by V. A. Stuart
“Alex has told me what happened between Lord Cardigan and himself,” Colonel Beatson interrupted gently. “I take it that your stepsister subsequently married someone else?”
“She married Lord Cassell,” Emmy said. “Arthur Cassell, who is also in the 11th. But he is at present serving on the staff of the quartermaster-general, Lord de Ros.”
“Then he is here, in Varna?” the colonel suggested.
“No.” Emmy felt herself redden beneath his searching gaze. “He is somewhere in the country, with Captain Nolan, buying horses for the army. I . . . we are not sure when he will be returning to Varna.” She felt impelled to defend Charlotte against his unvoiced criticism and added quickly, “Charlotte is naturally very worried, for he does not yet know that she has come here to join him. And we have no means of letting him know.”
“I see. In that case . . .” Colonel Beatson did not complete his sentence. There was a stir at the entrance of the marquee. An aide-de-camp went hurrying across, there was a brief conference and then he returned, evidently searching for someone. Catching sight of Colonel Beatson, the young officer thrust a way through the crowd to his side. Bowing, he murmured something unintelligible in heavily accented English and the colonel thanked him and rose to his feet.
“Forgive me, Miss O’Shaughnessy,” he apologized, “if I leave you, but Alex Sheridan has this moment arrived and is asking for me urgently. It seems he has news to impart to me which cannot wait—even for long enough for him to remove the stains of travel from his person, so as to present himself at this reception. But permit me to introduce Lieutenant de Colbert”—he drew the young aide-de-camp forward—“who will, I know, be most honored to wait on you. And I shall bring Alex with me tomorrow, if I may, when I call upon you and Lady Cassell, at your house in the Street of the Silversmiths. Good night, Miss O’Shaughnessy. It has been a great pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Emmy thanked him and bade him good night, at pains to conceal her disappointment. She watched his departure with chagrin, wishing that she might have accompanied him, if only in order to catch a glimpse of Alex. The young Lieutenant de Colbert, eager to serve her, insisted on fetching her more wine, assuring her that he would return to her side immediately if she would remain where she was.
She did so and, as she sat waiting for him to come back, observed a tall officer, in a dust-stained uniform, appear briefly in the open flap of the marquee’s entrance. He looked white with fatigue, a grave-faced, unsmiling stranger, and yet there was something familiar about him, something about the stiffly upright set of his tall body and the way he moved which told Emmy instantly that he was Alex Sheridan.
Something else told her too, beyond all shadow of doubt. For he was looking across the length of the marquee at Charlotte and there was recognition in his eyes and a kind of pain as his gaze rested on her beautiful, flushed face. Charlotte, suddenly sensing that curiously intent regard, looked up to meet it but her eyes passed over him without acknowledgement and she turned back, smiling, to the French officers grouped about her, apparently without being aware of the identity of the new arrival.
Alex spun round on his heel and, a moment later, was gone.
Colonel Beatson re-entered the marquee a few minutes afterwards. A colonel of Zouaves led him to General Canrobert, to whom he spoke earnestly and then, as Emmy saw Lieutenant de Colbert struggling through the press towards her, all three officers unobtrusively left the tent.
There was a good deal of coming and going after that but General Canrobert was soon back, once more, with his guests, and it was not until nearly an hour later that Emmy heard a hint of the momentous news which Alex had brought. Mrs Duberly, coming to warn her that it was time they took their leave, whispered excitedly that she had heard rumors of a great Turkish victory at Guirgevo.
“It may be only a rumour but everybody is talking of it,” she said. “And if it is true the war may well be over, without our having fired a shot! Colonel Thibault, of the Chasseurs de Vincennes, insists that Prince Gortchakoff’s army is in retreat to Bucharest and that only a few stragglers are left in the Dobruja . . . and Henry thinks it’s more than probable.” She sighed. “I wonder where they will send us now? To Sebastopol, perhaps, or even Odessa. There is talk of Vienna, too. I shall be content . . . so long as they do not send us home. That will be too inglorious!”
