by A L Berridge
Ryder looked languidly at his hand. ‘All right then – I call “bridge”. How about it, anyone want to contre?’
Woodall was still staring at Ryder, and Oliver saw his throat move as he swallowed. ‘You cad. You filthy, rotten cad.’
The silence was thick with hospital noises, footsteps and little moans, someone sobbing and an orderly clanking along with buckets. Ryder said, ‘Don’t push it, Woodall, I’ve told you how it was. Now are you contre or not?’
The cards were slipping out of Woodall’s hands, fluttering and falling like dead leaves. ‘He didn’t know, did he? You and his wife, you planned this without telling him, you went behind the poor devil’s back.’
Ryder smacked down his own cards, face-up and visible, the game ruined. ‘We couldn’t bloody tell him, he’d have stopped it out of hand. He doesn’t give a toss about the war or saving lives, he can’t see anything beyond his own spite.’
‘And his own wife?’ Woodall nodded knowingly. ‘That wasn’t spite made him follow you, oh no, he’ll have been up to your little game.’
Ryder’s voice was deadly quiet. ‘There was no little game.’
Woodall threw away the rest of his cards. ‘Not for him, no. How do you think it made him feel, poor beggar, knowing his wife was laughing behind his back with a private soldier, how the hell do you he think he felt? No wonder he had you flogged, can you blame him?’
Ryder seemed to have forgotten his back, he swung round on Woodall like a man in a fight. ‘Yes! If he suspected something he could have dealt with it man to man, instead of hiding behind his stripes and getting the army to do it for him. That’s cowardly, and you know it.’
‘I know this,’ said Woodall. His voice was rising dangerously, and all down the corridor patients were turning to look. ‘I know it wasn’t his fault, or his wife’s either. Poor little thing without her husband to guide her, how could she know it was wrong? You made her do it, Ryder, and that’s a blackguard’s trick. You deserved every lash of that flogging, and I hope they laid it on hard.’
Oliver felt a little tug in his fingers, Mackenzie pulling at his cards. ‘Hand’s over, Polly. We’re finished here.’
Ryder stood. He didn’t say a word as he shrugged back into his braces, but he was looking down at Woodall and his eyes burned. Then he slammed away down the corridor, hurling on his coat as he went, and the orderly backed against the wall to let him pass.
Oliver saw his whole plan shattering. ‘How could you, Woodall? That was a beastly thing to say.’
Woodall actually laughed, a harsh noise like a crow call. ‘And what would you know? You’re just a green boy tagging after him, I’d take money you’re a virgin.’
He felt himself flush to the roots of his hair. Through a hot mist he heard Mackenzie say, ‘There are no boys in this army, not now. Oliver’s a soldier, same as us.’
‘Hasn’t fought a battle,’ said Woodall. ‘Takes more than a uniform to make a soldier.’
Oliver looked at him in wonder. All the Guard’s dignity had gone, he was a shabby man with dirty fingernails and patchy beard clutching at his blanket like a drunken beggar.
He said, ‘I bloody am one, though,’ and stood. ‘All I need’s a chance to prove it.’
Woodall jerked his chin. ‘Touchy little beggar, aren’t you?’
‘He is that,’ said Mackenzie, climbing leisurely to his feet and handing Oliver the cards. ‘You’d maybe not know this, being unconscious at the time, but when you were shot it was this laddie risked his life for the ammunition to get you out of it.’ He brushed down his kilt, shook out the tassels of his sporran, and looked Woodall directly in the eye. ‘Ryder would have done it too, more’s the fool of him, seeing how you’ve repaid him for the gesture.’
Woodall flinched. ‘Well, I couldn’t know that, could I?’
‘It should no surprise you,’ said Mackenzie serenely, ‘seeing as that’s what friends do. But then I’m thinking you maybe don’t know that either.’ He patted Oliver on the arm and walked away down the corridor, dwarfing the huddled invalids who lay to either side.
Oliver watched him go with a sense of despair. Their little group was breaking up, disintegrating, he had to do something to make things right. He looked back at Woodall, but the Guard was sitting hunched under his blanket and glaring at nothing. ‘Woodall? Dennis?’
Woodall didn’t move. Even his eyes were still and unblinking as he stared hopelessly at the empty wall.
