Crossman’s heart was beating fast. He looked at his watch. It said midnight. Where were the chimes from that damn clock? He waited for more agonizing moments which seemed to stretch into forever. Still the chimes did not come. Were they stuck in the throat of the church? Then they came, one after another, dropping heavily on the town. Immediately the chimes of St Sebastian stopped, other clocks began sounding the midnight hour. Then, at last, the first diversionary explosion, followed by another, then another, all in quick succession.
Out on the defences the consternation was evident. Soldiers began running, others appearing from various guard posts. All eyes were turned towards the city. ‘Now,’ whispered Crossman, as some soldiers rushed past him, their boots crashing on the cobbled streets. ‘Now, Bako.’
Indeed, almost as if he had heard the sergeant, the man from Zanzibar quickly placed the fascines in the crook of the two angled joints pointed out by Crossman in his sand sketch. Then Bako calmly went to the nearest battery and lit the portfire from the battery’s linstock. The gunners were all staring at the soldiers running through the city streets. Bako walked back to the crane, lit the fuses of the two charges, and then threw away the portfire. He crossed the site and met with Crossman in the shadows.
He said, ‘It’s done . . .’
Before the words were out of his mouth one charge, then the other, went up. It was an impressive brace of explosions. Crossman felt as if both sides of his head had been struck by planks when the thunderous sound hit his eardrums. At the same time he witnessed the visual destruction of Todleben’s magnificent engine. Whole chunks of oak, two feet thick, went flying through the air. Iron bolts whizzed, somersaulting over the heads of stupefied workers. A metal plate, as large as a garden gate, flew edgeways into the building under which the two men were standing, shearing a Gothic gargoyle from its base and sending it crashing to the ground, where it shattered into a dozen stone pieces. Now that two of the most important joints on the crane had been blasted to matchwood, the crane’s main support beams were left under enormous pressure. First one cracked, then snapped under the full weight of the mighty machine, which had been in the process of conveying a huge block of stone from one position to another. A second followed. Finally, the towering mass lurched, then came crashing down onto a stone wall. Bricks and dust filled the air. Men screamed as blocks of granite toppled from the heights and fell onto a wooden platform with dull thumps. Several occupants of the platform were catapulted into the air off the ends of broken planks. From high above, the stone block being carried by the crane’s arm dropped vertically onto an ox cart, crushing it and killing the poor beast of burden that had toiled in its traces.
Several lamps had been extinguished. Dust filled the air in choking clouds, providing opaque screens. No one seemed to know what was happening. Voices cried out, ‘Are we under attack?’ On those defences which were intact, sentries began firing out into the night. Within the compound, firing also began. A soldier discharged his weapon into some shadows. Whether he had panicked, or not, or had been carrying out some order, or simply thought he had spotted the perpetrators of the crime was unclear, but what followed was dangerous chaos. More men began shooting, at everything and nothing, until officers were screaming at them to cease firing. Even after relative order had been restored there were bullets whining from remote corners of the defences, fired by soldiers still confused, possibly believing they were under threat from something within the folds of the night. The result was several wounded workers and soldiers, hit by friendly fire, writhing on the ground and calling for assistance. Crossman noted that one or two at least remained unmoving, in awkward positions, more than likely dead.
The great crane was lying in a heap of rubble, many of its oaken limbs broken or twisted. Splinters and chunks of timber lay everywhere about, having fallen like rain upon the site. The machine looked irreparable. It was like some giant bird that had been brought low and was now lying with all its bones broken and its beak snapped. A sad sight to Crossman, whose heart soared at the sight of a magnificent feat of engineering. It was a death, no matter the creature had no life in the first place.
Stalking round the debris of what used to be a wonder of the Crimean peninsula, weeping, screaming at the top of his voice, ‘Assassins! Assassins!’ was the controller of the crane, once a very important man in the city of Sebastopol, now reduced to the status of just another unemployed worker. His grief was real. Without his machine he was no better than any other man who carried a gabion or fascine on his back.
‘Come, quickly,’ said Crossman to Bako. ‘We must get to St Sebastian’s.’
