Victors and Lords

by V. A. Stuart

  “So have I,” Alex confessed, echoing the smile. Of all his old friends, the one he had missed most had been Phillip, and he said as much. Phillip’s fingers gripped his arm. “I’d heard that you were in this part of the world,” he stated, “from an Indian army officer I met in Constantinople soon after we landed.”

  “Yes . . . that was Colonel Beatson. He who is now closeted with Cardigan in his sylvan bower. He told me he had met you.”

  “I thought I had seen him before. But I confess I did not recognize him just now.” Phillip laughed.“He was somewhat differently attired on the last occasion we encountered each other, which was at an Embassy reception. Have you both come from Silistria?”

  “Yes, we have. I . . .” Alex hesitated, eyeing his onetime friend with a hint of uncertainty. He wanted to ask about Charlotte but the question he had been about to voice died on his lips. It was for Phillip to broach the subject of Charlotte, not himself. He had no right to ask for news of her, no reason even for supposing that it was she who had accompanied her brother and his wife for, as he had told Colonel Beatson, Phillip had several sisters. So he said, with no more than polite interest, “I understand, also from Colonel Beatson, that you’ve married since we last met, Phillip.”

  “Ah, yes, indeed I have . . . and I am a most fortunate man, my dear Alex. Sophie is adorable, I assure you.” Phillip spoke briefly of his wife, but with evident pride. “I’ve recently had to send her home, in the private yacht of a friend, for the best of all possible reasons.” He flushed. “She is with child and I am delighted, of course. . . .” He motioned Alex to be seated. They settled themselves cross-legged on the ground and he seemed about to say more but finally, thinking better of it, started to search for the flask of brandy he had packed in his kit. When this came to light, he despatched his servant for breakfast and began to question Alex about the siege. They talked of this until their breakfast arrived—a few unappetizing slices of salt pork, cooked several days before but served with due ceremony—and, as they ate they watched, with amusement, the reactions of the smartly uniformed British cavalrymen to the swaggering Bashi-Bazouks of William Beatson’s escort.

  Phillip studied Arif, the troop leader, with frowning brows and then asked incredulously, “Are these the troops you now command, Alex—these savages?”

  “Savages, Phillip? Well, they fought with great gallantry at Silistria, I can assure you,” Alex defended. He explained the purpose of Colonel Beatson’s journey to Varna. “Omar Pasha has promised to furnish a Bashi-Bazouk brigade, under the colonel’s command, should Lord Raglan express the desire for their services. The offer has the official sanction of the Duke of Newcastle and—” he broke off at the sight of Phillip’s horrified expression. “Why, what is the matter? You seem surprised.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake—of course I am!” Phillip exclaimed. “Alex, surely you cannot seriously imagine that Lord Raglan would consider the inclusion of such undisciplined cut-throats in the British Cavalry Division? Why”—he laughed—“we had a visit from a band of them only a few days ago. Led by a woman, if you please . . . a vast Amazon who rejoiced in the name of Fatima. She had the temerity to offer her force to Cardigan!”

  “Who refused it, I imagine?” Alex spoke dryly.

  “Indeed he did. We had some of the same tribe encamped near our infantry at Varna and I heard it on very good authority that they became a plague, both to our men and the French. They are thieves and barbarians and worse . . . in fact, the French hanged a few of them, I believe, as an example to the rest.”

  Alex stared at him in disbelief. “The French hanged them? But they are our allies!”

  “My dear chap, the French are accustomed to dealing with native troops,” Phillip retorted. “They have a number of Zouave and Spahi regiments from Algeria attached to them . . . so they should be, should they not? Can’t you dissuade your friend Beatson from making such an offer to Lord Raglan? Because he won’t entertain it for a moment, I assure you—whatever the Duke of Newcastle may advise from London.”

  “But Lord Raglan needs light cavalry, Phillip! He has only Cardigan’s brigade,” Alex objected.

  “Perhaps he does. But he does not need them so badly that he must seek for recruits amongst that rabble! Let Omar Pasha keep his Bashi-Bazouks—and control them, if he can. They would be of no use to us and Beatson will only make himself a laughing stock if he suggests they would.” Phillip Dunloy dismissed the subject with a disdainful shrug of his slim shoulders. “In any event, you said you were not serving with them, I believe. What is your object in going to Varna, Alex? Are you coming back to us, by any chance?”

