by V. A. Stuart
Phillip watched for a moment, cursing them impotently and then, making a swift dash from cover, waved his rifle high above his head as a warning to Cochrane to delay his withdrawal no longer. The ridge was a dim outline in the gloom and he had to shout twice before the flutter of something white answered him. He waved his rifle again in the direction of the crest of the hill and this time received a prompt acknowledgement, both from the ridge and from a mounted man—whom he took to be one of Yusef’s Circassians—posted on the hilltop. Satisfied that his signal had been seen and was already being obeyed, he ducked hastily back into the shelter of the rock, as half a dozen musket balls whined overhead from uncomfortably close range. But the Cossack sharpshooters had, for once, been caught napping, he thought with elation, or else they had been too busy watching the approach of their comrades from the foot of the slope to notice him. His elation faded almost immediately, however, when they gave him their undivided attention, keeping up so heavy a fire on his position that it was impossible to use the Dollond from behind the breast-high rock. After several abortive attempts to do so, he decided regretfully that he would have to make his own withdrawal or risk being over-run by the advancing skirmishers.
He had left it a trifle late, he knew and, for this reason, wondered whether he might be wise to trust to his horse for as long as he could, making a detour through the trees to his left, out of the skirmishers’ line of advance. If he had the misfortune to encounter any of those who had been sniping at him so persistently, at least on horseback he would have the legs of them and, if he did nothing else, he told himself grimly, he would try to give them a run for their money. His horse, apparently unconcerned by the shooting, was still stoically cropping the bush to which he had tethered it but, as he bent to untie the reins, the animal lifted its head and backed away from him, whinnying in sudden, inexplicable fear.
“Whoa, boy—quiet now,” Phillip urged soothingly. “We’re getting out of here, we’re . . .” and then he spun round, as startled as his horse had been a moment before, when a cascade of earth and loose stones came rattling down the steep hillside somewhere behind him. The Minié was half-way to his shoulder but he lowered it again, with a stifled exclamation, realizing that the small landslide had been caused by a man on horseback, who was coming towards him from the top of the hill.
The solitary rider had begun his descent from just above the ridge, on which—a bulky silhouette against the skyline— another man, who might have been Thompson, was holding his rifle aloft. It was too dark to see the rider’s face and Phillip’s first thought was that Cochrane, displaying a foolhardy disregard for the orders he had been given, had come to aid his retreat, instead of attending to the evacuation of the men entrusted to his command. Although it was not like Anthony Cochrane to disobey an order . . . surely his second-in-command could not have misunderstood his signal or read it—and his shouts—as a call for help? Devil take the boy, he thought wrathfully. If he had misread the signal, there was no reason for him to risk his neck in this irresponsible manner—had he gone out of his mind? It was sheer lunacy to tear headlong down a slope so steep and so littered with obstacles that, even in daylight, it would have taxed the skill of the most expert horseman . . . and Cochrane’s horsemanship, like his own, was far from expert. Why, in heaven’s name, had he not kept under cover, taken the hill at a sensible pace? Although the light had almost gone, the Cossacks could hardly fail to hear his thunderous descent, even if they had not yet seen him . . . and by this time, the lower part of the slope would be swarming with dismounted riflemen, only waiting to fire until they could get their sights on him.
Feeling the muscles of his stomach harden into a tight, painful knot, Phillip resisted the impulse to yell out to his young second-in-command to make for the trees, as he himself had earlier planned to do. It was too late for that, much too late—Cochrane, God help him, was coming too fast to change direction now. If, by a miracle, no unseen boulder brought his horse down, there might be a chance that his speed would carry him past the waiting enemy, but it was a very slim chance and there was little he could do to help the boy. Even if he ran or rode to meet him, even if he showed himself as proof that he was in no need of rescue, it would be of scant avail—he could not draw the fire of upwards of forty Cossack carbines.
