Lavinia stepped forward, her face drained of colour.
‘No – not that, Alexander. Never that.’
Her voice was so full of passion it upset the young boy, who suddenly blurted out in fright, ‘I shall learn my numbers, if you please, then go home to my ma.’
Crossman said, ‘The child thinks this a madhouse. Come, we shall say no more about my problems. I had not meant it to turn into such a circus in any case. I hoped to find Jane alone, Jane could have passed the news on to you, Lavinia, and there would have been no need for all these theatricals. I’d better get back to the barracks. There’ll be work to do. Our new officer is keen on cleaning things.’ He stood up.
Jane said, fiercely, ‘Not before you tell me what has frightened Lavinia.’
Lavinia said, ‘He means to join the Forlorn Hope.’
Jane’s voice was like that of a startled bird flying from a hedgerow. ‘Forlorn Hope? What is that? Some kind of eastern religion?’
The ex-sergeant smiled, in spite of his spiritual agony.
‘The Forlorn Hope,’ explained Crossman, ‘is a band of men who are the vanguard of an assault.’
‘But surely if at the forefront they are slaughtered?’
‘Well, yes, but those whose survive,’ he explained, gently, ‘are automatically promoted.’
‘The reason they are promoted,’ broke in Lavinia, ‘is because there are so few of them left, if any at all, it costs the army very little in the end.’
Jane said, ‘Promise me, Alexander, that you will do no such thing. You will not join this band of sacrificed men. Those sergeant’s stripes might have meant a great deal to you, but they surely are not worth throwing away your life.’ Her voice went very low. ‘I would be greatly disappointed in you, my dear, if you could not find it in yourself to consider my wish. If you have any regard for me, if you have any admiration for me at all, you will dismiss this thought from your mind.’
Edward sniggered. Lavinia silenced him with a glare.
‘Lord Almighty!’ Crossman cried, greatly exasperated. ‘All right, Jane. I promise I will not join the Forlorn Hope. I’m not sure I was going to do so in the first place. It was just a consideration – but – but it is out my head, never to enter again. I shall probably die on the battlefield without bothering to join the damn vanguard, so it won’t make a deal of difference will it. Good morning to you, ladies. I must away.’
He marched from the room with all the dignity he could muster, knowing he had been outmanoeuvred more than once in this world of petticoats. It was ever the same when the two women banded together against him. He tried to hold out against fearful odds, but eventually lost dismally. He had been thinking of joining the Forlorn Hope, but that option had now been torn from him by a promise. It gave him some amusement, for he needed to turn his head to lighter things, to imagine how Bertie fared in that household. The poor wretch must have been a walking shadow of a man. Bertie Durham had not been a great deal before marrying Lavinia, Crossman imagined, but since then he must have been turned into a shade that simply wafted from room to room.
He said as much to Jarrard, who called two days later to find his friend in the same terrible straits.
‘Oh, I don’t know, Jack. Men like Bertie Durham are so dense it washes over them and they don’t even get wet. I’ve seen men like that. They say “Yes, dear,” and “No, dear,” without even hearing the question, consciously. Listen, you know how something becomes so automatic you don’t even have to think about it. Like riding a horse, for example. Well, that’s how the Berties of this world operate. Their wife’s words bypass their brain, trigger the right responses in their throat, without the man ever having to pay attention or think about the answer.’
‘That sounds very cynical, Rupert.’
‘It’s a universal truth, my friend. That’s why I never married. Probably never will.’
Crossman’s eyebrows rose a fraction. ‘What about Monique?’
‘I might make the exception there. Who knows? So, what are you going to do? Ride it out?’
‘Got to. No choice, is there?’
‘You could leave the army, as soon as you are able to.’
‘Not an option for me. I’m a soldier, Rupert, you know that.’
‘A warrior through and through, eh?’
Crossman shook his head. ‘No, a soldier. For me a warrior is someone who chases war. I do not pursue it, I simply do my duty when it is there to be done.’