  “I have been given leave of absence by the Turks and I’m hoping for a staff appointment of some kind, under the British command. In the Cavalry Division, if possible, where my experience may perhaps prove of some slight value.”

  “A staff appointment? Well, don’t ask Cardigan for one,” Phillip advised, with a wry grimace. “He’ll remember your name, if not your face. I should ride for Varna with all speed, if I were in your shoes, and have the matter arranged before our brigadier-general brings us back from his private war . . . if he ever intends to do so! Lord Lucan would offer your best chance. He’s due in Varna soon and is somewhat nominally in command of the division. If you’re in Cardigan’s bad books, he’ll probably welcome you, if only to annoy his brother-in-law by appointing you to his staff, because there’s very bad blood between them. Failing him, you could approach General James Scarlett, who commands the Heavy Brigade, and has been heard to complain that his staff is destitute of battle experience. Well . . .” Phillip raised his drinking horn in smiling salute. “Here’s luck to you, Alex! It has been a great pleasure to see you again.”

  “Thank you,” Alex acknowledged, “for your advice and for your good wishes. It seems not unlikely that I shall need both when I reach Varna.”

  “Yes,” Phillip agreed soberly, “I fear that you may. You see—” Again he cut himself short, his smile fading and Alex became aware of a sudden constraint between them, the more hurtful because it was unexpected. They had once been so close, Phillip and he; as close as brothers in the old days and constant companions, having no secrets from each other, trusting each other implicitly. But now, despite the surface cordiality of the words they had exchanged, there was a barrier between them, holding them apart. He sensed that Phillip wanted to tell him something—to give him some item of news or offer another warning, perhaps—and yet was reluctant or afraid to speak his mind. He waited but the younger man said nothing and at last, stifling a sigh, Alex got to his feet.

  Was it only the gulf of years which made them strangers now, he wondered, or did it go deeper than that? Could the years destroy a friendship as firm and lasting as theirs had always seemed, even though they had been separated for so long and had communicated with each other so infrequently? He felt the old, familiar bitterness well up inside him and the muscles of his face stiffen.

  Why, he asked himself, had he tried to turn back the clock . . . there was never any turning back. He should have learned that partings were final and irrevocable, once time had sealed them.

  Out of the tail of his eye, he saw Colonel Beatson emerge from Lord Cardigan’s brushwood shelter, alone. The gaudy cape hung over the crook of his arm now, so that he was revealed in the correct green and gold lace alkalak of a British officer of Indian irregular cavalry—in fact, the uniform he wore was that of the Nizam’s Cavalry, which he had commanded. He looked, Alex thought, as British as any of the Hussar or Light Dragoon officers in the makeshift camp and, seasoned campaigner that he was, he looked better turned-out than any of them. He walked with dignity and the men drew themselves up and saluted him as he passed, impressed by his personality, although none of them knew who he was nor whence he had come.

  Yet, significantly, Lord Cardigan did not do him the courtesy of escorting him to his horse—he had not even troubled to come to the entrance of his shelter to wish the visitor Godspeed. Instea
d, from its interior, his voice could be heard calling querulously for his aide and then, an instant afterwards, he bellowed a demand for his servant to attend him.

  Alex glanced sharply at Phillip, imagining that in this probably lay the clue to the barrier he had sensed rising between them. It was the old barrier which Cardigan had erected all those years before, he decided resentfully, by means of which the 11th’s commanding officer had set the so-called “Indian” officers apart from those of his own choice. And—consciously or unconsciously—Phillip now accepted the barrier, perhaps.

  He held out his hand and said, with a coldness he could not hide,“Our respective commanders appear to have concluded their conference . . . if such it can be called, when the one so palpably regards the other as beneath his notice.”

  “Oh, pay no heed to Cardigan,” Phillip said easily. “You know what he is like. He treats Lucan, who is his divisional commander, with even less ceremony, I assure you.”

  “Nevertheless” Alex insisted, his tone still inclined to be cold, “I think I had better take my leave also, Phillip.”