The pair hurried through streets now thick with soldiers and civilians, all milling around, staring at the compound where the crane had stood.
‘What’s happening?’ asked one, in Russian, as Crossman passed. ‘Has a magazine gone up?’
‘No, the walls have fallen down,’ he replied. ‘We are exposed to attack.’
The man who had asked the question looked worried. He began to spread the rumour amongst his neighbours. Even before Crossman had left the end of the street they were hurrying away to their houses to collect their most precious possessions. If the rumour took hold strongly enough, the whole city would be up and out of bed, running through the streets, crying havoc. That could only benefit Crossman and his peloton. Such rumours had been known to win and lose wars.
The other four were waiting on the steps of the Catholic church. Wynter looked agitated. So did Diodotus. Collecting them, Crossman asked Diodotus to take the lead.
‘Get us out of here,’ he said to the Greek. ‘It’s done, finished. A remarkable success.’
Wynter gave a half-hearted cheer, then seeing that he was attracting attention to himself, shut up.
Diodotus took the front and they slipped through the throng. They wound their way through alleys and sidestreets, until they came to the tunnel where they had first entered.
‘I’ll take you through,’ said Diodotus, lighting some dark lanterns he had left at the entrance. There was suppressed excitement in his voice. Crossman guessed this had been the young Greek’s first taste of real action. He was in high spirits: that state of false euphoria induced by physical combat. It would not last long, Crossman knew, for it would be followed by all those other emotions, one after the other, until the Greek would be a confused mass of nerves.
Once on the other side of the tunnel they were confronted by the black gullies of the Heights. Ali took over now, ready to lead the party through the maze. Crossman turned for one last word with Diodotus. They could just about see each other’s faces in the light from the winter stars.
‘Many thanks,’ he said, ‘you helped to make our fox hunt a great success.’
‘It was my very good pleasure,’ smiled the handsome youth. ‘I shall be able to tell my grandchildren I fought with Fancy Jack Crossman.’
‘Oh, you know my nickname?’
‘You can’t hide romantic things like that, not from Greeks who were once princes. In my next life I shall be Czar of Russia and will remember it was you who won the war for the British and French. I shall be lenient when they catch you and sentence you to hang.’ He laughed in that boyish way of his. ‘Then again, in your next life perhaps you will be another Gengkis Khan, and threaten my borders with your wild hordes.’
He then did an extraordinary thing. He threw his arms around Crossman and gave him a hug.
‘Goodbye my friend,’ he said. ‘After the war . . .’
‘After the war we shall drink retsina together and talk of old times,’ said Crossman, knowing the youth wanted some sign of comradeship from him. ‘Now go. Katra will be waiting for your return. She’ll be worried.’
Diodotus turned quickly. In doing so he somehow lost his grasp of the dark lantern. It crashed to the ground, flaring, illuminating him and Crossman. Crossman instinctively slipped away, into the gully, as shouts went up from the Russian defences facing the Heights. Diodotus stood, momentarily confus
ed.
‘Get out of the light!’ called Crossman, as the oil on the ground continued to burn. ‘Get out . . .’
His sentence was cut short by the sound of several shots. Diodotus staggered backwards, clutching his throat. He then spun round, giving Crossman a hurt look, and fell to the ground. Crossman crawled over to him and found him dead. A ball had gone through his neck, smashing through his spine. Shots continued to whine from stones and rocks near to the body. Crossman left him and finally joined the others.
‘What happened?’ asked Wynter.
‘They got him,’ replied Crossman. ‘He dropped his lamp and they opened fire.’
‘Dead?’ asked Gwilliams.
‘Yes.’
Ali grunted. ‘It is a shame. He was just a boy. A Greek boy, but a boy just the same. Too soft, but never mind. It is great waste.’
‘Yes,’ replied Crossman. ‘Yes it is.’
And that was that. They would speak of it no more in sad, solemn tones. Many dead companions were already occupying positions within their minds. There was only so much room within one soul for the stone memories of dead friends. They had, after all, known the Greek youth but a short time, and younger boys than he had littered the battlefields of Alma, Balaclava and Inkerman. Younger boys than he were dying that very moment, in the trenches, of a sharpshooter’s bullet, or one of those ugly diseases which took men in war, or of exposure to the elements. Death was an everyday occurrence. If you knew someone, it was different of course, but they had all witnessed horrific deaths of friends they had known since they were five years of age, back in their own villages and towns.