Jarrard laughed. ‘Jeez, you British are so stiff. If I pushed you over I swear you’d shatter, Jack. All right, a soldier then. We’ve had this conversation before. A damn contrariety if you ask me. Well, I shall leave you, friend, to wallow in your misery. When you feel like getting promoted to a civilian, please call on my help. I am only too willing to elevate men of your stamp to the station and status they deserve.’ He paused in his stride for a moment, reflecting on what he had just said, and added, ‘Some admirable alliteration in that statement! Walt Whitman, eat your heart out.’
With that the newspaper man got up and went about his civilian business.
8
It was that last magical hour before sunset, when the world is suspended in a kind of rosy peace. No guns were firing and men and women were going about their lawful business, if not staring dreamily into the red sky, doing small mundane tasks which occupied their hands but not their minds. Their thoughts, for the most part, were on the future. The soldiers and their wives were dreaming of their homegoing: seeing their families and friends. The sutlers were beginning to look around for another war in which to make a profit: this one would soon be over and then where would the money come from? The local people were thinking how wonderful it was going to be, once the several armies all packed their bags and returned from whence they had come.
Crossman was sitting on the edge of the stool, cleaning his Tranter revolver. He had the weapon in bits on a piece of cloth covering his lap. Having run out of gun oil he had purchased a bottle of watchmaker’s oil from one of the sutlers. It was too thin, really, but better than nothing at all. There was a certain amount of pleasure in seeing the bluemetal pistol pieces laid out before him, gleaming with the oil. What most men liked about engines and tools of any kind was the way the parts had been precisely machined to fit into each other. How artistic it all was that the double trigger mechanisms of the Tranter, with their springs and levers, should come together so well and perform in just the way they should. Metal wears and weapons jam, but in the main they were as wonderful as a steam engine in their mechanical movements.
Weapons of course, were designed to kill. But that was only their purpose. One could admire the workmanship, the composition, the performance of a machine, while abhorring its raison d'être. A wagon carrying malefactors to the gallows has a horrible ask to perform, but the design of the wagon itself may be admired while disassociating it from its purpose.
The only other stool in the room was being used by Gwilliams, who was trimming everyone’s beards and hair. He was after all a barber and bone-setter by profession, as he never tired of telling his comrades. The floor was littered with hair of different shades and coarseness. It made for soft treading when crossing the floor.
‘Sit still, Peterson. How can I do your bangs if you don’t keep your head still?’
‘Bangs? I don’t want any bangs.’
‘He means your fringe,’ said Crossman, without looking up. ‘It’s the North American parlance. And may I make a suggestion? Let Gwilliams cut it really short. You’re starting to look like a girl.’
Peterson scowled at him. Crossman continued to study her without her being aware of it, not because of the scowl, but because of her pallor. Of late he had noticed that Peterson was looking quite unwell, especially around the eyes. The previous evening he had observed her going out of the hovel with Gwilliams. At the time Crossman felt there was something conspiratorial about this meeting. He had seen others approach Gwilliams in the same manner and knew the reason for
it. When Ali was not around, or the complaint was a delicate one that they did not wish to share with the bluff Turk, the soldiers went to Gwilliams. Being a ‘bone man’ he set himself up and earned pennies as an adviser and curer of common ailments. Crossman deduced Peterson was unwell and was seeking the advice of Gwilliams. While Crossman trusted Gwilliams on many things, he did not consider he was even close to possessing the knowledge of a physician or even a regiment surgeon and this worried him. A quack was a harmless enough person, unless asked to deal with a serious complaint. Then he became a menace. Crossman decided to intervene.
When Gwilliams had finished with Peterson’s hair, Crossman asked to see the North American outside. It was clear that everyone, even Gwilliams himself, thought Crossman was going to consult on some malady or other. However, when they were out of earshot of the others, Crossman asked him bluntly, ‘Is Peterson pregnant?’
Gwilliams looked quite shocked. ‘Why are you askin’ me that?’
‘She doesn’t look well. I thought perhaps that the rape . . .’
‘Ah, I see,’ said Gwilliams, catching on. ‘Well, you’ve got the culprits all right, but she ain’t with child. She’s got a pox.’
It was Crossman’s turn to be shocked. ‘She has a venereal disease?’