Emmy was silent during the slow, uncomfortable drive back to the Street of the Silversmiths, while Charlotte and Fanny Duberly indulged in eager speculation and conjecture as to the future conduct of the war. Alex, she thought, would tell them what was happening or likely to happen, when he called with Colonel Beatson next day. He had brought the news of the Turkish victory and would, therefore, be in a position to separate fact from rumor.
She did not mention his arrival in Varna to Charlotte, salving her conscience with the thought that he would announce this in person very soon. In any event, Charlotte did not ask .. . she was too full of her conquest of a handsome French captain of Chasseurs to wish to speak of anything else.
Emmy was glad, next day, that she had said nothing, for neither Alex nor Colonel Beatson made their expected appearance. A messenger came, however, from the colonel—a Greek youth, leading two sturdy little half-bred Arab horses which, he explained in excellent English, the colonel hoped they would find useful. His own services, the messenger explained, were to be theirs also, if they wished, as groom and general factotum, for as long as they remained in Varna. And Colonel Beatson had thoughtfully arranged stabling and a supply of fodder for the two animals, so that their acceptance of his offer need involve them in neither trouble nor expense. Emmy was overjoyed and even Charlotte expressed unbounded pleasure at this generous gift. Free at last of the hateful confines of their dark little house, the two girls set off on horseback to call on Captain and Mrs Duberly at Devna.
They were there, with Fanny Duberly, when Lord Cardigan’s patrol returned to the Light Brigade lines. In stunned dismay, they watched as men on foot, dropping with exhaustion, led in their stumbling horses, followed by an araba, drawn by bullocks, filled with others who had collapsed on the march and could no longer either walk or ride.
All day, in groups, sometimes in twos and threes, carrying their saddlery on their backs, the men straggled into camp. They had marched through the night and, during the seventeen days of their patrol, had eaten nothing but salt pork. Seventy-five of their best horses were either dead or dying; all had saddle-sores, few but were lame, and the men themselves were little better off, although not a single casualty had been inflicted on them by the enemy. Lord Cardigan led them in; he spoke to no one and, without offering either explanation or apology, sought the privacy of his own tent immediately.
It was just before sunset that Phillip limped in, with half a dozen troopers of the 11th, all of them leading their chargers, some of which had to be goaded into completing the last few yards of their disastrous journey. He recognized his sisters but was too tired to do more than smile at them wanly before staggering to his tent, as his commander had done, in silence.
Wisely, they made no attempt to follow him and as they rode back to Varna, even Charlotte could find nothing to say.
CHAPTER FOUR
“HIS LORDSHIP is at liberty to see you now, Captain Sheridan,” Lord Raglan’s aide-de-camp said politely. “If you will be so good as to come this way.”
He was a pleasant young man, a nephew of the British commander-in-chief, and had done his best to while away the tedium of waiting by an entertaining flow of anecdotes and gossip. In spite of this, Alex could not help contrasting his reception here with that accorded him the previous evening, when he had sought out William Beatson at General Canrobert’s soirée. On hearing the news he had brought, the general had conducted him in person to Marshal St Arnaud, before returning to his guests and his interrupted soirée. The French commander-in-chief, roused from sleep and suffering from a chill, had nonetheless sent for Colonel Trochu, his principal aide, and had k
ept them both with him for over two hours, poring over maps and discussing every detail of the Turkish capture of Guirgevo and its probable consequences . . .. Alex sighed. Lord Raglan, on the other hand, having summoned him at nine o’ clock, had let him cool his heels until midday, whilst a procession of staff officers came and went . . . presumably on business considered of greater importance than his own.
He followed the A.D.C., his mouth compressed but his expression carefully blank. “Captain Sheridan, my lord,” the aide announced, “of the East India Company’s service.” Alex saluted and stepped past him, with a brief word of thanks.
Lord Raglan was seated at a desk piled high with papers. He had aged a great deal since the last time Alex had seen him and he looked pale and careworn, as if the responsibilities of command sat heavily on his shoulders and the hours of work demanded of him were a constant drain on his reserves of strength. But his smile had all its old warmth and charm and his tone was as courteous as ever when he invited his caller to sit down.
