‘Yes, sir. As you say, sir. I shall take Peterson out as soon as the fireflies make an appearance.’
‘Good. But you don’t have to go yourself, do you, sergeant? You have a corporal? Wynter? Why not send him?’
‘He’s not that reliable, sir, as a leader. Oh, he’s fine when he’s told what to do and where, but I wouldn’t trust him to lead an expedition. No, I think it best I go myself, along with Yusuf Ali. Ali is a most resourceful man, sir, who uses his initiative and cunning with great skill.’
‘Your Turkish irregular. Bashi-Bazouk, isn’t he? So I understand. I also understand he considers himself your personal bodyguard and would kill a general if one ordered you to your death. I’m only a lowly colonel, so I’m sure he would dispose of me for a much lesser crime.’
Crossman was horrified, the hair on the back his neck standing on end. Ali was fond of promising to kill people if they betrayed his sergeant.
‘Ali hasn’t threatened you, has he, colonel?’
‘No, no.’
‘That’s a relief. He means no harm, sir . . .’
Hawke roared with laughter. ‘Oh yes he bloody well does. Don’t come it, sergeant. But don’t worry, I approve. These units we’re forming, these little pelotons of spies and saboteurs, they have to be made up of men like him. And men like you. You need these bonds, to survive in such work. Your soldiers are a bit like the old Anglo-Saxon warriors – the hearth companions or housecarls of half-kings such as Bryhthnoth. Those thanes, or nobles, were the leader’s bodyguards and would fight and die for their lord, without question, even over his dead body if he was struck a mortal blow during the battle. They were totally loyal.’
Crossman had no idea what Hawke was talking about and must have been looking blank, for the colonel explained.
‘Have you never read The Battle of Maldon, sergeant? Old poem. Oldest poem in the English language, I believe. An Anglo-Saxon ealdorman and his warriors defended a causeway near the town of Maldon in Essex, against Viking raiders. That was in ad 991. It was a famous defeat. We’re fond of our famous defeats, aren’t we? Bryhthnoth, the ealdorman made a mistake, let the Vikings cross the causeway, and was subsequently killed in the action that followed. His housecarls fought over his body and saved it from the clutches of the enemy, though they lost the battle itself. Some booby of a thane took the half-king’s horse and fled the field and that accounted for the subsequent defeat, the warriors thinking their leader had fled the field followed suit. You should read it, you know, sergeant.’
Crossman stood there, thinking, what is the damn colonel talking about? His thoughts must have crossed his face like clouds on a fine day. Hawke nodded.
‘You’re wondering about the relevence?’
‘Yes, sir, I’m afraid I am.’
‘You, sergeant, are a half-king. I am the king. I have several half-kings who fight in the field on my behalf. These half-kings have their housecarls to assist them in their endeavours. In the sort of situations you find yourself in, you half-kings, you need unswerving loyalty. Your Bashi-Bazouk would die for you, yes? That’s the kind of loyalty I’m talking about, sergeant. The loyalty of a housecarl!’
Crossman left the colonel’s farmyard with his mind buzzing. Hawke was certainly an interesting man, but not one Crossman would have chosen as a friend outside the war. Their ways of thinking were too diverse. Something struck Fancy Jack Crossman and he let out a whoop of laughter, causing soldiers on the road to turn and stare. It had just occurred to him that Wynter had been compared to a housecarl, a nobleman bodyguard whose loyalty to his leader was unquestionable. The idea was so ludicrously funny Crossman laughed all the way back to the hovel. There the first person he was confronted with was Wynter, looking sour and testy.
‘What’ve you got to be so jolly about, sergeant? They sendin’ you home, or what.’
‘No, Wynter, just out to kill more sharpshooters tonight.’
‘What?’ cried Peterson, looking horrified. ‘What’s so funny about that? You’re going mad, sergeant.’
‘Yes, I think I am, Peterson.’
He left them, looking worried, and went up to his room. There he found Rupert Jarrard, lying on his cot smoking a cheroot. The American looked up at him as he entered the room.
‘Rupert?’
‘Sorry, Jack, this was the only piece of furniture I could find and I didn’t know how long I had to wait.’