Oliver turned and walked away.
The wind moaned down the emptiness of the Balaklava gorge. Ryder lowered his head against the rain, and strode on into the gathering dark.
He didn’t move aside at the leisurely clip-clop of hooves behind him. They were redcoats, Heavy Brigade, they hadn’t even been at the Alma, let them damn well wait. They swore at him as they squeezed by, and one said, ‘Who’s that bastard think he is?’ but his companion said, ‘That’s the one took a licking today, don’t kick a man who’s down.’
Ryder stopped still on the track, and for a moment the biting wind was nothing more than a welcome coolness on the hot flush of his face. The pain in his back was suddenly excruciating, unbearable, and he braved the rain to strip off his coat. It was the bloody braces digging into his shoulders, he’d got to haul them down.
The wind found him at once, flapping in his woollen shirt and driving rain in his face. He stood with his coat in his hand and his braces dangling to his knees and wondered if it was actually possible to get any lower than he was right now. There was only one thing more wretched than a private soldier and that was a private soldier with the marks of the whip on his back.
Jarvis had done this to him. Oh, he’d been so proud of his little gesture of defiance this morning, but the truth was that Jarvis had broken him, had him stripped and beaten in front of his peers, and by God he was going to get him for it. The wind slapped his hair in his face, mocking him with his own futility. What are you going to do, Ryder? Spit on his shadow?
He laughed and hauled on his coat, easing the weight carefully over his shoulders. For a moment he thought of Sally’s hands on them, then thrust away the memory like a disease. Woodall had called him a cad, but when he remembered that kiss he gave himself worse names than that. He had to leave her alone, stay out of her way, stop even thinking about her and hope she was able to do the same.
He turned again into the wind and walked on past Kadikoi. The rain was coming down harder now, driving in glistening horizontal streaks at his face, but he plodded steadily upward towards a camp and an army and a life that had lost all point.
‘Ryder!’ called a voice behind him. ‘Hang on a minute, will you?’
He waited in resigned silence.
‘Sorry,’ said Oliver, arriving panting beside him. ‘I never thought you’d go so fast.’
He started walking again. ‘They didn’t beat my bloody legs, did they?’
‘No,’ said Oliver, and was quiet for a few paces while he caught his breath. ‘But I know it can take people badly. I was thinking of Joe Sullivan.’
Ryder stopped abruptly. ‘I’m nothing like Joe Sullivan.’
‘Of course not,’ said Oliver at once. ‘Sullivan really seemed to give up, didn’t he?’
Ryder looked suspiciously at him, then walked on without a word.
Oliver came after him. ‘You’re not giving up, then? We’ll still be going after the traitor.’
Ryder swore. He used every single oath he could think of, even the ones in Urdu. ‘What’s the point? We can’t break the rules, we can’t work within them, we can’t do bloody anything except watch it happen and say “we told you so” afterwards. That’s the army, that’s the machine, what the hell can we do against that?’
They had to fight the wind as they turned out of the gorge, but Oliver never broke step. ‘We can stand up for it anyway, can’t we? Like you did today.’
He tried to laugh, but it sent a tearing pain up his back. ‘Don’t, Poll, please. That hurts.’
Ryder stopped. The emptiness of the plain was all around them, a wilderness broken only by little fires from the cavalry camps and the Turkish redoubts. ‘Maybe he’s cleverer. Maybe he actually has the support of his superiors. It’s just not the same.’
‘You don’t really believe that,’ said Oliver. ‘If you did, you’d never have gone in by yourself at the Alma.’
Ryder looked at him. ‘You’re a persistent little bastard, aren’t you?’
‘So are you,’ said Oliver, and smiled.
The wind slackened as they approached the camp, and he listened to the trudging of their boots, crunching up the track together in perfect step. Rain had driven everyone else under canvas, and the place seemed deserted until Jordan came shooting out of a tent and nearly bumped right into them.
‘Sorry,’ he said vaguely, then quickly looked away. ‘Oh. Sorry, Ryder.’
Pity. He had to stop that before it started. ‘What’s up, Telegraph? Any news?’
Jordan hesitated, then relaxed at his apparent normality. ‘Not to notice. Look-On’s talked to a Russian deserter who says there’ll be an attack tomorrow, but no one’s going to flap about that.’
