by V. A. Stuart
“Look!” she bade Phillip unsteadily, when he drew rein beside her on the lip of the depression. “Oh, look—it is one of our horsemen, with the Cossacks after him! He must be wounded because he . . .” her voice broke on a sob. “Holy Mother of God, it is my father!” Yusef joined them and she turned to him, white faced and weeping, to repeat her assertion in a spate of incomprehensible words.
In the gathering dusk it was hard to be sure who the fugitive was but, as he came nearer and emerged from the shadow of the trees, Phillip saw that there was a tattered fragment of white cloth—which might once have been a sling—dangling from his right arm. He could not bring himself to confirm Selina’s shocked claim to recognition, although there was little doubt in his own mind that she was right and that it could only be her father. The Colonel was leaning forward, clinging to his horse’s shaggy mane and, as the gallant little animal bounded forward, his hunched body swayed from side to side, as if he were making desperate efforts to keep himself in the saddle.
Less than twenty-five yards separated him from a yelling band of some forty or fifty Cossacks, who pounded after him, strung out in an extended line, the leaders with lances lowered in anticipation of a swift end to their chase. It was obvious that they could have ended it at any moment they chose, but instead, they were playing with their hapless quarry, driving him this way and that, now allowing him to gain a few yards and then, with derisive shouts, cutting off his escape and forcing him to return by the way he had come. They sounded for all the world like a pack of baying hounds with their kill in view and Phillip’s blood ran cold as he listened, his brain racing as he sought for some way—any way—in which to distract them from their hunt, at least for long enough to enable the brave old Colonel to elude them.
He was aware that he could count on no acts of outstanding bravery or sacrifice from the dozen or so Circassian horse-minders whom Yusef, the Pasha’s son, had recruited. They were not all of the calibre of Dafir and had not the Colonel himself said that they would never attack, if the odds were against them? The odds were heavily against them now, so that a charge was out of the question . . . although Yusef looked capable of leading one. In any case, they were too few for such a measure to be effective but they could all shoot and, from the slope below them, the range would not be extreme and there was plenty of cover.
Phillip turned to Cochrane, waiting alertly beside him. “See that ridge down there, beyond the clump of trees to our right, Mr Cochrane? Get every man you can dismounted—leave a couple with the horses—and spread them out along the ridge. Open fire on those Cossacks as soon as they come within range and aim for the leaders’ horses. But for God’s sake go easy with the ammunition—we’ve none to spare, so every shot has to count. Here”—he thrust three or four rounds into his pocket and gave Cochrane his cartridge pouch—“you’d better take this. I’ll reclaim it when I join you. When you’re in position, yell your heads off, all three of you . . . cheer, anything you like, and get the Circassians to do the same. Make it sound as if there are a hell of a lot more of us than there are, understand? Right then, off you go . . . and good luck to you.” Cochrane was already off his horse and eagerly unslinging his rifle. “One thing more,” Phillip warned, before letting him go. “If anything should happen to me, it’ll be your responsibility to take Serfir to Ghelenjik. That and nothing else, Mr Cochrane.”
Cochrane gave him a crisp “Aye, aye, sir,” and with the two seamen at his heels, set about assembling his small force. He wasted no time and Thompson and Erikson dealt none too gently with any who displayed reluctance to obey his shouted but unintelligible commands, and, seeking to make his task easier, Phillip called to Selina to translate for him. She did so, in a flat voice devoid of all feeling and he sensed, rather than saw, that she was edging her horse towards the top of the slope.
“Stay where you are!” he bade her harshly and was shocked when she turned her head and he glimpsed the stark misery in her tense white face. “I need you here,” he added more gently. “To tell Yusef what to do and to take those spare horses to—”
“Horses!” She flung the word at him with blazing scorn. “Yusef knows what to do, better than you do. And my father needs me . . . can’t you see that? The Cossacks are making sport with him, hunting him like an animal and you imagine you can stop them with rifles! I am going to him . . .” without waiting for his reply, she started down the slope, her horse slithering over the loose stones and rubble with which it was strewn.