For all that he stepped out from behind the rock, aware that now it was he who was behaving irresponsibly, yet unable to stand by and watch Anthony Cochrane plunge to his death without making some attempt, however futile, to prevent it. Against the darkening skyline he could still make out the vague shapes of what appeared to be a group of men and horses but no help was, it seemed, likely to come from them and he turned his gaze back to the rider coming so precipitately towards him. It was the first clear glimpse he had had and he realized suddenly, that, whoever he was, the solitary horseman could not possibly be Cochrane. Very few Englishmen could have ridden as this man was riding . . . least of all Anthony Cochrane, who had been at sea since his thirteenth birthday.
This man was a Circassian, born and bred to the saddle, Phillip thought thankfully, and undoubtedly his skill would give him a better chance of survival than Cochrane would have had. He was a superb horseman, the movements of his body so finely balanced against those of the small, unclipped grey Tartar horse beneath him that each seemed an inseparable part of the other. He came boldly, scorning any attempt at concealment but, by reason of his speed and the twists and turns of the track he was following, he presented so difficult a target that, after a few ill-aimed shots had failed to touch him, the Cossacks held their fire. Once again an eerie silence enclosed the whole valley, pregnant with menace and Phillip watched in horrified fascination, the battle that had been raging and even the danger of his own position momentarily forgotten, as the thud of the grey’s galloping hooves pounded remorselessly in his ears. It was the only sound he heard, as horse and rider came rapidly nearer—then he recognized the high-domed astrakan cap and wolfish features of Serfir’s son, Yusef, and horror was succeeded by bewilderment.
Yusef was an experienced mountain fighter, imbued with all the hard-headed caution and cunning of his race—to have survived years of this type of savage guerilla warfare, he must obviously be well versed in the hit-and-run tactics that Colonel Gorak had described. Why, then, was he inviting disaster in this lone charge from the top of the hill, when he must have observed the movements of the enemy’s main body and be aware that he was heading straight for a veritable hornets’ nest of armed and vengeful Cossacks? Surely no Circassian—unless he were out of his mind—would take the risks Yusef was taking for the sake of a recently acquired British ally, to whom he owed nothing? For Colonel Gorak, perhaps, or for Selina . . . dear God, yes, for Selina’s sake he might well risk life and limb! But that suggested . . . Yusef suddenly changed direction. Standing high in his stirrups, he emitted a piercing banshee yell—intended, Phillip could only suppose, as a signal to those he had left behind on the hilltop—and discharged his rifle into the air. Then he let the weapon fall and, with a swift, sinuous twist of hips and shoulders, swung himself out of his saddle to continue on his way with scarcely a check, his body half-under and now protected by the shaggy body of his horse.
It was a spectacular feat of horsemanship on that treacherous, uneven slope and, as Yusef bore right-handed and headed in the direction of the trees below the ridge, Phillip came out of his brief trance with the realization that the hornets’ nest was starting to erupt. To his right, a Cossack carbine spat fire, then another and another. Aiming the Minié at the nearest spurt of flame, he pressed the trigger and jumped back into the cover he had left, groping blindly along the surface of the rock for the captured carbine, which he had placed there only . . . sweet heaven, could it only have been a few minutes before? He shook his head dazedly, feeling as if half a lifetime had gone by since he had first taken up his position behind this rock.
His groping fingers closed about the barrel of the weapon he was seeking but his horse, startled b
y his sudden reappearance, took fright and reared up, sending the carbine spinning from his grasp and knocking him hard against the moss-grown wall of his refuge. Phillip grabbed the bridle, cursing under his breath as he dragged himself to his feet. Having pacified the excited animal, he broke out the last of his Minié cartridges, conscious of the futility of his action as he rammed the charge home, for now the valley was echoing to the continuous discharge of musketry and the raised and menacing voices of an enemy eager to close in for the kill.
