by V. A. Stuart
“Very good, sir.”
It was a little over ten minutes later when he emerged from Lord Raglan’s headquarters, his rubicund face wearing a pensive expression. A trooper of the Scots Greys waited with his horse; the general swung himself heavily into his saddle and signed to Alex to join him. “Ride back with me to my tent, Sheridan,” he invited, “and we’ll take a glass of wine together. I should like to talk to you.”
Alex, who was mounted on a Bashi-Bazouk horse, since his own was suffering from the after-effects of his hurried journey from Rustchuk, saw the Greys trooper grin as he reined in beside Scarlett’s seventeen-hand weight-carrier, and he grinned back, aware of the odd contrast they made. The general eyed his horse with unconcealed disfavour and said gruffly, “You’ve been serving with Colonel Beatson’s cut-throat Bashi-Bazouks, I understand. How did you find them?”
“My experience of them has been limited, sir,” Alex qualified. “But I have found those under Colonel Beatson’s command undeserving of the bad reputation they have acquired in British eyes.”
“Really? But Beatson is an exceptional man,” General Scarlett stated, with conviction, “particularly where the handling of Oriental troops is concerned. If anyone can discipline the Bashi-Bazouks, it is he. All the same, I do not believe they can be disciplined. You know he’s made an offer of a brigade of them to Lord Raglan, I imagine?”
“Yes, sir.” Alex hesitated. This big, unsoldierly man inspired confidence; he would tell the truth, without fear or favour and was evidently well disposed towards William Beatson, judging by his last words. “Is his lordship going to accept the offer, sir?” he asked.
Scarlett shook his head emphatically. “No, Sheridan, he is not. You can take my word for that .. . and tell Beatson so, if you feel inclined, just in case he’s still cherishing any illusions. Lord Lucan is violently opposed to the suggestion and Lord Cardigan is likely to be even more so, when he returns. Even if the commander-in-chief were willing to listen to it—which, between ourselves, Sheridan, he is not—he would be bound to be influenced by the opinion of his two senior cavalry commanders.”
It was as Phillip had prophesied, Alex thought—and as William Beatson himself had half expected. He would be disappointed, no doubt, although hardly surprised. “I will tell Colonel Beatson, sir,” he promised. “But I do not imagine that he cherishes any illusions.”
“What will he do,” Scarlett asked bluntly, “when his offer is officially turned down . . . continue in the Turkish service?”
“I think not from choice, sir,” Alex said.
“You mean he would like to find employment with us?”
“Yes, sir. Colonel Beatson is hoping that his services—with or without the Bashi-Bazouk levies—may be considered of sufficient value to the British command to ensure his being given a staff appointment of some kind.”
“Ah! That’s very interesting, Sheridan.” General Scarlett turned in his saddle to eye Alex keenly. “Do you happen to know whether or not he’s been offered such an appointment?”
Alex was compelled to deny it. “As far as I am aware he has not . . . but I’ve scarcely had more than a few minutes’ private conversation with him since my arrival here, sir. I know only that he has approached Lord Lucan—”
“Lucan!” the general exploded, his face redder than ever. “Good God . . .” but he controlled himself and went on, more mildly, “Lord Raglan told me just now that you were looking for employment also, Captain.”
“That was my intention, sir. But . . .” Wondering how much Lord Raglan had told the Heavy Brigade commander concerning his previous record in the British army, Alex again hesitated. He was tempted to ask straight out if there were any chance of a vacancy on Scarlett’s own staff but, after a moment’s thought, he decided against it. If the general had any desire for his services, he would ask for them; to volunteer them prematurely might, in view of his record, place them both in an embarrassing position, with Scarlett being forced to refuse his request.
And, besides, there was Charlotte. A knife twisted agonizingly in Alex’s heart as he conjured up a vision of her, as she had been the previous evening, when he had glimpsed her at General Can-robert’s reception. She had not changed, he thought—she was still as beautiful as he had remembered her, still as gay and charming and desirable . . . and still tantalizingly beyond his reach. Now more than ever, since she was Arthur Cassell’s wife . . . . He felt the blood in his veins take fire, as he sought vainly to drive Charlotte’s image from his mind. But the image would not be banished; it was imprinted on his memory, a torment from which, if he remained in Varna, there could be no escape.
