Crimea

by Malcolm Archibald

  'Wait!' Maxwell said. 'Listen!' From the bottom of a shallow valley, they heard the shrill notes of a British trumpet sounding the charge, echoing in the terrible silence. The sound raised the small hairs on the back of Jack's head. 'Get to higher ground,' Maxwell ordered, 'we must see what's happening.'

  'Follow me, men,' Jack ordered. 'Get up to the crest there.'

  There was a single spur of the Fedioukine hills protruding southward a hundred yards from where they stood. They scrambled up, swearing as they heard the trumpet sound again and again and the distinct drum-beat of hundreds of horses' hooves on the ground.

  'There! Look, oh God, look!' Riley pointed.

  The angle of the hills gave them only a partial view, sufficient to see the British Heavy Brigade charging uphill from the South Valley at some unseen enemy. Distinct on the air they heard a curious high moaning, like a million swarming bees.

  'That's the Scots Greys,' Maxwell said. 'Only they make that noise.'

  A few seconds later there came a wild cheer, followed by a scattering of carbine shots and silence broken only by the pounding of hooves and a low mutter, the roar of combat subdued by distance. Jack looked at Maxwell, who shook his head. 'I can't see a thing through that blasted hill,' he said.

  'Look!' Riley pointed further to the west, where further squadrons of the Heavy Brigade were charging into the fray. 'The Inniskilling Dragoons, the 5th Dragoons, the 4th Dragoons … the entire Heavy Brigade is in action.'

  'Look! Oh look, look!' Coleman and Logan spoke together, staring toward the South Valley as in ones and twos, and then in great groups, Russian cavalry appeared, fleeing in the opposite direction to the charge of the Heavies. 'They're running; they're beaten!'

  'Good man, General Scarlett,' Maxwell said as the Russian cavalry streamed up to the Causeway Heights toward the shelter of the recently captured Turkish guns. As soon as the fleeing Russians were clear of the Heavies, British artillery opened fire on them, sending roundshot bouncing among the scattered horsemen. 'The Lights should have attacked when the Russians were in such disorder,' Maxwell shook his head. 'This is the strangest of battles I ever did see.'

  'If the Russians have been repulsed,' Jack said, 'perhaps we can re-join our army in peace?'

  Maxwell smiled. 'I fear there may be very many angry and frustrated Russians between us and home,' he raised his voice in a sharp order. 'Take off your tunics, men; red coats show up a long way. We will move slowly and with caution.'

  There was little cover on the bare slopes, so they dodged from rock to rock, hoped that the Russians were too occupied in fighting their battle to worry about a stray handful of escaped prisoners.

  'Sir!' Coleman hissed. 'Russians ahead!' Maxwell signalled for them to stop as a regiment of Russian infantry halted nearby. The Russians spread out, some lying, some sitting as a man moved around with a keg, doling out great spoonfuls of vodka.

  'Behind that rock,' Maxwell ordered.

  There was barely room to move behind the boulder, with the Russians a bare fifty yards away and the occasional grumble of gunfire from the south hinting at the occasional encounter between British and Russians. The Russians took their time, lying on their backs and talking in low voices, drinking the vodka, sharing the occasional joke. The wind rose, whispering through the rough grass.

  'How long have we been here for?' Coleman asked.

  'About an hour and a half,' Riley answered.

  'Maybe we'll be here all night,' Coleman said.

  'We can leave you behind if you like,' Logan said. 'You're a lazy bastard anyway.'

  'They're on the move!' Jack whispered.

  A Russian officer barked a command, and the Russians rose into their ranks, brushing crumbs of black bread from their fronts and adjusting their uniforms in the same manner as British infantry in the same position. Or, Jack reasoned, any infantry in the world from the days of the Roman legions onward. Soldiers shared universal similarities whatever their nationality or allegiance.

  'Now it gets interesting,' Maxwell said. 'We have to pass across the Woronzov Road with no cover. The Russians will have it under close observation and so will our boys.'

  'The Ruskies are undoubtedly retreating now,' Jack said. 'They're taking our guns away. They probably think they've won the day.'