  “Must you go so soon?” The regret in Phillip’s voice banished Alex’s momentary anger and because, even now, he could not bear to part from a man who had been his friend on other than friendly terms, he said tentatively, “Yes, but . . . let us hope that this may be only au revoir and not farewell. Shall I look for you on your return to Varna? Provided that my quest for employment is successful and I am still there when you return, of course.”

  “My dear Alex, please do.” Phillip grasped his hand impulsively, holding it in both his own. “I should like to see you again, more than I can begin to tell you. I have missed you, but I—” For the third time he bit back whatever it was he had intended to say and two bright spots of embarrassed colour rose to burn his cheeks. He hesitated and then said apologetically, “Alex, there is a question I must ask you.”

  Alex searched his face with puzzled eyes, at a loss to account for his evident confusion. “Ask me what you will,” he invited.

  “Then . .. ” Phillip’s colour deepened. “Alex, are you married? I know so little of what has happened to you, what you have done since you left England. Your letters told me of battles against the Sikhs and of your travels but of little else. They did not mention a wife or suggest that you—”

  “Because I have none,” Alex answered flatly. “Women have no place in the life I lead, I am afraid. Why do you ask?”

  “What of my sister Charlotte?” Phillip pursued. “It is a long time ago, I am aware but . . . you were fond of her, were you not?”

  There was so much anxiety underlying the question that Alex, in his turn, paused before replying. He could not have said what instinct warned him to be cautious but he answered with assumed indifference, “Yes, indeed, I was deeply attached to Charlotte, Phillip.” Conscious of the irony of his own understatement, he shrugged and added quickly, lest he betray himself, “But as you say, it was a long time ago. I imagine she will have forgotten me by this time.”

  “As you have forgotten her?” Phillip suggested, relief in his eyes. “Then I need not have worried!” He expelled his breath in a heartfelt sigh. “Charlotte is in Varna, you see, Alex.”

  “In Varna? Now?” The blood pounded in Alex’s veins; he could feel the quickened beat of his heart but he forced himself, somehow, to speak calmly and to maintain his pretended indifference. “You mean she has come with the army? But I understood—”

  “That it was forbidden?” Phillip supplied. “Indeed it was, but Charlotte and Emmy—you remember Emmy O’Shaughnessy, our little stepsister, do you not?” Alex nodded dumbly and he went on, a note of almost reluctant pride in his own voice, “The two of them defied Lucan’s ban and took ship, unknown to me, I may say, until they arrived, with some of the army women, in a transport. You may imagine what hardships and humiliations they endured, traveling below decks in such company. Some of those women are .. . well, you’ll see them for yourself, no doubt. I was quite horrified, when I learned what they had done.” Phillip spread his hands helplessly. “I should have prevented them, needless to tell you, if I’d had any inkling of their intentions—but I had not. I imagined them both safe at Therapia as guests of Lady Stratford, at the ambassador’s summer residence. After my wife left, they were invited to stay there for as long as they wished, and that is what I had fondly imagined they would do. But Emmy is a madcap, you know, and I am sure that when she heard that Lady Errol and Mrs Duberly had contrived to join their husbands, she prevailed upon Charlotte to endeavor to do likewise. And Lady Errol, of course . . .”

  The blood continued to beat an urgent tattoo in Alex’s brain. Phillip was telling him of two other officers’ wives who had flaunted Lord Lucan’s orders but he scarcely took any of it in, could not have repeated their names a moment after he had heard them. Only one name mattered to him, although he had sought for years to forget it. Charlotte . . . he drew a shuddering breath, shocked by the intensity of his own emotions.

  Charlotte was in Varna, scarcely fifty miles from him . . . . It seemed unbelievable, this fulfillment of his hopeless, so often suppressed longing to see her again. Dazedly he wondered if he were dreaming, fearing that he must be and Colonel Beatson’s voice, calling to him a trifle impatiently, failed at first to rouse him, for it sounded as if it were coming from another world. But he recovered himself and started obediently to move in his commander’s direction and then, remembering the announcement he had read in The Times on the eve of Chillianwalla, his elation faded. He halted and spun round to face Phillip again.