Gwilliams nodded. ‘Must ’ave caught it from one of them Ruskies. It don’t seem one of the serious kind. I gave her some stuff I make. She’s got a burnin’ at the moment, but that’ll go away.’
So that was it! ‘Thank you, Gwilliams.’
‘You’re welcome.’
Crossman went inside again. He sat down beside Peterson on her cot. She glanced up at him, surprised, then saw Gwilliams entering shortly afterwards. A quick look at Gwilliams told her that confidentiality, even less sacred with an unqualified healer than a real medical practitioner, was now broken. She blushed to the roots of her hair. She then concentrated on cleaning the mud from her boots, hunching into herself, pretending Crossman was not there.
‘It isn’t your fault,’ he said, quietly. ‘Go and see the surgeon, tomorrow.’
‘If I do that, it’ll be all up with me, won’t it?’
‘Despite what Gwilliams says, the problem might get worse. Better to be discovered for a woman and thrown out of the army than to suffer lasting injury.’
‘I don’t want to leave the army. Not yet. It’ll be all right. I feel better now. Bloody Wynter has had it lots of times. He keeps catching it over and over. He’s not dropped dead yet.’
Crossman said, ‘No, but you’ve got to wonder about the state of his brains, haven’t you?’
Peterson giggled, despite herself. ‘Yes, you have. Addled eggs. But Gwilliams has given me powders and ointment. He said he used to work for an apothecary. Some of the stuff I swallow, some I – I put on.’
‘Don’t get them mixed up.’
She giggled again. ‘I won’t, sergeant.’
‘I’m no longer that.’
‘I can’t call you anything else. That’s how I know you.’
Crossman accepted this without further comment, but felt he ought to ask a final question.
‘Are you sure you trust Gwilliams to know what he’s doing?’
‘When it first happened, I went to see Mrs Seacole, but she was away in the French camp. So I settled for Gwilliams. But she came back yesterday. I showed her what Gwilliams gave me and she said mostly it was all right. She said she would have gave me similar and that it works on the sailors. They’re the worst, you know. Wynter got it once from wearing a dead sailor’s trousers. He told me.’
‘Did he now? Mrs Seacole, eh? Well certainly that lady knows what she’s doing. I’m glad you got a second opinion. Never trust just one man’s word.’
Her face went red and hot for a moment and in a vehement outburst she said, ‘I’ll never trust any man – not ever. They’re filthy animals, every one.’ She paused for a moment in embarrassment, then added, ‘Excepting you, sergeant.’
Crossman went back to cleaning his kit, a little disconcerted by Peterson’s plight. There was not much else he could do to help her though. All he had was advice. If she did not need that, then he had little more he could offer. He was glad to hear that she had visited Mrs Seacole. If there was one person who was more knowledgeable than even the regiment surgeons it was Mary Seacole. He would have trusted the West Indian lady with his own complaints, had he any that he could not deal with himself.
Lieutenant Pirce-Smith descended the stairs and looked about him approvingly.
‘Very smart. Just because we’re allowed beards does not mean we have to look like raggle-taggle ratcatchers, does it?’
‘Beggin’ your pardon, sir,’ said Wynter, ‘but I thought we was supposed to look like Tartars, who don’t go about makin’ themselves look neat and tidy.’
‘Wynter, I could put any Tartar on the peninsula alongside you even now and I guarantee he would look a Sunday best.’
Pirce-Smith was beginning to get the measure of Wynter. It was the kind of answer Crossman would have given the private. Crossman felt rather piqued that the officer had taken over so smoothly and easily. This had been his peloton. He had spent over a year building it into the cohesive unit it was today, and now had to watch someone else reap the benefits. The army, like all huge organizations, had no conscience. It was not fair, never had been fair, and never would be. You had to accept that fact or perish in a well of bitterness. The wrong people were always promoted, the right people either got killed or were passed over. Injustices not only happened, they were built into the system.