Yusef hadn’t a bat in hell’s chance of breaking through them, he thought angrily, despite his spectacular and utterly inexplicable manoeuvres—and he was coming back, being driven back by a hail of bullets from the line of skirmishers, whose fire was concentrated on him almost exclusively. A few shots appeared to be aimed at some target he could not see, over to his left, but it was Yusef who was running the gauntlet of their fire with suicidal determination, he who . . . a Cossack rose from a clump of bushes, carbine to his shoulder. Like his comrade before him, he had crept up stealthily and come very near to the base of the rock, obviously not expecting it to be defended. Phillip fired an instant before the man could bring his weapon to bear on Yusef’s sweating horse and the high-pitched whistle of the Minié bullet, streaking towards its target, was succeeded by a muffled scream.
But this could not go on, he knew and, the now useless Minié still gripped in both hands, he waited, sick with despair, for the inevitable end . . . the end, it seemed certain, for Yusef and probably for them both, unless he could make his escape before the enemy skirmishers overran his position. It went against the grain to abandon Yusef to his fate but he had a mission to perform, Phillip reminded himself, eyes and ears straining into the misty darkness for the first warning of what was to come. Serfir must be escorted to Ghelenjik for the all-important conference with the Turks and, little though he relished the prospect of having to bring news of the death or capture of his son to the Circassian chief, it was his clear duty to do so . . . and, in spite of this, to hold Serfir to his promise. Such a responsibility could not properly be delegated to Cochrane and there was nothing he could do to change the course of events if he remained on this bleak hillside, armed only with a pistol. He could not help Yusef, and the Cossacks, he was only too well aware, would show him no mercy if they found him there, virtually defenceless . . . but he had been lucky, he thought, with a sudden upsurge of hope. The skirmishers had come no nearer and that would give him a little leeway.
Escape was possible, provided his luck held—his horse was standing quite quietly now and if he made a break for it on horseback, he might get away before they suspected his intention. Even on foot, he would stand a fair chance of gaining the ridge before they saw him and . . . some instinct, stronger than reason, made him hesitate and his new-born hope abruptly faded. Above the exultant yells of the Cossacks he heard the sound for which, subconsciously, he had been listening—the unmistakable sound of a heavy body crashing down, not very far away, on the slope behind him. It struck chill into his heart and he sensed, before he turned to look in the direction of the sound, what he would see . . . a shot or some unexpected obstacle had, at last, brought Yusef’s horse to its knees. The animal bellowed in pain and, a grey blur in the fading light, rolled over, its legs threshing wildly. He waited and then realized to his dismay that the Pasha’s son was pinned beneath it unable, for all his frantic efforts, to free himself.
But at least he was alive . . . without pausing to consider the consequences, Phillip made a dash for the stricken rider, covering the thirty or so yards of rock-strewn ground which separated them bent almost double. The Cossacks did not see him until he was more than half-way across and then they blazed away at him with more speed than accuracy. The poor light was not conducive to good shooting and, although musket balls whined over his head like a swarm of angry bees, he reached his objective unscathed, to fling himself face downwards behind the fallen horse. It needed only a glance to tell him that the grey was done for, although it was still valiantly struggling to get to its feet. He waited for a moment to recover his breath, hoping that, for Yusef’s sake, the unfortunate creature might somehow manage to do so but blood was pouring from a wound deep in its chest and he could see that its off foreleg was broken. He felt for the pistol in his belt, intending to put an end to its struggles when, to his relief, the grey twitched suddenly and lay still. Yusef said something to him, in a language which sounded like French but be scarcely heard him, as he heaved and tugged at the dead weight of the animal’s quarters, his hands sticky with blood.
“Leave me . . .” the Circassian repeated, quite clearly and distinctly, in French. “Look to yourself. They are coming, they . . .” Phillip got his shoulder against the saddle and, using his Minié as a lever, managed at last to raise the horse’s limp hind-quarters high enough to take advantage of the camber of the slope on which it lay.
“Now!” he gasped urgently, feeling the dead weight yield, and heaved with all the strength he could summon. “Now, Yusef!”