“No!” Phillip exclaimed, appalled. “Come back, Selina! In God’s name, come back!” She ignored his plea and he had no choice but to follow her, the Minié he had just unslung still clutched in his hand. Small chance he would have of using it with any accuracy on horseback, he thought ruefully, but he could not abandon the weapon, so he looped its leather sling over his shoulder again and started to coax his unwilling horse down the steep hillside after Selina. The animal slipped on the treacherous surface, almost throwing him over its head but he managed somehow to drag himself back into the saddle. Selina was already so far ahead of him that he began to despair of his ability to catch up with her but he pressed on, obstinately determined to bring her back if he could or, if he could not, then to keep her in sight, at least until reasonably certain that she was out of danger.
There was the sharp crack of a rifle, coming from behind him, then a second and a third, from which he guessed that Yusef’s horse-minders must be firing from the top of the hill. The fools! They were wasting ammunition—the Cossacks were out of range on the far side of the valley and making such a row themselves that they probably would not hear the shots. He hoped fervently that Cochrane would be able to control those of Yusef’s men whom he had taken to the ridge with him—make them hold their fire and start cheering and kicking up a shindy at the right moment. It was a pity he hadn’t had time to tell Yusef to let the spare horses loose and send them galloping down through the trees, when Cochrane opened fire, in an attempt to confuse the Cossacks. Everything depended on confusing and taking them by surprise . . . hitting them hard when they were least expecting to come under attack and then holding them, in order to give the Colonel his chance to escape. Always supposing, of course, that they did not bring their hunt to its fiendish and bloody conclusion without returning to this side of the valley, within range of Cochrane’s waiting riflemen. They were making enough noise to suggest that, perhaps, they had ended it and . . . a prey to sudden fear, Phillip reined in, to risk an apprehensive glance across the shadowed valley.
But it was not yet over. The Cossacks were coming back, he saw, still driving their quarry in front of them to the sound of shrill yelps and catcalls . . . so there was still a chance, if the poor old Colonel and his rapidly tiring horse could keep going for a little longer. He kicked his own horse into a reckless canter and, within earshot of Selina at last, again called out to her to come back or to pull up and wait for him. Either she did not hear or had chosen once more to ignore him, for she rode on at a furious pace, her gaze fixed on the lonely, fleeing figure below them. Heedless of her own safety, she urged her horse on, her long, dark hair streaming out behind her and her light weight and superior horsemanship setting Phillip a hopeless task, as the gap between them widened.
“Selina!” he shouted despairingly. “You can’t help him alone . . .” and then he saw her small, erect body stiffen, as the Colonel’s horse met some obstacle in its path and stumbled. It recovered almost miraculously and struggled up, its flanks heaving, urged on by mocking yells from the pursuing Cossacks. One of them, a black-bearded giant, spurred ahead of the rest, to prod the labouring animal with the tip of his lance, gleefully swinging round in a half-circle in order to pluck the Colonel’s fur cap from his head by the same means. The man’s whoop of triumph, as he turned to rejoin his comrades with his trophy held arrogantly aloft was suddenly more than Phillip could stomach. Feeling a savage anger catch at his throat, he jerked his own mount to a standstill, unslung the Minié and, raising it to his
shoulder, sent a wild shot echoing towards the line of galloping riders.
He had taken very hasty aim, had fired more to give vent to his outraged feelings than in the hope that his shot would be effective and bit back an incredulous gasp when he saw the huge Cossack clutch his chest, then slide slowly from his saddle into the path of the shouting, jostling horsemen. There was no time for them to turn aside and the giant’s shriek of terror ended abruptly as the thundering hooves pounded his body to a bloody pulp. The horses passed without checking speed, leaving behind them a shapeless mass which bore little resemblance to a human form and Phillip permitted himself a grim little smile, as he saw the Colonel’s fur hat—crushed but still recognizable—go rolling across the rocky ground in their wake.