‘That’s all right, but what are you doing here?’
‘Came to warn you,’ replied Jarrard, darkly. ‘That captain we sent to India. He’s back, and spitting blood and fire, naturally.’
It took Crossman more than a short while to turn this over in his mind before he came up with the answer. Captain Sterling Campbell had been a cardsharp, a gambler who fleeced Crossman’s half-brother, James, and would have reduced him to penury if Crossman hadn’t done something about it. Crossman had disguised himself as a lieutenant and had tried to win the money back from Campbell, only to lose yet more of the family fortune. Finally, it had been Jarrard who had tricked the gambler on board a ship about to leave for India by promising him an interesting game of cards with some naval officers. The naval officers had been under the impression that Campbell was travelling to India with them and Antigone had set sail, carrying the half-drunk captain to foreign places, where he would no longer be a menace to Crossman’s older brother.
‘Oh my God, Rupert. He’ll blow your bloody head off.’
‘He will if he catches me. Fortunately I saw him first and ducked away. He’s been asking for me all over the place since then. You should see his face. Grim death ain’t the phrase for it. He’ll be after you too, so I’d be a bit scarce if I were you, sergeant.’
Crossman shook his head. ‘All he knows of me is that he beat me at cards. If you remember, I was simply a lieutenant who got into a card game with him. He won’t connect me with his abduction.’
Jarrard stared at Crossman for a moment, then nodded. ‘You’re right. I’m the only one he’s after. Now is that fair, Jack? I don’t want to have to kill the man.’
Jarrard was a crackshot with the Navy Colt he carried. Crossman had seen him in action and knew he was quite deadly. However, Campbell too was reputedly good with a duelling pistol. Crossman was not sure who was the better, though Jarrard was always brimming with confidence when it came to such matters.
‘I wouldn’t want to put this to the test, Rupert. This is my fault. Maybe I should just go and own up. He won’t want to fight me. I’m a lowly sergeant.’
‘No, but he’ll have you court martialled for impersonating an officer. I seem to remember you called yourself Lieutenant Tremaine, of the Rifles. You wore Rifle Greens, anyway.’
Crossman nodded. ‘Yes, and it will probably end in a flogging. I’ve never been flogged, Rupert, and I never want to be. It’s not the pain of the punishment I fear . . .’
‘The humiliation, I know. Ghastly bloody practice, tying a man to the wheel and whipping him in front of the troops. Sickens a proud man to the pit of his stomach – the watchers as well as the victim. No, we can’t have that, Jack. I took it on myself to kidnap Campbell, without discussing it with you, so I must take the consequences. If I kill him, I’ll have to leave the Crimea and may even lose my job on the Banner. If I don’t, I’ll be singing Negro slave songs with the angels. Best to stay out of his way, if I can. It hurts my pride, but it would seem the most sensible course of action.’
Crossman was relieved. Jarrard could be a fiery individual where he thought his honour was being questioned.
‘Campbell’s in the 93rd, Rupert. All you have to do is stay away from Kadikoi and Balaclava.’
‘But what about you, Jack? What if he recognizes you?’
‘I’ll keep a good watch for him. If I see him coming I’ll duck out of sight. Shouldn’t be a problem.’
‘Well, I hope it’s not.’ Jarrard rose from the cot. ‘I’ll be off now, Jack. Come over to the French lines occasionally. I’m finding it a bi
t cosier over there at the moment. It’s not so bad. There are ladies over there. And the food is better, of course. And the wine superior – in fact I don’t know why I’ve stuck with you people so long. I should have moved into the French camp the moment I arrived.’
‘We speak English, Rupert. You do not speak French.’
‘There is that, of course.’ He grinned. ‘I’m a lazy son-of-a-bitch when it comes to languages.’
‘Just don’t upset any French officers.’
‘Me, Jack?’ cried Jarrard, in mock innocence. ‘As if I would.’
He left the room, leaving Crossman deep in thought. The sergeant knew he really would have to keep a keen eye out for Campbell. It would not be a happy meeting if they should chance upon one another.