Would he not be wiser, he asked himself, to return after all to the Turkish service? To ride within the next day or two to Omar Pasha in Shumla, where his new rank would entitle him to a cavalry command? Or, better still, to rejoin General Cannon, who had assured him, on the blood-soaked sands of Mokan Island, that there would always be a place for him among his officers? If he stayed here, if he succeeded in finding employment under the British command, Charlotte would be there to haunt his dreams and rouse once again his old longings—even if he exercised iron control and refrained from seeing her, even if he deliberately avoided a meeting and failed to seek her out. She . . .
“I imagine,” General Scarlett said, breaking into his troubled thoughts, “that in view of Prince Gortchakoff’s retreat, we shall not be kept rotting here in Varna for very much longer. There have always been rumors that we’ll be sent to take Sebastopol, and others that our eventual destination will be Odessa. With the present uncertainty as to the role Austria is to play, it may even be Vienna. But my own belief is that they’ll ship the whole force, with the French, to the Crimea within the next few weeks. “ He frowned. “We’ve no means of knowing what troops the Russians have in the Crimea . . . although Lord Raglan may have some information. What is your view, Sheridan?”
Alex considered. “The same as yours, sir . . . that Sebastopol will be our final objective. Turkish opinion is that its capture will be the only effective means of deciding the war and bringing Russia to reason. I think it may well be correct.” If it were, then the problem of Charlotte’s presence would no longer arise, he realized, conscious of relief. She and Emmy might have contrived to smuggle themselves to Varna but it was unlikely that either would be permitted to follow the army if it were sent to invade the Crimea and take Sebastopol. Phillip would forbid it, even if Lord Raglan did not. In which case . . . he drew a quick, uneven breath. Could he not call on them, after all, at their house in the Street of the Silversmiths? Emmy would be hurt, if he did not, Phillip offended by his seeming discourtesy, and to see and speak to Charlotte, just once more, would be a bitter-sweet pleasure which surely, after so long, he might permit himself without courting disaster or straining his self-control beyond its limit?
General Scarlett continued to talk about the likelihood of a landing somewhere in Crim-Tartary until they reached his tent, which was pleasantly situated on a rising spur of ground, overlooking the narrow river which joined the two Devna lakes. His groom took their horses and he led the way inside, pouring wine with a lavish hand and hospitably urging his guest to take the only available chair.
He lived austerely, Alex observed, with few of the comforts with which others of his rank surrounded themselves. A truckle bed, a table and a single chair comprised the tent’s furnishings and trunks and portmanteaux were neatly stacked at one end. But he kept a good wine and an ample supply of excellent cigars and the meal which was served to them, if simple, was appetizing.
Over luncheon, Scarlett confined himself to general topics but when they had finished and his servant brought in a tray of Turkish coffee and passed round the cigars, he started to question Alex about his service in the 11th Hussars.
“I understand, from Lord Raglan, that you sold out in order to avoid a court martial, Captain Sheridan? That’s so, is it not?”
“Yes, General Scarlett, it is, although”—Alex c
ould feel every muscle in his body stiffening into rigidity. He had dreaded the question, even though it was not unexpected, and he was aware that it might be fatal to reply to it completely truthfully. He said cautiously—” I was not anxious to avoid a trial by court martial. Rather I would have welcomed it, if I am to be honest, sir. But I was ordered to sell out . . . by Lord Raglan, as he may have told you.”
The general took him up swiftly. “If you’re to be honest . . . I urge you to be, my young friend.” He gestured to the barely furnished tent. “We are alone, that is why I invited you here . . . and you may rely on my discretion. I shall not divulge anything you tell me but I should like to hear your side of the affair, frankly and without prejudice. I have my reasons for wishing to know. When you hear them, I hope you will consider that they justify my curiosity concerning you.”
Alex set down his coffee cup. “I will gladly tell you anything you want to know, sir, as frankly as I can.”
“Thank you.” General Scarlett leaned back, inhaling the smoke from his cigar. He had unbuttoned his frock coat, revealing the homely flannel shirt he wore beneath it and he looked, just then, more like a country squire, relaxing after his Sunday dinner, than a general in the aristocratic British army. He asked, his tone gruff, “Lord Cardigan was your commanding officer in the 11th, was he not? For how long did you serve under him?”