A moment later a fusilade of shots came from the ridge above him and to his right and he roused himself from his shocked contemplation of the hat with the realization that Cochrane, with perfect timing, had opened fire on the enemy. The first volley emptied three more Cossack saddles and the remainder, taken by surprise at the unexpected outcome of their bloodthirsty game, instantly abandoned it, as he had prayed they would. They reined in, hesitated, and then wheeled to mass into two tightly packed ranks, ready to receive what they obviously took to be an attack of considerable strength on their flank, their eyes warily searching the sloping side of the narrow valley for a glimpse of their assailants.
Even in the fading light, it would not take them long to discover that they were being challenged by a mere handful, Phillip knew, and when they did . . . he shivered involuntarily. For the moment, however, the challenge had brought them to a halt and won a brief respite for the Colonel—if only the valiant old soldier was not too badly wounded to take advantage of it and make good his escape. His horse had come to a standstill about two hundred yards from the Cossacks, but Selina was moving down the slope towards him, skilfully weaving her way through a clump of trees, now vanishing into a patch of shadow, now briefly coming into view again, where the trees thinned. She was having to make a detour to avoid coming into Cochrane’s line of fire but she was going very fast and should come up with her father before long. Satisfied that she was in no immediate danger, Phillip turned his attention to what was happening in his own vicinity.
The Circassians were doing all in their power to create the impression that they were about to attack in force, the wild battle cries they uttered waking blood-curdling echoes from the surrounding hills and mingling effectively with the deep-throated British cheers of his own men. The sound would undoubtedly have struck terror into the hearts of less experienced troops but the Cossacks, although still wary, were evidently not deceived by it. They held their ground, pistols and carbines out as they started to return the fire directed against them with a straggling volley, aimed at any targets they could see. They did not dismount but remained sitting their horses, ready to make a rapid withdrawal should this be necessary or, if it should not, then to charge and try to come to grips with their as yet unseen foe.
About a dozen of them—chosen marksmen, presumably— cantered off to right and left of the main body and, reins looped over their arms, led their horses into the cover of the trees and bushes with which the foot of the valley was lined. Realizing that their presence might well make his own position untenable, Phillip moved into the shelter of a rocky outcrop, dismounted and tied his horse to a stunted bush growing out of a cranny in its broken, uneven surface. He reloaded his Minié, experiencing a moment of uneasiness when he felt for his pouch and then recalled that he had given all his spare ammunition to Cochrane. However, his young second-in-command was making better use of it than he could have done, and he had three rounds left, in addition to the one he had just rammed into the barrel of his rifle, which would have to suffice until he could join Cochrane and his party on the ridge.
Judging by the rapidity of the fire they were keeping up, their ammunition would not last much longer than his own meagre supply, but they had done better than he had dared to hope . . . and all credit to Cochrane for that. The boy had kept even the Circassians under admirable control; he had positioned them well and now, by pinning down the entire Cossack patrol and forcing them to remain on the defensive, he was effectively discouraging any attempt on their part to pursue and recapture the Colonel. All the same . . . Phillip’s brows met in an anxious frown. The Cossacks were hitting back and Cochrane was heavily outnumbered. So small a force could not be expected to hold an exposed position indefinitely; some casualties were inevitable and—unless Serfir heard the firing and sent them help—they would be compelled to withdraw when their ammunition ran out. The Circassians might do so before this happened, leaving Cochrane and the two seamen on their own, and he would be powerless to stop them . . . he looked up at the darkening sky. Once he was certain that Selina and her father were safely out of the valley, he would signal Cochrane to fall back to the top of the hill, he decided and, the Minié to his shoulder, he raised his head cautiously above the protective screen of rock. Selina should have had ample time to . . . one of the Cossack marksmen took a shot at him and the ball ricocheted inches from his head, sending a shower of rock splinters to sting his face and neck. But the man had shown himself as he took aim and Phillip squeezed the trigger of his rifle before diving back into cover, and had the satisfaction of hearing his attacker fall heavily into the undergrowth in which he had been concealed.