Still, Crossman, like Ali, thought it a great shame. The boy might have been a great poet one day. Certainly that officer, what was his name? Yes. Lieutenant Tolstoy. Certainly he had thought that Diodotus was destined to become a poet, or why would he have bothered to court the youth? Such an intellectual as Tolstoy appeared to be would not have wasted his time on someone without talent. Here in the Crimea they were losing the flower of several nations, most of them farm hands and peasants, but who was to say that such men would not have risen to greatness in one field or another? There was much talk of a thing called science, back in Britain, which seemed to be overtaking philosophy and physics, or perhaps included them. Crossman was not sure. But the word seemed to have lost its old meaning, of pure knowledge and was in the process of gathering a new one, encompassing many disciplines, from collecting minerals to cutting open frogs and studying butterflies. It seemed to Crossman that many labourers, in the meadows or woods, in the mines, knew more about such things of science than did learned men in the universities. Who was to say that such individuals of the lower classes would not rise on the back of this science and become great men in a new world?
Getting back through their own picquets was not an easy task, but they did it by stealth rather than words. Having been out for so long, watchwords had changed and it was dangerous to call out. Once back behind the lines they trudged to the hovel. Joseph Bako was shown a place where he could lay down his weary head, and they all slept for nearly sixteen hours.
When Crossman woke, Lovelace was there, shaving. When he wasn’t growing a beard for a mission, the major seemed to be forever shaving. He saw Crossman stir in his mirror and turned to speak.
‘Awake at last! Good fox hunt?’
‘Successful for once,’ said Crossman. ‘Have the French attacked yet?’
Lovelace frowned and wiped the foam from his face with a towel.
‘No. No, there’s been no attack. Our friend General Canrobert wants to plan the attack for June.’
‘June?’ Crossman was astonished. ‘By June they’ll have defences a mile high. I thought we did this so that an attack could take place at once?’
Lovelace seemed embarrassed. ‘That was the intention. That was indeed our suggestion. But you know how these things go. And generals are fickle beings at times. One moment they say they will attack, the next they are cautious and unwilling. Our own people, Colonel Hawke and others, are very happy with the results of your raid. I only wish we had troops enough to storm through the breach ourselves and take advantage of your good work, but with sickness and other things . . .’
‘June,’ repeated Crossman, once more astonished by the high command. ‘I thought by June we would all be at home, basking in a British summer. June. I can’t believe it. We lost a man out there. The Greek, Diodotus. He was shot through the throat at the very last moment.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘It does seem so damn futile, sir. It really does.’
‘I know. My sympathies are with you. I wonder our French ally Bob-can’t still remains commander-in-chief of the French forces. He seems too cautious by half. But there it is. Oh, and by the way, another friend of yours has popped up again. Corporal Reece? It seems he and his deserters – he’s gathered a new lot in by the way – are preying on shipping now. The coast around here is notorious in the winter, treacherous in storms, and Reece and his gang keep a vigilant eye open for craft who get into difficulties. When a ship’s in distress, and put out in boats with what they can save from the cargo, Reece is there on the beach waiting to relieve them of it. The sailors are usually exhausted with pulling their boat through the water and can’t put up much of a fight. It’s piracy from the safe haven of the shore. Reece doesn’t even have to put to sea.’
‘Will I get another crack at him?’
‘Not for the moment, but I’ll see what I can do later. Colonel Hawke wants to give him a little more rope.’
Crossman didn’t understand this tactic.
‘Why? What good will that serve?’
‘The more success Reece has, the more the deserters in the surrounding hills flock to him. He has about twenty men now. It might reach to forty. Even French and Turks are joining him. Once we have them all together we can reel in the nets. Better to get them all at once than having to scour the hills for individuals, wouldn’t you say?’
‘It makes sense I suppose.’
‘In the meantime, you can relax, sergeant. Enjoy what remains of the winter.’
