by A L Berridge
Oliver looked up in horror. ‘But that’s a blackguardly thing to say!’ His mouth was hanging open, and he looked genuinely distressed. ‘Church isn’t stupid, you know it’s not. All those fellows gone to eternity just this morning!’
Ryder bit his lip. ‘All right, look, I know it’s important, but we can say our prayers another time. We just have to get out of it now.’
Oliver still looked shaken. ‘No one can unless they’re on duty. No one gets leave from Divine Service.’
The cannon went on firing beyond the Sapoune, banging and banging as if it would never stop. ‘Then we’ll go without it.’
Oliver stared at him, clearly too shocked to speak.
Ryder gestured dismissively. ‘Come on, people do it all the time. How do you think Bloomer’s friends learned about this in the first place?’
Oliver suddenly found his tongue. ‘They were looting. They’re criminals. We’re not, and I’m not going to do it.’ He slid the cards back in the box and closed it with a snap.
Ryder knew defeat when he saw it. ‘Then I’ll do it alone.’
Oliver shook his head violently. ‘It’s even worse for you. You’ve been warned already, and you know the sergeant-major would love an excuse.’
He thought of Jarvis watching him yesterday, and shrugged uneasily. ‘It’s only missing a church service.’
‘No, it’s not,’ said Oliver. ‘It’s lying to get out of one in order to go and spy on an officer when you’ve been directly ordered not to. It could hardly be worse.’
He knew it. He knew it was a flogging offence and he’d very little chance of getting away with it. He stared at the fire, and it took him a moment to realize the damn thing had gone out.
Oliver turned for the miserable pile of roots that was their only remaining firewood. ‘It could still be all right. Colonel Doherty might be better in a few days. And you wouldn’t have to disobey him, you could just ask what he thinks.’ He looked up with appealing eyes.
Ryder tried to smile. ‘Yes, all right, Poll. Maybe I’ll do that.’
He wouldn’t, but he couldn’t tell Oliver what he was really going to do. He couldn’t tell anyone his only hope left was the mysterious officer he knew as Angelo.
Kalmykoff stretched luxuriously in the rose-scented bath water and took another sip of champagne. French, as he liked it, without the added sweetness of their own Ay-Danil variety. Doubtless there would be shortages now the invaders were wrecking the vineyards, but that could soon be rectified once they were driven out. He listened to the pulse of distant artillery, and felt it stir him more than the champagne.
A door opened, and he looked through the painted screens to see his uncle entering the chamber. Lieutenant Colonel Sergei Paulovich Kalmykoff was an imposing figure in eyeglass and full dress uniform, but the wispy grey hair and anxious expression robbed even the medals and scarlet sash of the power to intimidate.
‘Here you are, Mikhail,’ he called, laying a pile of clothes over a chair. ‘Gasha’s done her best, but really, dear boy, it looks as if you’ve been sleeping in them.’
‘I have,’ said Kalmykoff, and grinned. ‘In Kostoff’s barn most nights. Tell Gasha it’s good for my soul.’
‘But not your linen,’ said his uncle. He sat down at the table and studied the chessboard. ‘What have you done here? You’ve made two moves!’
‘Only one,’ said Kalmykoff. ‘But I think it was the right one.’ He thrust himself upright and reached for a towel. ‘How is it going?’
His uncle was still frowning at the chessboard. ‘Not so well. The British are pounding the Redan. If they reduce it they could storm us by this evening.’
‘They won’t,’ he said, stepping out of the tub. ‘The French have stopped for now, and Raglan would never be so rude as to attack without them. That is how he thinks.’
‘Is it?’ said Sergei. He began to slide forward a bishop, then changed his mind and put it back. ‘You’re very certain, Misha. Is every Englishman so easy to read?’
He began to towel vigorously down his body. ‘Not all. Ryder puzzles me, he is not the right type for a private soldier. And then there is our Mr Shepherd, who is the right type for nothing, and what goes on behind his face nobody knows. Count Ignatieff says, ‘You deal with him, Kalmykoff, you’re half English, you understand these people,’ and I consider myself quite insulted.’
Sergei gave a dramatic little shudder. ‘I don’t blame you. No disrespect to your mother, dear boy, but couldn’t you work with civilized people like the French?’