  They watched as Russian working parties arrived at the redoubts they had captured from the Turks earlier that day. I wish I could lead a company of the 113th to retake these guns.

  'Our Lord Raglan won't like that one bit,' Maxwell said quietly. 'Wellington never lost a gun, you know.'

  'So I heard,' Jack murmured.

  'The cavalry is doing something,' Coleman said.

  'Which cavalry?' Riley asked, 'ours of theirs?'

  'Ours,' Coleman replied. 'Look!'

  Once again Jack was in the frustrating position of observing an action while not being able to take part. He felt torn between exultation and anxiety as he watched the entire British Light Brigade begin to advance along the North Valley, between the Fedioukine Hills and the Causeway Heights. They moved toward a vast Russian force of cavalry and infantry that stood behind strong batteries of heavy artillery at the eastern end of the valley.

  'And what do they intend to do?' Riley asked.

  'It looks like they are going to try and retake the guns,' Jack said. 'In a minute they will wheel right and get up the Causeway Heights.'

  'Good lads the Lights,' Coleman said. 'Look at them; riding in perfect formation.'

  Jack nodded. The Light Brigade trotted forward along the bottom of the valley in two lines, soon altering to three, with the 13th Light Dragons and the 17th Lancers in front, followed by the 11th Hussars and then the 8th Hussars and 4th Light Dragoons. With the valley around a mile in width, the cavalry occupied only the centre and as they advanced the second and third lines became detached, so there were large spaces between the various units.

  'What the devil are they doing?' Maxwell asked angrily as the cavalry remained in the centre of the valley, riding straight at the Russian gun batteries. 'Go for the Heights man; recapture the British guns.'

  Instead of wheeling to the Heights, the Light Brigade cantered forward toward the heavy Russian batteries. With Russian artillery on the Fedioukine Hills to their left and more on the Causeway Heights to their right, they moved through a gauntlet of fire, made all the hotter by the Russian batteries in front.

  Oh dear God in heaven; they're charging the entire Russian army.

  Earlier that day Jack had seen unsupported British infantry defeat an attack by Russian cavalry. Now he was watching unsupported British cavalry advance against Russian artillery. Surrounded on three sides, the Light Brigade did not hesitate. They rode on, keeping formation as the Russians destroyed them with artillery augmented by musketry from battalions of Russian infantry. Men and horses fell as the Russian artillery thundered at them, so the ground was a litter of broken men and wounded horses, but the ranks closed and continued, closed and continued. Jack saw the lances lowered and the sabres drawn and ready, the thin slivers of steel somehow puny against the might of the cannon.

  Riding in front on his chestnut charger, Ronald, Lord Cardigan was a splendid figure and apparently in complete command. He had given orders that his men were not to break formation and charge until they were sufficiently close to the enemy for such a move to be effective. At last, as the watchers on the Heights were shocked into silent horror at the sight of the pointless destruction of so many hundreds of brave men, the Light Brigade charged.

  Jack did not hear the thrilling sound of the trumpet; above all the screams and gunshot he doubted he would have, but when the remnants of the leading line of the brigade were about a hundred yards from the Russian battery the men surged forward in a mad charge, with Cardigan in their midst. And then the twelve Russian cannon in their front fired a final volley.

  When the smoke cleared Jack saw the Russian gunners flying in retreat and a tangle of broken men and horses piled in front of the Russ
ian cannon. Then he saw the smoke-stained survivors of the Light Brigade take their revenge on the Russians. They had ridden through hell, they had seen half their friends killed or hideously maimed by these gunners, and now they were on them, sabre or lance in hand and revenge the only thing on their mind.

  It was the Russians turn to die as the British cavalry sliced and hacked at them in a furious bloodlust that Jack had never seen before. His experiences in Burma, he realised, had been small scale and gentlemanly compared to this slaughter at the guns. Jack saw the 13th Light Dragoons on the right dispose of all the gunners they could find, then charge a larger formation of Russian cavalry that was behind the artillery, pushing them back in panic and pursuing them for quarter of a mile before a regiment of Russian lancers cut the dragoons off.