Ryder felt a sinking sense of inevitability. ‘The ships?’
‘Not hardly,’ said Jordan. ‘Not going to swim for it, are they? No, the bloke says Kadikoi and Balaklava. Us.’
The camp looked empty, no sign of a stand-to. ‘What are we doing about it?’
‘What do you think?’ said Jordan with a wink. ‘Look-On believes it all right, but Raglan ain’t buying. He says his poor cavalry ain’t had enough sleep lately, he’s not having them up all night on the word of a deserter.’ He grinned amiably and hurried off into the dark.
‘Ryder?’ said Oliver.
Wind cracked in the canvas. Ryder turned his face up to the driving rain and saw thick black clouds racing through the darkening sky. He’d heard old soldiers say they knew when a battle was coming. When a big body of men is on the move the ground knows it, the birds know it, the air knows it, and the man who’s bent all his mind on that same body of men knows it too. He listened to the wind rustling in the vineyards and felt suddenly very calm.
‘It could be the same one,’ said Oliver. ‘Perhaps the reinforcements were late. Perhaps they just decided not to bother with the diversion. What do you think, Ryder?’
Ryder watched a flock of birds wheeling over the Causeway Heights towards the sea, crying harshly as they flew. ‘I think we’d better sharpen our swords.’
15
25 October 1854, 4.30 a.m. to 10.55 a.m.
The trumpet called them out to the damp stillness of dawn. The canvas was sodden, the fires waterlogged, and the only things moving on the plain were themselves.
The ritual of gathering equipment was a joke. A supply tent had blown down in the storm, and the cartridges were heavy with moisture even as they counted them. ‘Look,’ said Jordan, holding one up. ‘Look-On finally gets his chance with Fanny Duberly.’ The cartridge wilted and bent under the punch of his fingernails.
Fisk guffawed, took it from him and tore away the sodden bottom. ‘There,’ he said. ‘Now it’s Prince Menschikoff.’ Everyone knew the Russian commander had been emasculated by a Turkish cannonball at Silistra.
Ryder didn’t join in the laughter. The morning quiet felt as menacing as last night’s storm, and he wanted more than a useless carbine at his side. He passed his bridle to Oliver and walked boldly down the horse-line to face Sergeant-Major Jarvis.
Jarvis watched him approaching, piggy eyes alert for any sign of weakness or pain. Ryder had spent the whole night on his belly, his back was stiff as iron and his skin burned like hot tar, but he came to perfect, straight attention, fixed his eyes above Jarvis’s head, and said, ‘Reporting for my pistol, Sar’nt-major.’
He counted four seconds before Jarvis’s face even moved. ‘Not on parade, Private. A pistol’s not regulation.’
God in heaven. ‘It’s a private possession, Sar’nt-major. I’m no longer under arrest, I’d like it back.’
Jarvis’s mouth smiled. ‘We’re stand-to, Trooper, your private matters can wait. Report to me after parade.’
Ryder knew what he was after. He smiled, said, ‘Thank you, Sar’nt-major,’ and walked back to his horse without the smallest sign of discomfiture. If the bastard wanted to make a game of it Ryder could beat him with one hand tied to a wheel. Yesterday he’d done it with two.
Cardigan was obviously still snoring comfortably in his yacht, so Lord George Paget took the parade in a silence punctuated only by the snorting of horses, the murmur of NCOs and the squelching of footsteps as officers checked down the lines. Marsh paused in front of Ryder and said, ‘Fit for duty, Private?’ Ryder smiled for the benefit of Jarvis and said, ‘Fit, sir.’ Marsh nodded courteously and moved on.
A familiar rattling came from their Horse Artillery, the caissons setting off to fetch shells for the siege. ‘All aboard for sunny Balaklava!’ called Captain Shakespear as he did every morning. ‘Anyone for the seaside?’ The wagons set off with a bang, wheels crunching into the rain-filled ruts and spraying the parading cavalry as they passed. Just another day, supplying a siege that already looked like it would never end.
‘Look-On’s early, ain’t he?’ said Fisk, watching their bulldog-jawed commander prowling impatiently at the front of their lines. ‘What’s got him jumping?’