“For eight years, sir. Including one year in India, when his lordship assumed command of the regiment.”
“And it was he who applied for your court martial on charges of insubordination? Were you guilty of insubordination to his lordship?”
Alex nodded grimly. “Had I been tried, sir, I should have been found guilty, and cashiered. But—”
“Yet you say you would have welcomed the trial by court martial?” The general’s heavy white brows rose in perplexity. “You surprise me, Sheridan, indeed you do. Although—” He sat up suddenly, thumping one large hand into the palm of the other and a gleam of comprehension lit his eyes. “Good Gad, I remember now! You were the one who called Cardigan out . . . there was a couplet about you, published in the Globe. As I recall it, the poet’s sentiments were as deplorable as his muse.”
“The couplet was a gross exaggeration, sir,” Alex asserted. “I fired no shot.”
“But you were prepared to, if I remember rightly . . . as well as to stand your trial.” General Scarlett smiled faintly. “You were either an exceptionally foolhardy young man or you had great faith in the justice of your cause. Which was it, Captain?” Before Alex could reply, he shook his head. “No, don’t tell me. Having met you and having listened to the report you made to Lord Raglan, I’m prepared to decide which for myself. And to back my own judgement by offering you an appointment on my staff.”
“Thank you, sir.” Alex’s relief and pleasure were such that his voice shook. “I am most grateful.”
“I intend to make a similar offer to your friend Colonel Beatson. You and he are the type of officers I need to advise me. I’ve had no experience of fighting, Sheridan. I have never taken part in a battle and my knowledge of cavalry tactics is limited to field days and reviews, in peacetime conditions.” The general sighed. “My present staff are in a similar state . . . willing and, I am sure, able young men, but not of the slightest use to me when it comes to mounting an attack. As a brigade commander, I shall have the responsibility for men’s lives . . . and their deaths on my conscience if, through inexperience, I employ faulty tactics. One cannot take such a responsibility lightly, Sheridan . . . or I cannot.” He held out his hand. “I shall, of course, have to confirm your appointment, subject to Lord Raglan’s approval. I do not imagine that he will raise any objections to it, since it was he who invited me to be present when he received your recent report on the action at Guirgevo.”
Alex could scarcely believe the evidence of his own ears.
“Lord Raglan invited you to be present, sir?”
“Indeed he did. His lordship, as you may know, does not like to force his opinion on his subordinates. But he has heard me bewailing the fact that I’ve no one on my staff with battle experience and he hinted that I might find you useful . . . as I’m sure I shall. Evidently he had not forgotten you, Sheridan.”
“No, sir, I . . . evidently not. I am deeply beholden to him.” Had Lord Raglan’s memory also gone back to that strangely contradictory interview at the Horse Guards, of which his own recollections were so fraught with bitterness, Alex wondered. Was this his way of making amends for what, against his personal inclination, he had been compelled to do? It seemed that it must be . . . he took his new commanding officer’s hand and shook it warmly. “I shall do my utmost to justify your confidence in me, General Scarlett. But . . .” He hesitated. “There is just one thing, sir, that I ought to mention.”
“And that is, Captain Sheridan?”
“Sir, it is possible that Lord Cardigan may raise objections to my being appointed to your staff. In view of which, sir—”
“I am in command of the Heavy Brigade,” General Scarlett stated, with emphasis. “Lord Cardigan has his own command, with both of us subordinate to Lord Lucan, as divisional commander. I can assure you, Captain Sheridan, that the only objections to which I should pay the slightest heed are those of Lord Raglan. And he isn’t likely to express any, as I’ve just told you. So . . .” he smiled. “You may beg, borrow or steal a cocked hat for yourself and report to me here tomorrow evening. And, whilst you’re about it, steal one for Beatson too, if you can prevail upon him to join us. Au revoir, Sheridan.”
Alex rode out of camp, his emotions somewhat mixed. The new appointment pleased him; he liked General Scarlett but . . . there was still the question of Charlotte and whether or not he should try to postpone their almost inevitable meeting, now that he was to remain in Varna.