  “Phillip,” he asked hoarsely, making a desperate effort to steady his voice, “your sister is married to Arthur Cassell, is she not? I read of her engagement to him some years ago. I . . . that is, is he here with you or in Varna?”

  Phillip inclined his head. “Yes, they are married, Alex. But Arthur is on Lord de Ross’ staff, with promotion to lieutenant-colonel. He was despatched on a mission to buy horses from the Bulgarians—before Charlotte and Emmy arrived. I have no idea for how long he will be gone.” His eyes met Alex’s speculatively but, if he had noticed anything unusual in his companion’s manner, he did not mention it. His tone, however, was guarded as he went on, “Charlotte married him six years ago. She is happy, I think but . . . they have no children, which they both regret.”

  “I see,” Alex managed. “I am sorry, for Charlotte’s sake. I imagine, though, that this made it possible for her to accompany you out here.” His smile cost him a pang but Phillip echoed it as he fell into step beside him.

  “Yes, that’s so. Sophie had made up her mind to accompany me when war was declared and I was thankful when Charlotte decided to come with us. My wife is young, you understand, and I felt that if Charlotte was with her, she would be less lonely and unprotected during my necessary absences from her during the campaign. But none of us bargained on Emmy’s insisting that she, too, should be included in the party. I put my foot down and refused my consent but Emmy simply ignored me. Believe it or not, Alex, she smuggled herself on board our ship at Devonport in the confusion of departure, claiming that she was my wife’s personal maid! And she did not reveal her presence until we had been at sea for several days.”

  In spite of the emotional turmoil which Phillip’s earlier words had caused him, Alex laughed aloud, with genuine amusement. It was typical of Emmy, he thought; once she had set her mind on anything, she did not rest until she had achieved her objective, no matter what obstacles stood in her way.

  “You may laugh, my friend,” Phillip told him ruefully. “But I wish now that I had sent her home with Sophie. She and Charlotte have put me in a most awkward position—they have no official status, Arthur is somewhere in the wilds of this Godforsaken country, and we’re in camp at Devna, which is nine miles from Varna . . . when we aren’t on patrol. I don’t know what’s to be done with them, and that is the truth.”

  “Then . . . they are alone?” Alex put in, no longer amused but anxious, on Cha
rlotte’s account.

  “Unfortunately they are. I managed to rent a ramshackle house for them in the town, just before I left to accompany Cardigan on his reconnaissance. But our orders were sudden and unexpected, so that I was compelled to leave before they were properly settled in their new lodging. To be frank, Alex, I am deeply concerned for them. I wonder if you . . . if it would be asking too much of you, that is to say—” Phillip flushed and broke off, frowning, his sentence unfinished.

  Alex guessed what was coming and kept himself under rigid control. Colonel Beatson, who had paused to speak to a group of officers, was now mounted, he saw, and judging by his expression, was obviously impatient to be gone. Arif, the Bashi-Bazouk troop leader, catching his commander’s eye, signed to the man holding Alex’s horse, who came cantering towards Phillip and himself, dragging the animal after him. He could not delay for more than a few minutes longer, Alex knew, and wracked his brains for some plausible excuse, so that he might avoid making the offer which, it was clear, Phillip expected him to make. But he could think of no excuse and, bracing himself, said reluctantly, “Do you wish me to call on your sisters, Phillip, and offer them what assistance I can?”

  “My dear fellow, I should be profoundly grateful if you would!” Phillip assented eagerly. “There is sickness in our camp and rumors—which I sincerely trust are unfounded—of cholera among the French. I don’t want Emmy to stay and I scarcely imagine that Arthur Cassell will be pleased when he hears that Charlotte has followed him to Varna. Perhaps you may be better able to persuade them that they should return to Therapia than I’ve been up to now. You were one of the few people Emmy always listened to in the old days, I remember.” He sighed. “Above all, Alex, I want you to urge them to stay where they are and not to go to the camps . . . whatever Lady Errol or Mrs Duberly are doing. The house I procured for them is in the Street of the Silversmiths. It is not difficult to find, although it is just a potholed quagmire, like all the other streets in Varna . . . in spite of its fine sounding name!”