A furious burst of firing followed, aimed for the most part at the unyielding rock of his providentially chosen refuge. The Cossacks weren’t short of ammunition, he reflected a trifle sourly, if they could afford to waste it blazing away at rocks in this senseless manner. But at least he was drawing some of their fire from the defenders on the ridge behind him, which was all to the good, although he wished that his sight of the far end of the valley had not, perforce, been so brief and inconclusive. It had looked deserted, except for a path of shadow by the edge of the trees, not far from where he had last seen Colonel Gorak, with Selina riding confidently towards him. A shadowy form, rather than a shadow, perhaps, whose resemblance to a lone and motionless horseman might well have been a figment of his imagination. But he could not be sure that he had imagined it . . . and he would, he was uneasily aware, have to make sure before he dared give Cochrane the signal to withdraw, because if the Colonel was still in the valley, then all their efforts to save him would have been wasted. As wantonly as those thrice-damned Cossacks were wasting their ammunition . . . Phillip rammed a fresh charge into the Minié and swore under his breath.
At all costs he must make another, more careful inspection of the valley, before the light faded—with the Dollond this time, he told himself, so that there would be no margin for error. He hesitated, in two minds whether to attempt to fall back on Cochrane’s position—from which he would have an unimpeded view—or to stay where he was and try again from the other side of the rock. He would have to abandon his horse if he joined Cochrane, since it would be madness to ride uphill to the ridge—it was too steep and he would make too much noise. His best chance would be on foot and, even then, one of the hidden marksmen might put a ball into his back before he had climbed more than a few yards. Better then, to stay here, where he was under reasonably good cover, he decided— at least until he had taken a second look across the far end of the valley. The Cossacks had not yet managed to dislodge him and, for as long as he could continue to use the Minié, they would no doubt keep their distance. With only one shot and two spare cartridges left, his rifle would not serve him for much longer, of course, but the Cossacks were not to know how little ammunition he had left. If he could hold them off until darkness fell and the party on the ridge could . . . there was a movement just in front of him and he made out the pale outline of a face in the gloom, a black-browed, bearded face, surmounted by a tall bearskin papenka. He fired, a split second before the Cossack recovered from his astonishment at finding him there and, at that range, he could not miss.
The face disintegrated and Phillip stared at wh
at was left of it, the palms of his hands clammy as blood and brains spattered his own face and the front of his cloak. Dear God, he thought in horror, how close he had let the man come! He had heard no sound, apart from the crackle of musketry and the occasional shouts and cries from the ridge above him, yet the unfortunate fellow he had just killed had come within an ace of killing him. And there were probably more of them, waiting to try the same trick—unless his shot and the fate of their comrade had temporarily scared them off.
He wiped his brow and cheeks with the back of his hand and waited tensely, straining his ears, then heaved the body out of his way, hating the touch of the still warm flesh against his own. The man’s carbine fell with a clatter at his feet; he picked it up and, almost as an afterthought, felt under the coarsely woven cherkerska for the ammunition pouch and pistol the dead Cossack had carried. The pouch, he noticed without surprise, was almost empty; so, too, were the cartridge-holders on the front of the cherkerska, but both pistol and carbine were loaded and might prove useful, if any of the others did make an attempt to rush him. He listened again, half expecting them to do so, but could hear nothing to indicate an impending attack, although they were still blazing away in his general direction. Relieved, he slid the pistol into his belt and, preferring to trust to his own weapon for as long as he could, propped the heavy carbine against the rock beside him and started to reload the Minié.
He was ready for them, he thought . . . and this might be the best chance he would have to make his inspection of the valley. He eased the Dollond from his breast pocket, so that it would be ready to hand, and began to edge his way along the outcrop of rock, every sense alert. An uncanny silence had fallen; the firing from the ridge had virtually ceased and only a few spasmodic shots were coming from the Cossacks. Puzzled and anxious to ascertain the cause, he reached the vantage point he had chosen and saw, to his dismay, that the Cossack main body had broken ranks. With the exception of a few horse-minders, they had dismounted and were advancing towards the slope on foot. Carbines at the ready, they spread out in skirmishing order as they approached the trees, with the evident intention of launching a final assault before darkness enabled their enemy to escape them.