He was cantering towards the Turkish camp, some four miles beyond the British tents, where both he and William Beatson were at present quartered, when he saw coming in his direction a straggling troop of Hussars on foot, leading their horses. He recognized them as men of the 8th and watched their limping progress in horrified disbelief, taking in the dusty, disorderly state of the men’s uniforms and the fact that at least half the horses looked ready to drop in their tracks from exhaustion. He drew rein when he reached them, thinking to offer what assistance he could but the men shuffled past him like sleepwalkers and the officer at their head appeared oblivious to his surroundings. From the sergeant who, unlike the rest, had maintained some measure of alertness, Alex was able to ascertain that this was part of Lord Cardigan’s patrol returning from reconnaissance, and that Phillip Dunloy was safe, although some distance behind. The patrol had not been in action, the sergeant told him; its casualties were the result of the pace their commander had insisted upon and the distance they had covered.
Alex waited to hear no more. Putting his sturdy little Kurdish horse to a canter, he hurried on to the Turkish encampment. He found Colonel Beatson in his tent, seated cross-legged on the carpeted floor and drinking coffee with three Turkish officers.
“Join us, Alex,” the colonel invited cordially, and introduced his companions, one of whom leaned forward to pour him a cup of the sweet black brew from its burnished copper container. The Turks stayed for about an hour, conversing in friendly fashion, and then took their leave. William Beatson rose and stretched his cramped limbs before crossing to his camp bed and flinging himself down on it wearily. “You look as if you have news, my friend, “he said. “But before you tell me what it is, I have some to give you.”
“I hope it is good news, sir.”
“It is not, Alex. First—Lord de Ros has sent me an official intimation that Lord Raglan has refused my offer of a Bashi-Bazouk brigade. I was thanked very courteously but the refusal was quite uncompromising. So I am leaving tomorrow for Shumla, with the men I had gathered, and I shall hand them over to Omar Pasha. One of the three officers you met just now, Nasiri Bey, will take command of the whole force, including those in Sh
umla and he’ll continue their training, with Arif as his lieutenant. Arif deserves promotion, don’t you agree?”
“I do indeed, sir,” Alex confirmed. He waited and the colonel went on, “Earlier today, whilst you were waiting on Lord Raglan, I received a summons from General Canrobert. And—this is confidential, Alex—he told me that nothing would satisfy Marshal St Arnaud but a sally, in force into the Dobruja to harass the retreating Russians!” He shrugged expressively. “I have the greatest respect for Canrobert but St Arnaud is a very different type, an opportunist, who seeks easy military glory. He has learnt from some source of his own that there are ten thousand Russian stragglers cut off, without support, south of the river—and he intends to destroy them. For which purpose, he is about to mobilize thirty thousand Zouaves and lead them on a forced march into that plague-ridden swamp!”
Alex pursed his lips into a silent whistle of dismay. He knew the low-lying, marshy plains of the Dobruja—called by the Russians the Dobrudscha—and was aware of the evil reputation it possessed. “But surely, sir, the marshal hasn’t decided on this plan?”
“He has—and nothing will dissuade him,” Beatson returned, frowning. “Although, at Canrobert’s request, I did all in my power to turn him from it. Turkish intelligence reports the Dobruja empty of Russians and I told him this, but he simply said he had no faith in Turkish intelligence. There is feverish activity in the French camp now, as the Zouaves make ready, and my guess is that they will be gone by tonight.” He paused significantly. “Without consulting either Lord Raglan or Omar Pasha.”
Alex stirred uneasily. “I trust that my report to him last night did not inspire such madness? For madness it is, sir.”
“No, I fancy he’s been considering the idea for some time, encouraged by Trochu. When you informed him that Gortcha-koff’s main army was withdrawing to Bucharest, he decided that the moment had come for him to attack these mythical stragglers with impunity. Perhaps it would be . . . if they existed. Turkish intelligence apart—and I concede that it is sometimes wildly inaccurate—Luders is too experienced a general to abandon ten thousand of his troops. Or allow them to be cut off, when he’s had plenty of time to get them across the river.” Colonel Beatson shrugged. “He’s had no one but Cardigan to harass him, since he retired from Silistria!”