“I apologize for keeping you waiting, Captain Sheridan,” he said. “I had some urgent despatches to deal with, before I could be free to give you my undivided attention.” He turned to the waiting A. D.C. “When Brigadier-General Scarlett comes, you may show him in immediately. Otherwise do not disturb us, if you please, Nigel.”
“Very good, my lord.” The young man withdrew and Lord Raglan pushed back his chair, again smiling in Alex’s direction. “We have met before, have we not, Captain Sheridan?”
Alex returned his gaze steadily. “On the termination of my service with the 11th Hussars, your lordship had occasion to summon me to wait you at the Horse Guards.”
“Yes . . . I recall the occasion. You are now, I understand—like your immediate superior, Colonel Beatson—an officer of the East India Company’s cavalry, attached as a volunteer to the Turkish army?” When Alex nodded, he asked with interest, “What rank do you hold under the Ottoman command?”
“That of Kaimakan, your lordship, with the title of Demir Bey. I have recently been promoted, on General Cannon’s recommendation.”
“Ah yes . . . that is the equivalent of lieutenant-colonel, is it not? You have done well in the Turkish service, Captain Sheridan. Colonel Beatson speaks highly of your conduct during the recent siege of Silistria and has asked me if there might not be a possibility of an attachment for you under my command. Let us hope that something can be arranged.” He spoke non-commit-tally, Alex thought, but at least had not rejected his request and, realizing this, his flagging spirits rose and he murmured his thanks. Lord Raglan shrugged his thin shoulders, as if to dismiss the subject and was questioning Alex about his service with the Turkish army when an aide announced General Scarlett.
The Heavy Brigade commander was a stout, red-faced man in his middle fifties, whose bushy white brows and straggling moustache gave him a curiously unmilitary air, which was enhanced by the fact that his uniform was ill-fitting and devoid of decorations. He acknowledged Alex’s introduction with a hearty, “Good day to you, Captain Sheridan,” and then seated himself in response to Lord Raglan’s invitation and added expectantly, “I understand you’ve brought us a report of a Turkish success at Guirgevo?”
“Yes, sir.” Alex commenced his report and both generals heard him without interruption. Lord Raglan did not refer to his maps, but listened attentively, nodding his approval when Alex mentioned the decisive part the two British gunboats had played, with their volunteer crews. He offered no comment until the report was almost concluded. Then he said, with a hint of disparagement in his quiet, cultured voice, “It is as I suspected . . . the Turkish High Command is not anxious to do battle and only does so when spurred on by the example of a few valiant English officers. Yet, when battle is joined, the French retreat—even when numerically superior.”
“The French, my lord?” Alex echoed, puzzled, and met General Scarlett’s warning glance. “
“Lord Raglan is referring to the Russians, of course, Captain Sheridan. That was a slip of the tongue.”
The British commander-in-chief forced a weary smile. “It is a slip I am prone to make rather too frequently,” he confessed. “But it is not easy, when one is a veteran of the Peninsular War, to accustom oneself to the fact that the French are now our allies. However, pray continue, Captain Sheridan. You said, I think, that General Cannon’s attack was launched on the seventh of July, with only a few hundred men?”
Alex inclined his head. “With three hundred, I was informed, my lord, under the command of General Cannon and Captain Bent. They made a landing on the small island of Mokan, which is nine hundred yards from the fortress of Rustchuk, on the south bank of the Danube. It is separated from Guirgevo by a narrow channel, of considerable depth at its centre but fordable on either side. A second small force, under Colonel Ogilvy and five other British officers, made the crossing in rowing boats further downstream, intending to wade through the ford on their right flank. They were driven back and had to fight their way across the island to join up with General Cannon. I did not reach Rustchuk until twenty-four hours after the attack had been launched, by which time some five thousand reinforcements had been landed on the island . . . all of them Turkish volunteers, my lord, who fought with great courage. They had established a bridgehead but were under heavy attack by elements of Prince Gortchakoff’s army, from the Wallacian side of the river and suffered severe casualties . . . .”
Young Burke, of the Royal Engineers, Meynell of the 75th and Arnold of his own service had all been killed that day, Alex recalled, with a tightening of the throat.