Wynter’s reply to his commanding officer was to take off his shirt and turn his back on the room. He pretended to do some task, noisily, so that it drew attention to his presence. In this way he displayed the flogging scars on his back, obscenely, as man who has lost his leg might display his stump, to make others feel uncomfortable and even guilty. Wynter was a master at dumb insolence. If Pirce-Smith now accused him of such, he would turn with a look of innocent surprise and say, ‘Who, sir? Me, sir? No, sir.’ Sometimes Crossman felt like boxing the soldier’s ears, shaking him roughly, and telling him to grow into a man.
‘There you are – done!’ said Gwilliams, removing the towel from around Yorwarth’s neck with a flourish. ‘Now, how about you, sir?’ He asked the lieutenant. ‘Care for a trim yourself.’
Pirce-Smith said, ‘Yes, I think I will, Gwilliams. What do you charge?’
‘Two British pennies to you, sir.’
Pirce-Smith sat on the stool. He removed his revolver which was stuck in his sash, and then his coatee with its extravagant heavy gold epaulettes. There he waited for the scissors to descend on his dark curly hair, which hung from his head in a floppy foppish manner.
‘We say tuppence, but then you are a North American. Please leave the sidewhiskers, Gwilliams, I have nurtured them from infants.’
Yes, how easily the officer now fitted in. He was, perhaps, even less starchy than Crossman himself, who could be a snob at times. A genteel sergeant will protect his birth status with more vigour than a man who has not dropped his former station in life.
Peterson fingered the epaulettes with envy in her eyes. ‘How much would these cost, sir, when you bought them?’
‘A sultan’s ransom, Peterson. Don’t ask me the particular sum, for it makes me weep to think on it. I had much rather spent the money on a good horse, but there you have it.’
Crossman asked, ‘Sir, are we going out in the morning?’
‘Yes, we are, Crossman. It is what I came down to tell you all.’
‘Spiking guns?’ asked Yorwarth, hopefully. This would mean it would be a quick raid, there and back in a night, and then further rest.
‘No, not this time. An ambuscade. Supplies have been landed on a beach to the north and are now kept in a cave. The navy managed to sink the vessel that landed them, but our sources tell us they are about to be collected by a party of Russians. It’s our job to prevent those supplies from reaching Sebasto
pol. We will not be mounted. I’m hoping to use some steep escarpments that will not favour horses. Our escape on foot along goat tracks will be surer and swifter in such topography. Their cavalry will not be able to run us down in such country.’
‘Ambuscade?’ repeated Peterson. ‘What’s one of them?’
Gwilliams said, clipping away at the locks, ‘It’s officer talk for an ambush.’
‘What Gwilliams says is correct,’ remarked Pirce-Smith, ‘except that others besides commissioned officers use the word. You will all be ready to leave in the morning, just before dawn, dressed in your Tartar disguises. Corporal Peterson, you are responsible for raising everyone from their beds. If Wynter gives you any trouble, please refer him to me.’
‘Wha . . . why, that’s a gross unfairness, sir,’ cried Wynter. ‘I’m a great respecter of rank, I am.’
‘Glad to hear it.’ Pirce-Smith swept off the towel and inspected himself in the shard of mirror which Gwilliams proudly held up before him. He turned this way and that. ‘Not bad, Gwilliams. You know your work. I shall not be afraid to leave myself in your hands now, should I dislocate a bone. I’m sure it will be returned to the correct socket.’
‘I know my trades.’
‘I’m certain of that. Right, primed and ready, the rest of you!’ There was even an attempt at humour. ‘If I should not wake, please leave without me.’
The lieutenant went back upstairs. Wynter and the others kept their voices low, not because they were saying anything untoward, but it just did not seem right that their private conversation should be eavesdropped by an officer. What they said in the barrack room was theirs and theirs alone.
Peterson stroked her new Enfield lovingly. ‘I’m going to ambuscade them Russians like they’ve never been ambuscaded before,’ she said. Crossman could see, not surprisingly, there was still a great vengeance in her heart for the rape she had suffered. Whereas before she had shot them with indifference, now there was hatred accompanying the bullet. It was not a state of mind which boded well for the soldier. Her innocence had gone and she was going to put lead into the heads and bellies of those who had taken it from her.
Attack on the Redan Page 24