  Hacking their way through the lancers, Jack watched in silence as the few survivors of the 13th Light Dragoon began the long withdrawal to the British lines. On the left the 17th Lancers did the same, pushing Russian cavalry back until they were cut off, then withdrawing through the Russians and returning along the North Valley as the Russian guns on either side continued to fire.

  'I've never seen anything like it,' Jack said softly.

  'Neither has anybody else,' Maxwell said. 'Nobody's ever done it before, and I doubt anybody will ever do it again. What was Lord Cardigan thinking of?'

  In the centre, another handful of the 17th Lancers also charged and pursued a large body of Russian cavalry before returning. Jack watched small bodies of British cavalry regiments chase and scatter Russian forces ten and twenty times their strength before withdrawing, leaving panicked Russian horsemen and dead gunners around the Russian artillery.

  'That was murder,' Jack indicated the floor of the valley, sprinkled with the bodies of dead men, while the wounded lay screaming or tried to crawl back with shattered limbs and perforated bodies.

  'It saved us though,' Maxwell sounded strained. 'Look.'

  Coming toward them on magnificent white horses, a squadron of the French Chasseurs d'Afrique charged toward the Russian guns on the Fedioukine Hills. 'Best throw off that Russian uniform' Maxwell advised. 'I doubt these French lads will have the time to ask our nationality before they spit us.'

  'Vive la France,' Riley said quietly.

  As the French cavalry approached, all Jack could think was that there had been another battle and the 113th had once more not been involved. They remained a regiment without a battle honour, and he was still an undistinguished lieutenant without hope of promotion or recognition. All his experiences had been pointless; he had achieved nothing. There is one good thing: Helen is safe.

  Chapter Sixteen

  British Lines

  October 1854

  The northerly wind whistled around the tent, pulling the stiff canvas against the poles and pushing a draught through the flap.

  Colonel Murphy sighed and tapped his fingers on the simple deal desk that Jack thought he must have purchased in Balaklava. 'So let me get this straight, Windrush. You had your men surrender to try and save the life of a British officer and then you broke out of a Russian jail by picking the locks and pretending to be Russian soldiers.'

  'Yes sir,' Jack said. He could feel Colonel Maxwell's approval as he sat a few feet away.

  'Is there any more, Windrush?'

  'Well yes, sir there is.' Jack was not sure how his colonel would react to the next few moments.

  'Well?' Murphy looked up, coughed and looked away again.

  'I have a request, sir.'

  'And what is that, pray?' Murphy narrowed his eyes.

  'I would like to pass a message on to a Mr Bulloch, sir. I do not know where I may find him, but I know he was with General Reading in Malta.'

  'Bulloch, you say?' Murphy looked puzzled. 'Now Windrush, your personal affairs are nothing to do with me, and I am not a post office for your letters.'

  'Excuse me, if I may intrude here?' Maxwell frowned and held up a hand. 'I know of Joseph Bulloch. May I ask in what capacity you knew him, Lieutenant?'

  'I'd rather not say, sir.' I wish I had never mentioned the name.

  'The devil you won't!' Murphy's sudden agitation brought a spurt of blood to his mouth. He stopped to wipe it away as Jack tactfully averted his eyes. 'This is not some boyhood game, Windrush. You are an officer of some three years standing now, and you should know how the army operates. I damn well order you to tell me who this Bulloch is and what he has to do with the 113th.'

  'If you would permit me to interrupt?' Maxwell said smoothly. 'Joseph Bulloch is a government man, Colonel Murphy.'

  'Do you mean he is a blasted politician?' Murphy's tone, as much as his words indicated his low opinion of politicians.

  'No Colonel. He works for the foreign office, dealing with rather delicate matters of foreign diplomacy.' Maxwell spoke without expression.

  'What?' Murphy may have been a crusty old soldier, but he was not stupid. 'You mean he is a spy?'

  'He is a bit more than that, Colonel Murphy,' Maxwell said. 'He manages political agents, as he calls them.'

  Murphy leaned back, shaking his head. 'A spymaster.' His glower at Jack was poisonous. 'How do you know such a man, Windrush?'

  'I worked for him sir.' Jack admitted.

  Murphy's expression froze somewhere between horror and disgust. 'You are a British officer, sir.'