Prince Gortchakoff’s unexpected arrival had come as a bitter blow to them. The prince, hearing of the impudent attack on Guirgevo, which he had imagined safely in Russian hands, had made a forced march with sixty thousand men to come to its defense. Cannon’s hard-pressed volunteers had been cut off on their narrow, two-mile-long island, under a withering fire which made it impossible for further reinforcements to reach them in daylight. And none would have been sent when darkness fell, had it not been for the providential arrival of the gunboats, with their bridging equipment, for Hussein Pasha had refused to commit any more men to the hazardous crossing in small boats . . . .
“Well, Captain Sheridan?” Lord Raglan prompted. “What action did you take when you reached Rustchuk? You have told us nothing of that but presumably you rode on, ahead of the gunboats?”
“Yes, my lord. My orders from Colonel Beatson were to acquaint General Cannon with news of the arrival of the gunboats, as soon as I had intercepted them and directed them to his support. It had been our hope that I might deliver this news to him before he launched his attack but, as I told your lordship, I was twenty-four hours too late.” Alex spoke with controlled calm but his voice held regret. He had ridden hard, with Arif and the Bashi-Bazouks; they had neither eaten nor slept and had paused only when it became essential to rest their exhausted horses, but they had been too late.
His mouth tightened, as he remembered the carnage on the tiny island, the dead and dying, the piteous cries of the wounded and he went on, keeping a tight rein on his emotions, “I found General Cannon in Rustchuk, my lord. He had returned there, at great risk, to plead with Hussein Pasha to send him reinforcements. We went together to the Turkish commander and informed him of the presence of the gunboats, and General Cannon urged him to prepare to cross with his main body as soon as a pontoon bridge could be constructed. To his credit, my lord, Hussein Pasha showed no reluctance but promised to be ready whenever the bridge was prepared. He kept his word and he had men waiting to assist with the bridge-building, when Captain Page, of the Royal Engineers, landed with his detachment and their equipment. They worked through the night and had the bridge in place by dawn. The two gunboats then engaged the enemy with great effect, placing themselves in the deep channel immediately to General Cannon’s front and providing covering fire, which afforded his force on the island an opportunity to re-form.”
“It was a well executed m
anœuvre,” Lord Raglan approved. “I must inform Admiral Dundas officially of the success of his enterprise. Can you tell me the names of the officers responsible?”
“Yes, my lord. They were Lieutenant Glyn of H.M.S. Britannia and Lieutenant Prince Leningen—a young German officer, attached to the Royal Navy and presently serving in the Britannia.”
The British commander-in-chief noted these names. He asked a number of other questions regarding the manner and direction of the Russian withdrawal, which Alex answered briefly. He added, “As soon as the main body of the Turkish army began their advance across the bridge, my lord, the Russians withdrew, leaving a screen of Cossacks to cover their retreat. There were none left, save wounded, when Hussein Pasha’s advance troops entered Guirgevo. They told us that Prince Gortchakoff and General Bubatoff had both been wounded and that the prince was carried out on a litter.”
Lord Raglan and General Scarlett exchanged significant glances.
“It would seem to me, my lord,” the Heavy Brigade commander observed, “that great credit must go to all concerned in this highly successful affair. Not least”—he gestured to Alex, his eyes twinkling good humoredly from behind the bushy white screen of his brows—“to this young officer, who has borne himself well and given us an admirably clear picture of everything that took place.”
“Indeed yes, General,” Lord Raglan agreed. “It remains to be seen, of course, whether Lord Cardigan is able, as the result of his reconnaissance, to confirm that the enemy has withdrawn all his forces from the Bulgarian side of the Danube. However, your report, Captain Sheridan, gives us reason for optimism, I think. You will please accept my thanks for having, as General Scarlett says, given it with such clarity. And my congratulations on your praiseworthy devotion to duty and personal courage.”
It was his dismissal and Alex rose. He saluted and was about to take his leave when General Scarlett called to him to wait. He turned obediently and the general laid a hand on his arm. “Attend me outside, if you please, Captain Sheridan. I will be with you in ten minutes.”