He walked out through the screens, noticing with amusement his uncle’s averted face. ‘It wouldn’t work with the French. An officer gives an order, the men argue, and the majority carries the day. That’s the curse of revolution, Uncle – men who think for themselves.’
‘Are you being ironic again, Misha?’ Sergei moved his knight and set it down with a defiant click.
‘Possibly.’ He looked over his uncle’s shoulder, reached for a castle and slid it deftly into place. ‘Mate in two, I think.’
Sergei leaned forward to scan the board, and Kalmykoff turned tactfully away to dress. ‘Is my horse ready, Uncle?’
‘Of course,’ said Sergei, sitting back with slumped shoulders. ‘But really, must you go back? Count Ignatieff has other … helpers. You’re not essential.’
‘He would have none if it weren’t for me.’ He slipped on his shirt, cool and smooth against the rawness of his skin. ‘Someone has to meet with animals like Kostoff to get the names and contacts Mr Shepherd will need next month and the next.’
The guns boomed again, and Sergei flicked away a tiny flake of plaster from the chessboard. ‘It won’t last that long.’
‘It could last for ever if we go on as we are.’ He looked at the board and marvelled at its simplicity, black against white in neat, still squares. ‘You know what’s wrong with this war, Uncle? That no one wants to fight it. We build our walls of stone, the Allies build theirs of mud, we are all careful and cautious and look only to defence. We need to be bold, to attack, to bring the battle to the enemy and drive him from our land.’
His uncle was silent a moment, then he flipped over his king and looked up. ‘We cannot. In numbers we can match them, but they have their ships, they have better guns …’
‘A fig for their guns!’ He tugged out a chair and sat to face Sergei at the chessboard. ‘There is no heart in their cause. We have the Church, we have men like Admiral Korniloff who the men will die for, we have …’ He stopped, disturbed by Sergei’s expression. ‘What? Uncle, what?’
Sergei reached out to take his hands. ‘The Admiral fell at the Malakoff not an hour ago. There has been no official announcement, but he died, Misha, died a Christian, and almost his last words were “Defend Sebastopol”.’
Kalmykoff gripped his hands. ‘Well, then, that is a proper end for a great man. To die rallying your troops, to die fighting – all the pain in the world would be nothing to that.’
Sergei relaxed his hold. ‘He leaves a widow …’
‘Who will be proud,’ he said, and knew it for truth. ‘Think if Sebastopol were taken, to be captured, humiliated, helpless. Korniloff’s death is the only one for a man, and I pray for as good a one myself.’
Sergei pushed back his chair and stood. ‘Do you pray, Misha? Sometimes I wonder.’
He laughed. ‘I pray for battle. We have a perfectly good field army at Chorgun, we must go out, attack, draw our cautious enemy into a fight we can win.’
Sergei shook his head. ‘If he is cautious he will not be drawn.’
Kalmykoff smiled. ‘If we know the right bait he will be. Take the British cavalry. Lord Raglan is proud of them, he wishes them kept safely in their bandbox, so.’ He picked up a black knight and moved it behind a defence of pawns. ‘But what if we threaten something he values even more?’ He slid a white castle alongside the black queen.
Sergei thrust his hands into his pockets. ‘What does Lord Raglan value more than his c
avalry?’
‘His guns. Their Wellington never lost a gun, remember, and Raglan was his secretary. If he thought his guns were under threat …’ He took the castle with the black knight. ‘Now see how his knight is exposed to our queen.’
Sergei wasn’t even looking. ‘These are men, not chess pieces.’
‘Yes!’ said Kalmykoff. ‘That is why this will work. Raglan who lives in his hero’s shadow, Lucan and Cardigan who have been so shamed by doing nothing they would charge a fleet on the water to regain their honour. They are flesh-and-blood men with flesh-and-blood weaknesses, and one wolf among the sheep can destroy them all.’
‘You’ve changed, Misha,’ said Sergei, turning away to grope for the bottle. ‘We should never have let you train so long with the Cossacks. You don’t care for Russia any more, only your own skill.’
‘And the other way is better?’ He took a long, cool drink of the champagne. ‘The old ways died at the Alma. Prince Menschikoff was so certain of them he did nothing to fortify the city, and if it weren’t for Todleben, where would we be now? An engineer is saving us, an engineer and the heroism of women and children who work all night to build up our walls.’