‘If I relax too much, I’ll find myself in some school or other, teaching needlework.’
Lovelace laughed as he adjusted his uniform.
‘Stay out of the way, is my advice. Play a few hands of cards with your men. Get into some deep philosophical discussions with Jarrard. There’ll be more fighting to do soon enough. Oh, and by the way, your father has been ordered home. Something to do with carrying some important dispatches to England.’
Crossman brightened at this news. ‘He has?’
‘Yes, but I’m sorry to have to tell you he’s refused the commission and remains here. He’s sold out and is now a civilian. One of the Travelling Gentlemen, I suppose you’d have to say.’
‘What?’
‘I knew that would make you unhappy, which is why I left it until last, and halfway out of the door. Goodbye.’
‘Wait, sir. What’s he doing?’
Lovelace turned as he went down the stairs.
‘Doing? I think he’s painting. At least, that’s what he seems to be doing. Spends all his time in a great fur coat, in front of canvas and easel, painting. He looks like a great Russian bear with a brush in its paw. Don’t ask me what the subject is, because I haven’t gone that close. Landscapes I suppose, since there’s no other subject in front of him. It is said he’s an avid student of John Constable, who did that thing with the broken cart stuck in the middle of a pond. What a cart was doing in a pond I have no idea.’
‘I think it’s meant to be a ford.’
‘Well, why doesn’t the chap make it look like a ford then. Looks like a pond to me. Well, good luck.’ With that Lovelace went bounding down the stairs and out of the hovel.
Gradually, winter began to ease away from the landscape as they moved into April. Spring did not exactly fall upon the land with joyous heart, but it did creep across it with green feet. The men in the trenches w
ere still cold at night, still drenched, still mud-splattered and miserable, but there was a promise in the wind of better times to come. Cannons still roared, musketry still rolled, but hope was in the air.
Bako had gone, taken by ship to Constantinople. Wynter had seen him off, along with an incredulous Peterson.
‘You always said you didn’t like darkies, Wynter. I was always sad about that, since they are people just the same.’
‘Darkies, yes, but this is Joseph,’ replied the indignant Wynter. ‘Joseph is my pal.’
‘Somehow,’ replied Peterson, shaking her head, ‘that makes it worse. Don’t ask me why I think it, ’cause I don’t know.’
‘You just don’t like me.’
‘Well, there is something in that, I will agree.’
Yorwarth’s jaw was still out of alignment. He was the butt of jokes now, up and down the Crimean peninsula. A surgeon had promised to ‘crack’ it for him and reset it, but Yorwarth needed to get his courage up a little more before accepting his kind offer. In the meantime he was getting used to speaking with a strange tilt to his words. They seemed to come out of his mouth sideways, yet were perfectly understandable in the common sense. In fact, Yorwarth was beginning to enjoy being a celebrity. There was one part of him that wanted to remain lopsided: someone had suggested he might get a job in a circus freak show if he kept his crooked jaw. ‘Good money to be earned there,’ said Wynter, sagely. ‘Wouldn’t be hasty, if I was you.’ Hasty he was not. He was basking, if not in praise, in being the centre of attention. Even the photographer, Mr Fenton, had shown an interest.
And it was not only photographers, with their newfangled devices which ordinary folk thought closer to magic than to the new discipline called science, who were drawn to Yorwarth’s malformed visage. No, there were others interested in Yorwarth. Just as amputees gathered at El Madi’s coffee stall in the sutlers’ bazaar, drifting together almost unconsciously to form a kind of club, the exclusive membership of which was unenvied by those with four limbs and a working head, so there were those with wrongly-set bones who gathered at the feet of Yorwarth. It started with a soldier who simply walked in off the street: a man whose left arm had been broken close to the shoulder and, because he had been ignored by overworked surgeons, had been forced to let it set so that it was the wrong way round. That is, the inner part of his arm, his palm, the inside of his elbow, all faced outwards. At the top, where the break had been, the skin was twisted like a rope. The unfortunate victim had difficulty in grasping anything with two hands. In fact, he could not, unless it were something light and easy to manage.
The Winter Soldiers Page 23