2
The fireflies were in evidence. Crossman damned their bright bottoms, as they flitted with their fairy lamps around the landscape. Ali and Peterson were with him as the three of them made their way over the rough ground in front of the Quarries. They had passed through the forward picquets with the watchwords ‘Admiral’s Lady’, which was some army commander’s idea of annoying any naval personnel since the response, ‘Nelson’s Jade’, was a clear reference to a Lord Hamilton’s wife.
The three men had to scramble through the rocky terrain, disturbing wildlife and, occasionally, loose rocks. The closer they came to the Russian lines, the more desperate they became to prevent noise. At one point they were in a deep gully, unable to see over the top. They passed down this steep-walled groove in the countryside until there was a place where they could climb up and take a peek at the Russian defences. They found they were so close to the enemy they could hear them talking to one another, even though the voices were low. Crossman scanned a parapet just a few yards in front of him and noticed a cloud of fireflies. He tapped Peterson on the shoulder and she went to her task.
The shot crashed out.
There was no answering yell, or clatter of falling weapon. Crossman slid back down into the gully. The other two followed with alacrity. They needed to be somewhere else very quickly. There were only two choices: to retrace their earlier journey, or to continue along the gully in the opposite direction. Crossman decided on the latter. He led the way. They really had to find another way up to the top quickly, before the Russians sent a patrol down into the gully.
In fact, they were already there. Groups of Russian soldiers had been posted in various locations in front of their own lines. Half a dozen men in the gully must have heard Crossman and his companions moving towards them, and sent enfilading fire along the natural tunnel.
Miraculously, none of the three were hit.
‘Quick! The other way,’ growled Crossman.
They turned, Peterson in front, then Ali, followed by Crossman. They had gone about twenty feet when Crossman heard labouring breath behind. Someone was almost on him. He turned just as a hand with bright lamp came around the last corner. The sergeant reached inside his coat for his revolver, a five-shot Tranter he always carried. In that instant a Russian soldier rammed a bayonet into his stomach. Crossman had on a thick leather belt with a brass buckle. As fortune would have it the bayonet point struck the leather at an angle, slid along it and went under the buckle. The bayonet bent, as Russian bayonets were wont to do, and twisted almost to a right angle, not harming Crossman but trapping the soldier’s rifle.
The Russian yelled something and jerked his rifle back, pulling the hooked Crossman with it. Crossman fell on top of his attacker and they scrabbled about. Crossman knew he could not reach his pistol while pressed against the soldier, so he reached down into his boot and withdrew a hunting knife. He managed to stab the struggling soldier several times in the chest. The man began screaming. The victim’s wounds did not stop his efforts, but seemed to redouble them, as he let go of his musket and gripped Crossman by the throat. Someone else was now thumping a musket butt into Crossman’s back. Crossman leapt up and smashed his elbow into a face. Then he was off, running down the dark passageway of stone. Something was impeding him for a while: the musket still hooked on to his belt. Then it hit a boulder and clattered away from him. Crossman kept running.
When he was some way along the gully, he then reached into his coat and withdrew his revolver. He sent four shots crashing down the ravine behind him, hoping to hit any pursuers. It was too dark to see if he’d been successful. Crossman hoped he’d unnerved them, made them more cautious. Then he climbed the sheer wall of the gully like a cat: claws into soil and cracks in the rock face. It was a feat he wouldn’t have been able to do had he not been afraid for his life.
Once out of the gully, he gulped for breath. He looked around him. At first, as he cowered amongst bushes, there were shouts coming from every direction, and lamps in evidence. But then the British picquets began firing at the lights and those carrying them put them out. Darkness returned. He found he still had the bent bayonet caught in his belt buckle. He tried to remove it, but failed. Leaving it there, he began crawling back towards his lines, wondering what had happened to his companions. He had not heard or seen anything of either Ali or Peterson, not since that Russian had rammed into him with the bayonet.