‘Yes, heroism,’ said Sergei, drawing himself up and looking almost impressive. ‘Heroism for the greater good, for Russia and the people, not for themselves and their own pride.’
‘And what do you call it, our army against their army and the one who kills more wins?’ He drained his glass and slammed it back down on the table. ‘I am the future, me and people like me. The day will come when you look from your trenches to other men in other trenches and you will ask, “Isn’t there a better way?” Well there is, Uncle, and you’re looking at it.’
Sergei’s kindly mouth had hardened into obstinacy. ‘It’s against the principles of war.’
‘Principles!’ he said. ‘Look at this game. White is now winning, but suppose I take this bishop and move it sideways, like this?’
Sergei stared. ‘But the bishop can only move on the diagonal.’
He smiled. ‘The bishop can move any way I want. The rules are in your head, not on the board.’
Sergei shook his head and turned away. ‘I could never argue with you, Mikhail Andreievich.’ He took out his eyeglass and began to polish it on his handkerchief.
Kalmykoff looked at his hunched shoulders and was sorry. ‘No, I’m talking foolishness. I’ve been alone too long, perhaps. I’ve missed the company of my own kind.’
Sergei replaced his monocle and blinked experimentally. ‘Then don’t go back. I beg you, Misha, for your safety as well as your soul. This young cavalryman of yours, if he talks to anyone else …’
‘Ryder!’ He pulled on his frock-coat and grinned at his reflection in the mirror. ‘Don’t worry, Uncle, I know exactly how to deal with him. He has given me the weapon himself.’
Ryder watched the butcher’s cart trundling towards the gorge. The rations cart had already gone, and even Oldham, the senior captain, was relaxing the stand-to by letting ‘A’ Troop go for forage. Now was his chance.
He still needed an excuse, but there was a perfectly good one in his own overalls. He’d had it seen to yesterday, of course, but the officers didn’t know that, and Hoare at least was still pleasingly blind to guile. He checked Oliver was still deep in innocent conversation with Bolton, then scribbled his note and went in search of the cornet.
Hoare was standing alone by the forge cart, chewing his lip and looking despondently towards the Col. Ryder saluted smartly and said, ‘Permission to leave camp, sir. Just for an hour or so.’
Hoare hesitated. ‘Well, you know, Ryder, we are on stand-by.’
The poor idiot probably thought there’d still be an attack today. ‘It’s my leg, sir. Merrick’s in Balaklava, and I need my stitches out.’
Hoare wavered, and Ryder saw uneasily that Jarvis was watching them. ‘Well, I don’t know. The hospital will be awfully busy with casualties from the bombardment.’
Jarvis was moving nearer. Had he heard? ‘I know, sir, but I want to be fit for when we’re called to battle.’
Hoare brightened at once. ‘Yes, of course, you need your leg right for that. Off you go then, and come straight back.’
Ryder saluted and turned swiftly for the perimeter, but the hated voice called him back. ‘Ryder. One moment.’
If Sally had told him, he was finished. ‘Yes, Sar’nt-major?’
‘Your leg,’ said Jarvis. ‘Why didn’t you have it done yesterday?’
He said, ‘I didn’t think of it then, Sar’nt-major,’ and prayed hard.
Jarvis snorted. ‘Didn’t want to do it in your own time, you mean. Well, you can pay us back by taking picquet tonight, can’t you, Trooper?’
The relief was so great he could only say ‘Thank you, Sar’nt-major’ and walk hastily away. God bless Sally. She’d said she wasn’t a peach, and she wasn’t.
He set off across the plain at a brisk trot. He had no need to run this time, he wasn’t going as far as Balaklava, but the urgency was still driving at him and his feet started to thump faster and harder on the turf as he pounded down the slope towards Kadikoi.
He knew the place he was after. Three withered juniper trees stood just off the track to the Highlanders’ camp, and between them was the disused well, long-boarded up with rotting planks. When the white walls and red roofs of the village came up on his left he turned off the road, walked confidently towards the juniper trees, and stopped dead.