  'I am, sir,' Jack said.

  'And yet you are a spy.' Murphy said the word as if it was a curse. He shook his head. 'My regiment, my poor, poor regiment. First the massacre of the innocents, then the debacle at Chillianwalla, then the disgrace of losing our regimental colours and now this! An officer who is a spy!'

  Jack said nothing. The wind increased, rattling the guy-ropes of the tent and causing the canvas above Murphy's head to rustle and bulge.

  'I have another question for you, Windrush since you do not care to answer my last comment.' Murphy alternated between anger and sorrow. 'Is the information you intend to transmit to Mr Bulloch connected to your spying activities?'

  Jack opened his mouth and closed it again.

  'I order you to answer, Windrush.'

  Unable to deny his spying activities, Jack could only say: 'yes, sir.'

  'In that case, Windrush, I will have nothing to do with it.' Murphy said. 'I will add to that, Windrush; the 113th Foot will have nothing more to do with you.'

  'Sir?' Jack felt as if somebody had punched him in the stomach.

  'You know that I am attempting to improve the reputation of the 113th, Windrush,' Murphy's tone was slightly friendlier. 'To do so, I must eradicate any hint of irregular conduct among the men, or ungentlemanly behaviour from the officers. British officers do not act as spies. Although I think you have the makings of a reasonably efficient lieutenant, Windrush, your espionage activities can do only harm to what remains of the reputation of the 113th.'

  Jack took an involuntary step backwards. 'Sir, I have no intention of resigning my commission. I do not think you have the authority to make me.'

  'I could convene a court-martial, Windrush, although that would make you look even worse. You can resign your commission and seek another regiment…'

  'Which I cannot afford!' The words slipped out before Jack realised it. While acting as a spy was ungentlemanly, so was discussing his financial situation. A true gentleman does not mention such matters.

  He stood at attention in the ensuing brittle silence, waiting for further disaster.

  'There is a simple solution,' Maxwell said quietly. 'You may transfer to the 118th. My regiment.'

  Jack felt the colour surge to his face. The temptation to leave the 113th with its reputation for cowardice and crime was overwhelming. It was a chance that he had been hoping for since he had received his commission. Yet something prevented him from immediately accepting.

  'Thank you sir, but the 113th is my regiment. I would prefer to remain at home.'

  Murphy gave an audible grunt. 'This is no longer your home, Windrush,' Murphy said. '
I do not wish you in the 113th.'

  'I think that clears things up, Windrush.' Maxwell said. 'Welcome to the 118th. We have things to discuss.' He looked across to Murphy. 'Will you also be getting rid of Lieutenant Windrush's partners in crime?'

  Murphy started, 'and who would that be? Not young Elliot surely?'

  'Not Lieutenant Elliot. I mean his gang of blackguards: Riley and Logan, Coleman and Thorpe, Hitchins and Ogden.' Maxwell glanced at Jack. 'You should be aware, Colonel Murphy, that Riley was a professional thief while Hitchins was a poacher. A magistrate gave him the choice of joining the army or going to jail. He made the wrong choice.'

  'Ogden's dead,' Jack said. 'He was a good man.' He looked at Maxwell, aware that he was manipulating the situation but unsure why.

  'Take them all,' Murphy waved an irritable hand. 'I do not need men tainted with such dishonour.'

  'Thank you, Colonel,' Maxwell gave a small bow. 'Come on Windrush; you are mine now.'

  No sooner had they left the tent than Maxwell pulled Jack aside. 'You did not tell me you were working for Joe Bulloch!' A new urgency had replaced his erstwhile urbane manner.

  'It did not come into the conversation,' Jack said. 'We had other things to bother about.'

  'What message do you have for him?' Maxwell was insistent. 'Come on, man!'

  Jack frowned. 'How well do you know him, sir?'

  'A devil of a lot better than you do, Windrush.' Maxwell took his arm and guided him through the ranked tents. 'In here.' His tent was similar to that of Murphy, except more tidy and with a map of the siege opened on the pile of packing crates that passed for a desk. 'Now tell me everything.'

  'It's not much,' Jack said, 'but Riley and I were hiding when we heard some people talking.'