Halfway back to his own lines the guns began roaring from the British lines. There was answering artillery fire from the Russians. Suddenly, Crossman felt tremendous pain in his right shoulder. He fell forward thinking he had been hit by shell or canister, but when he investigated he found no blood and decided it was a delayed reaction to the blows he had received from the soldier thumping him with a musket butt. Crossman lay there in the dirt for a while, allowing coruscating mortars to fly over him like meteors from both directions. Gradually the pain in his shoulder eased. It would have been pleasant to stay where he was until Sebastopol fell, but he realized he would have to make a move sometime. He dragged himself to his feet and continued, yelling the passwords as he passed through the area where there would be British picquets. It would have been foolish to be killed by soldiers wearing the same uniform as himself.
Eventually he realized he had passed the 5th Parallel, close to and following the edge of Middle Ravine. The guns ceased pounding a few minutes later. Their noise was replaced by the clinking of stirrups and bridle rings. The occasional stamp of a horse’s hoof on hard earth. Someone was sitting on his mount nearby, waiting for something. The rider moved off, back towards the Col, a field officer perhaps, or cavalry man.
When Crossman’s ears had cleared properly he could hear French voices to his left and British voices to his right. He knew he was safe from harm and his body went limp. It was only then he was aware that his clothes were soaked with sweat and that his right boot was full of grit. He emptied the boot and allowed a cool breeze to dry the tension sweat from his upper body. Finally, he managed to unhook the bent bayonet. He threw it away, angrily, hearing it clatter amongst the stones.
In the next few minutes he tried to relax and recollect what had happened. It was human nature to wonder about his responsibilities. Was he in any way to blame for the failure of this mission? Turning over the events in his mind he could not find any great fault with his actions, except for the fact that he had lost contact with his two men.
Should he have searched after the scramble with the Russians? Where would he have looked? One moment Ali and Peterson were with him, the next they had gone. Hopefully they had scampered away and saved themselves. That did not sound like Ali, but anything could happen in the heat of the moment, especially in the darkness. Gathering his faculties together he walked the half mile back to a British battery, where he had agreed with Ali and Peterson that they should meet in the event they were separated. When he got there he questioned one of the gunners.
‘Have you seen a Turk? A Bashi-Bazouk?’
‘No, I ain’t,’ came the reply, with a curious look at Crossman. ‘Sergeant, is it?’
‘What about a lance-corporal? 88th Foot?’
‘Ain’t seen ’im, neither. We just finished tossin’ a few balls over
there,’ the man nodded towards the Redan. ‘Nobody’s come.’
At that moment Ali arrived looking dishevelled and a little wild-eyed.
‘Sergeant!’ There was relief in the Turk’s voice. ‘You get back.’
‘Yes. Are you all right?’
Ali made a gesture with his palms, looking down at himself.
‘No wounds, I think. You have Peterson with you?’
Alarm bells jangled in Crossman’s head.
‘No – not with me. Isn’t she – he with you?’
‘I lose her in the ravine, sergeant.’
‘Well, then, let’s wait here. Peterson will turn up. Let’s just wait.’
They waited. They stayed by the battery for three hours, until even Crossman realized there was no hope for it. Peterson was in the hands of the enemy. He could not think she was dead. Apart from those first few shots, when the three of them were together, there had been no more firing except from Crossman’s revolver. Of course, there had been the guns, later, and they could have disguised the sound of shooting. Or perhaps she had been bayoneted or clubbed? In fact, Crossman thought, she might be better off dead than alive. When ordinary soldiers got hold of an enemy sharpshooter – what they saw as a despised cold-blooded distance-killer – they worked horrors on them before someone in authority saw fit to intervene.
It did not make a great deal of sense to form a hatred for a man who was doing much the same job as an artillery gunner, killing from a place of relative safety, but there is no logic to such things. The unknown face of the hidden sharpshooter was loathed by the soldier in the trench or on the parapet. Perhaps it was because they killed during dead calms, when all was tranquil and peaceful, dropping a smiling man in mid-sentence, blowing half his head away in front of an unsuspecting friend. It was the shock of such incidents, coming as they did, without warning. Harry might be saying to his chum, ‘Hey, John, have you got some pipe tobac—’ And suddenly Harry’s head would explode. Only afterwards, the sound of the shot: the full stop at the end of ‘Take that’. It was a terrible shock, that unexpected missile, and the sender was considered abhorrent, less than human.
Attack on the Redan Page 4