet again and, with his bare hands, started to wrench away fascines and gabions to clear a new embrasure for his gun. “This is the way she’ll have to bear, lads. Put your backs into it and heave away there!”
The great gun came slowly round. Too slowly, Phillip began to fear, visualizing the approach of the enemy he could no longer see. A Minié ball buried itself in the churned-up ground at his feet and others whined overhead like a swarm of angry bees … at least, he thought, the Russians had not been able to bring any field guns up the Careening Ravine. However many of them there were, they were armed only with rifles and bayonets. Straining on the tackles with the rest, he found himself beside a giant gunner’s mate, who grinned at him and then fell, as if pole-axed, knocking him off balance. As he picked himself up again, he saw a gaping hole in the big seaman’s chest and felt, rather than saw, the warm blood from the wound with which his own face and jacket were now spattered.
“We need more hands,” a despairing voice gasped, from somewhere behind him. “Volunteers, from the other guns … we’ll never do it.” The speaker was the midshipman with whom he had ridden up to Kadi-Koi. Recognizing him, Phillip clapped a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Go and ask for them, Mr Daniel. You know where to find them.”
“Aye, aye, sir. I’ll do that, sir.” The small figure made off, running as if the devil were after him and, as Phillip took his place on the traversing tackle, he saw the lad reach the connecting trench and dive into it. Then Hewett yelled exultantly, “One more heave, boys, and she’s there! Heave … that’s it, belay, she’ll do. Stand by to secure and re-rig tackles. Break open that case of conical shells, Thompson, and muster your loading numbers. The rest of you, make this embrasure as shipshape as you can but keep under cover. Gunner’s mate!”
“He’s dead, sir.” One of the men pointed.
“I’ll lay her myself then.” Hewett jumped down. He was in his element, cool and in full command of the situation—a boy who, in the space of a few minutes, had become a man—but he flashed Phillip an absurdly boyish smile as he said, lowering his voice, “Thank you, Mr Hazard, both for your suggestion and for lending a hand to carry it out. If I may ask one more service of you, will you take a party and cover our rear, sir? I spotted some of the enemy—about twenty or so of ’em—making their way round when I was up on the parapet, and it’d be a pity if they spoiled things
for us now, wouldn’t it? I only need a couple of minutes to bring my gun to bear on their main body and at a range of a few hundred yards”—his smile widened—“we can hardly miss, even with a Lancaster!”
“Right,” Phillip promised, “you shall have your two minutes.” The return of the youthful midshipman with the first of his volunteers solved his immediate problem. The men he had brought were all fresh and spoiling for a fight. Most were armed with cutlasses, half a dozen had muskets in addition and the soldiers, who had managed to withdraw to the redoubt from the forward trenches responded instantly to his call for more volunteers. With a party of some thirty men at his heels, Phillip led the way to the rear of the gun position and saw that Hewett’s qualms concerning its vulnerability had been more than justified.
The Russians were massing for an attack but in far greater number than the mate had estimated. An advance party of about a score of riflemen, spread out in skirmishing order, were within a scant three hundred yards of the redoubt, where they had halted, presumably to wait for support. And this was coming, advancing steadily in two columns, each of company strength, from the right front of the redoubt … probably, Phillip decided, turning his glass on them as the sun glinted on the bayonets, those who had earlier taken the forward trenches and had now re-formed. Hewett could stop them, once he brought his Lancaster into action, and his own small force ought to be able to hold the skirmishers in check, should they attempt to attack from the rear.
He was about to lower his glass when he caught sight of a third group, to the right of the other two and nearer to where he now stood than either, gathered at the edge of the Careening Ravine, the curving lip of which had hitherto hidden them from both Hewett and himself. They were dragging a field gun up the steep, precipitous side of the ravine—a feat he had imagined impossible. But it had, at least, delayed them and, he fervently hoped, for too long; an attack on the rear of Hewett’s battery, had it been launched at the moment when every available man had been hauling on the traversing tackles, might well have been fatal. It could still be fatal, if they brought their gun up and poured a hail of shells into the battery from above and behind… .
Phillip gave his orders with an outward calm he was far from feeling, posting the soldiers and the seamen with muskets behind the protection of the parapet, with Midshipman Daniel in command. He gave the boy his Dollond and indicated the group with the field gun.
“I’m going to try to work my way round to their flank with the rest of our men and drive them off the gun, because if they open up on us with that …” He did not complete his sentence but there was no need. The midshipman had seen the danger and he nodded, alert and eager.
“You want us to cover you, sir?”
“That’s the idea, youngster. But your first responsibility is to hold off those skirmishers. Pick them off, if you can, but keep them pinned down, so that they can’t interfere with us, understand? Those gunners are keeping well under cover behind the rocks. Don’t waste ammunition on them until they get the gun up or we manage to flush them out. In either case, they’ll have to show themselves and you can let ’em have it with everything you’ve got.”
“Aye, aye, sir. You may rely on me, sir.” The boy picked up a discarded rifle and offered it, smiling. “You might find that this will come in handy, sir.”
Phillip took the weapon. He led his small party into the rear approach trench, giving a brief explanation of his hastily formed plan of action as they followed him.