Ryder knew. Lucan could hardly wait for General Scarlett’s report on the Heavies before he was off for the Causeway Heights with an entourage that seemed to consist of most of his staff. Paget watched the procession thoughtfully, then discarded his cheroot and trotted casually along to join it.
‘Trouble, Bobbin,’ said Bolton to his bloody horse. ‘You smell it, don’t you?’
Dawn was breaking behind the slopes of the Heights, and as light warmed the ridge Ryder made out the shapes of the first pair of horsemen on the skyline. His heart jumped as he saw they were moving, each trotting in a deliberate circle.
‘The vedettes!’ called someone in the Hussars. ‘Look, they’re signalling.’
So were the next pair, one circling clockwise, the other anti-clockwise. Infantry as well as cavalry were approaching.
‘They’re going faster,’ said Oliver. His voice sounded dry and croaky. ‘That’s a gallop really, isn’t it?’
‘That’s a gallop,’ said Ryder. The faster the speed, the bigger the force, and what was coming looked like an army.
Lucan’s mob were directly below the vedettes, and didn’t seem to have seen them. They’d spotted something else though, and an aide was pointing towards Number 1 redoubt on Canrobert’s Hill. Something looked different there, the flagpole was flying a second flag above the first, and then a crack of light drew Ryder’s eyes to the source of a single, muffled bang. Cannon. The Turks were firing down into the North Valley.
‘That’ll be Russ,’ said Jordan knowledgeably. ‘They’re coming at us over the Fedoukhine Hills.’
‘You amaze me, Telegraph,’ said the dry voice of Lieutenant Grainger from the serrefile. ‘Really, you should be on the Staff.’
Amidst the laughter Ryder’s eyes met Oliver’s. This was what they’d dreaded ever since they learned the truth. Another battle where men might take orders from a staff officer working for the other side.
Hooves thundered towards them, Lucan’s group galloping back from the Heights. Most were heading for camp, but Lucan peeled off for Kadikoi and the Highlanders, and Captain Charteris was charging clear across the plain for the Sapoune Plateau and Raglan’s headquarters. No one seemed to be going for the infantry at Inkerman, but surely Raglan would see to that. He couldn’t expect the cavalry division and a handful of Highlanders to defend the British base alone.
Paget skidded back to the lines in a spray of mud. Two
staff officers were calling for Captain Maude, and almost at once Ryder heard banging and rattling behind as the Horse Artillery limbered up. Another rider wheeled off for Balaklava, shouting something about shells. ‘And “W” Battery!’ called someone else. ‘Ask Sir Colin, all they can spare, we’ll never hold them with this.’ Then another, more familiar sound rose shrill above them all, and Ryder faced front to see Trumpet-Major Joy with the trumpet to his lips. Mount.
No more doubts. They mounted drill-perfect, nearly seven hundred legs swinging over in unison. The thump as they hit the saddle had a certain squelch to it, and Fisk muttered ‘We’re going to have damp arses all day.’ Colonel Douglas was giving a speech to the 11th Hussars, but when Ryder looked at their own front there was no Colonel Doherty to lead and inspire them, not even a major to take his place. After a moment Captain Oldham of ‘A’ Troop rode self-consciously to fill the gap. The 13th Light Dragoons were going into battle at last, and they were doing it with only a captain to lead them.
Another cannon shot boomed from the redoubts, followed by a crash of return fire. No isolated field guns this time, these were big bastards, 18- or 24-pounders, and over the crest of the ridge Ryder saw drifting smoke. He looked behind at their own ‘I’ Troop still furiously limbering up. Four six-pounders and two short-range howitzers. They’d no caissons either, no shells but what they could carry on the limbers; the wagons had gone to Balaklava to feed that bloody useless siege.
‘They won’t send us in yet though, will they?’ said Oliver. The light was brighter now, and Ryder could make out the unusual sharpness of his face. ‘The Turks will hold them off.’
Another great blast of fire, this time from Kamara. The Russians were there too, big guns already in battery, and all aimed at Number 1 redoubt. He couldn’t understand it, the 4th Light Dragoons were on picquet there, how could the Russians have Kamara? Then another boom, another battery to left of it, this time aimed at Number 2. The bastards were everywhere. They’d moved at night and struck at first light, the poor bloody Turks hadn’t a chance.