The shaggy body slithered downwards for a foot or two and Yusef was able to free his trapped limbs, as the stock of the Minié cracked under the strain and the buckling barrel broke away from it. Yusef rolled clear just in time and, still lying on his back, passed anxiously questing fingers down the length of his right leg, cursing loudly and fluently in his own language as he did so. Phillip abandoned the Minié and gestured to the rocky outcrop behind which he had sheltered for so long. The Cossacks’ fire had slackened a little but one or two shots were coming alarmingly close.
“Can you walk?” he asked in English, unable to think of even these simple words in French just then, but Yusef understood the gesture, if not the question, and a gleam lit his dark eyes when he noticed the tethered horse. He inclined his head in assent and, moving with a lithe agility Phillip had not expected of him after his fall, led the way back to the shelter of the rock, gliding across the rough ground like a shadow and making skilful use of every bush and boulder he encountered. He limped a little but that was all and, following him less skilfully, Phillip came under so concentrated a fire that he was compelled to crawl the last twenty yards on his stomach, with musket balls peppering the ground all round him.
When he finally reached the rock, spent and breathless, Yusef was waiting for him, the horse already untethered and its rein looped over his arm.
“You permit me?” he enquired. His French was hesitant but his tone quite the reverse and Phillip stared at him in bewilderment.
“You mean . . .” it was an effort to force his tired brain to translate the words. “You want my horse?”
“I regret the necessity,” Yusef told him. “But yes.” He pointed to the sky, from which the last furtive glow of daylight was fading. “The accursed Cossacks will go very soon—they will not stay to face us in darkness. You will be safe if you remain here . . . you are armed?” Phillip indicated his pistol and saw the Circassian frown. “Do not show yourself,” he advised and swung himself into the saddle. “They will suppose you dead . . . and leave you alone. I shall keep them occupied, do not fear.”
“But where are you going?” Phillip demanded, suddenly roused. “And what, in the name of God, are you trying to do?” For a moment, he thought that Yusef intended to make off without giving him an answer, for he gathered up his reins and swung round but, instead, the wolfish features twisted into a beaming smile which, for all its expansiveness, was oddly cruel.
“I? Oh, I am going to lead the misbegotten Cossacks another little dance,” he returned arrogantly. “The sons of whores will break their necks before they shoot me down a second time!”
“But why?” Phillip caught at his bridle, forcibly holding him back.
Yusef eyed him with astonishment. “Have you not seen Colonel Gorak?”
“He’s not still in the valley?”
“But of course he is and his daughter also. I am not leading the dogs of Cossacks a dance merely for my own amusement—I am trying to g
ive my men time to reach them and to escort them both to a safe place. The Colonel is badly wounded and . . .” Yusef broke off, evidently hearing some sound whose significance was lost on Phillip and his expression hardened. “May Allah send them to eternal perdition! They are not going, the curs! I am sorry that I must leave you,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “I am in your debt, my friend, and this is not the way I would wish to repay you. But for your own protection, it is all that I can do. Rest assured that I will come back for you when I am able . . .” he took his own pistol from his sash and, before Phillip had any inkling of what he was about to do, the butt descended with stunning force on the side of his head.
His last memory, before a suffocating blackness closed him in, was of someone—he had no idea who—dragging him painfully along the ground by his heels. He tried to struggle but his consciousness deserted him and he sank, protesting feebly, into the blackness that was all about him . . .
“Sir . . . sir, are you all right?” Phillip recognized Cochrane’s voice, harsh with concern. He opened his eyes to see the dim white blur of a face close to his own—Cochrane’s face, presumably, since the voice was his. There were other faces, too, but he could not make them out clearly enough to be certain whose they were. It was very dark and there were stars in the night sky above him, whirling this way and that . . . he was lying on his back, he realized. Flat on his back on a rock and he vaguely wondered why. But Cochrane was here, Cochrane would tell him . . . he struggled to sit up and an arm went round him.