“There’s plenty of scrub, to give us cover, lads—use it and don’t make any more noise than you can help. We’ll get as close to that twelve-pounder as possible before we’re spotted and then rush them. You understand, our object is to stop them bringing that gun into action against the battery. I don’t care how we do it but we’ll spike the gun if we can. So no splitting Russian heads until the gun’s dealt with, unless they happen to get in the way, and the first man to reach the gun puts it out of action. Right? Keep well spread out, then, and pass the word back.”
There was a murmur of approval and one of the men said, “More volunteers, sir—three of ’em, one with a Minié rifle. Permission to join, sir?” Before Phillip could signify his assent, a hand reached out to touch his shoulder and a familiar voice sounded close to his ear. “Will you be leaving me to spike the gun, sorr? I’ve a handspike with me and …” The rest of his words were lost as, with a reverberating crash, the Lancaster opened fire but Phillip, turning, recognized the grinning face of Able-Seaman O’Leary. He had no time to wonder how his ex-orderly had contrived to join the party or where he might have come from but he grinned back and then waved to the men to leave the trench. They did so, bent low, and were soon dodging across the scrub-grown, shell-scarred slope in the direction of the ravine, now running, now crawling, when they came to open ground, and well spread out to either side of him. A second booming explosion from the Lancaster effectively covered any noise they might have made.
From behind him, Phillip heard the crackle of musketry, as the party he had left behind in the redoubt opened up on the enemy skirmishers. He could see very little as he inched his way across a patch of broken ground, but venturing to raise his head, took in the fact that the Russians grouped about the field gun had ceased their efforts—temporarily, at any rate—to drag it the last few feet. All their attention was rivetted on the results of Hewett’s shelling of the rest of their force on the lower lip of the ravine. And small wonder, he thought grimly for, of the two columns advancing so confidently to encompass the destruction of what they had imagined to be a virtually defenseless British gun emplacement, only one could be seen when the smoke cleared. Of the other, a few fleeing figures were all he was able to make out; the remainder were hidden from him by a pall of grey gunsmoke, beneath which nothing moved. Hewett’s aim had been good and true, the leading column, swinging round to commence their attack on his flank, had evidently presented a perfect target.
The second column had come to an abrupt halt and was wavering, thrown into disorder as men broke ranks and ran for cover … but they rallied when an officer dashed forward, waving his sword, and continued their advance. British troops, faced with a similar situation, would have spread out in open order but the Russians, Phillip saw, as they had at the Alma, retained their accustomed formation. The closely packed ranks executed a right turn and fired a volley into the redoubt and—whether as a result of this or by sheer ill-luck he could not tell—Hewett’s third shell overshot, smashing into the rock wall to their left rear.
The officer commanding the field gunners, as if inspired by this example, turned to shout a series of staccato orders at his men, emphasizing them by bringing down the flat of his sword on the backs of those standing nearest to him. Galvanized into action, the gunners returned to their drag-ropes with renewed vigor and, after some frantic heaving, the twelve pounder lurched drunkenly over the edge of the ravine. It would take them only a matter of minutes to haul the gun on to level ground, load and train it on to Hewett’s battery, Phillip’s mind registered as, still crouching low, he instinctively quickened his pace. He and his small party still had about a hundred yards to cover but … it was now or never, he knew and, if he ordered his men to charge, this would, at all events, distract the gunners from their task. The chances were that two or three of his party would get through, even if the skirmishers caught them in an enfilading fire, and it only needed one man to spike the gun.
He halted and looked round, seeing O’Leary just behind him. “Here, lad …” He thrust his rifle into the seaman’s hand. “Give me your hand-spike and you and the other man with a rifle leg it as fast as you can to those rocks on our right—see? Keep down and when you’re under cover, open fire on them. Pick off the officer, if you can.”
“Aye, aye, sorr.” O’Leary did not hesitate. He relinquished his hand-spike and crouched down, smiling, the rifle, after a quick check that it was loaded, at the ready. “The Russian officer’s as good as dead, sorr, don’t worry. The best of l
uck to you and … have a care for yourself now, won’t you? Joe … Lieutenant Hazard’s orders, you’re to come with me.”
The two men set off and, the instant they were in position, Phillip got to his feet. “Right,” he said to the others, “Out cutlasses and have at ’em, my lads! But remember, it’s that gun we want. Keep well spread out and don’t stop, even if the man beside you is wounded.”
He never knew, after it was over, how he managed to reach the gun or even how long it took him to do so. All consciousness of time left him when he started to race towards it and he was as oblivious to the hitherto hampering pain of his stiff leg, as he was to any awareness of fear or expectation of failure. The gun had to be spiked; his mind was blank, holding no other thought save this, no other desire or ambition. Minié balls whined overhead and spattered about him as he ran, riccocheting this way and that when he crossed a rocky outcrop and the skirmishers had him in their sights, but he did not deviate from his chosen path or slacken his pace. He did not look round, either, and had no idea whether or not any of his party had been hit although, hearing pounding footsteps behind him, he knew that some, at least, were close on his heels.
Then all other sounds were again drowned by the thunderous roar of Hewett’s Lancaster. A moment or two later, he saw the Russian artillery officer fall, apparently without emitting a cry, despite the fact that his mouth was open and hideously gaping. The sword, which he had used so recently to belabour his reluctant men into the performance of their duty, flailed the air above his head in a macaber parody of the manner in which he had previously wielded it, and then the dead fingers opened to let the weapon slip from their grasp and their owner slumped forward to lie, very still, beside his gun.