Turks. A whole bunch of them had spread away from the Highlanders and set up camp round the trees. Two stretchers stood propped against a tree trunk, three tents were up, and a man in a dirty white apron dropped from a wagon to hurl the contents of a brimming bowl across the track. This was a sick camp, it was here to bloody stay, and the well stuck right in the middle of it. A man was even sitting on the planks while he rolled bandages and hummed tunelessly between fleshy lips. The post-box was blocked.
He considered brazening it out, leaving the note anyway, but abandoned the thought as soon as it came. The Turks might read it, but Angelo never would, he’d never expose himself as publicly as this. This one, stupid well had been their only means of contact, and now it was lost.
He turned away, still furiously hunting for answers, but as he reached the road the air exploded in a tumultuous roar from the sea. His mind shook, and it took him a second to remember the fleet. These weren’t single cannon shots, they were full broadsides crashing out from upwards of six hundred guns, and for a moment he could only crouch against the dry-stone wall and cover his head with his hands.
It was impossible to think, and after a moment he stopped even trying. The world was one vast noise, and against it he was as insignificant as an insect, scurrying round trying to change things that had long ago been sealed. Even the disaster of the well had been inevitable, just one more sign of his utter powerlessness. A cart rattled by, packed with wounded and mutilated men from the trenches, and he hardly even blinked at it, seeing only the same old horror that never looked like ending. He felt movement on the grass verge, but just kept his head down, waiting for whoever it was to pass. Then a hand touched his arm, a voice said ‘Ryder?’ and he jerked round to find himself face to face with Sally Jarvis.
For a moment he thought he was dreaming again, but she was wrapped in a plaid and carrying a basket, and if she was about to stroke his thighs she didn’t look it. She said, ‘Are you all right?’ and shook his shoulder as if to wake him.
He made an effort. ‘Come on, Sal, can’t a man have a moment to himself?’
She released his shoulder and sat down beside him. ‘Not if he looks like he’s thinking of shooting himself.’
He thrust away the image. ‘It’s just the row, that’s all. How can you bear it?’
‘Oh, I’m used to it,’ she said, smoothing her dress over her knees. ‘It makes me think of Falmouth and the salutes when a ship came in. I’d always watch in case it was my father.’
He could see
it suddenly, little Sally jumping and waving her handkerchief at the sails sweeping into the Carrick Roads. She was still that girl now. She must have been in the thick of it down in the hospital, among the stench and screaming, but her face and hands were scrubbed clean and her hair tied back so tightly it was lifting the delicate skin of her forehead.
He looked away. ‘Thanks for not telling Jarvis. About yesterday.’
‘Of course I didn’t.’ She sounded thoroughly indignant. ‘I don’t interfere in regimental matters, you should know better.’
He did really. Back in barracks a woman had only to stick a foot the wrong side of the blanket screen to bring the wrath of the gods on her neck, and he could only imagine how Jarvis would react if his wife started telling him about men in his troop.
But that was a thought, and with it came a flicker of hope. ‘Sally, if I really needed to get out of something, would you tell the officers my leg was bad and I had to go to hospital at once?’
She didn’t hesitate. ‘Not if it wasn’t. The surgeon would have to look at it, and you couldn’t fool him.’
‘What if I cut it? Gashed it myself?’
Nothing shocked her. ‘If you did it thoroughly enough for the surgeon, it would be too bad for you to do anything else. What is it, Ryder? Can’t you trust me enough to say?’
Her hand was back on his forearm, not a dreamlike soft whiteness but a work-reddened, warm reality. He said roughly, ‘Leave it, will you? You can’t help, so that’s that.’
She drew back her hand. ‘Maybe I could if you actually bothered to tell me. Have you thought of that?’
He heard the temper in her voice and felt wearier than ever. ‘Look, I’m sorry, Sally, but it’s private. It’s not the kind of thing –’
Her hand smacked down so hard on the turf he realized she’d only just not hit him. ‘Oh, go to hell. You think you’re the only person who cares about the army?’
He stared at her. Her cheeks were pink, her mouth pale, and her eyes blazed with passion. ‘The army’s just a job to you, isn’t it? But it’s my family, don’t you understand, the only one I’ve got. I’ll do anything to save it if you’ll only bloody let me.’ She slumped back against the wall and was silent.
