Soldiers in the Mist

by Garry Douglas Kilworth

  ‘Yes, sir,’ answered the cabin boy, quietly.

  ‘Well, it’s not a pretty time for a youngster. I remember well the first time I heard the guns fired in earnest. I thought my head would fall off. Different when you’re present at a salute, somehow. The guns seem quieter then.’

  ‘You’ve seen a lot of action then?’ asked Crossman, for something to say. ‘Were you at some of the earlier battles of the war, in the Baltic, sir?’

  ‘My dear boy,’ replied Captain Collidge, a portly man who now leaned back in his chair, ‘I was at Trafalgar with Lord Nelson. I was twelve years old. Frightened the living daylights out of me. It don’t worry me now of course, but I’m getting a bit too old for it all. Probably why I lost that damn Russian warship. Losing my touch. Not the same now as it used to be. Too much slaughter these days. Too much carnage.’

  ‘Carnage, sir?’

  ‘Why yes. Take that fracas at Sinope. Damn slaughter. No other word for it. Once upon a time it was considered a coup to take a ship whole. Prize money and all that. Now they just sink ’em as fast as they can. Sinope’s a good case in point.’

  At the outset of the war between Turkey and Russia, before France and Britain had officially entered into the fighting, the Russian Black Sea Fleet had attacked a Turkish squadron under the command of Omar Pasha at a place called Sinope. Seven Turkish frigates and two corvettes were sunk outright by the Russians, superior in weight and number of ships. There were reports that five thousand Turkish sailors had perished, many of them being blasted with canister and grapeshot from Russian ships’ cannons, as they struggled to survive in the water.

  ‘Turkey and Russia were at war,’ pointed out Crossman, ‘but I agree if the reports were true then it was a needless massacre.’

  Captain Collidge shook his head sadly.

  ‘There you are, there you are. Few gentlemen o’ war left in these times. That’s a pun on man o’ war, by the way, but you don’t have to laugh.’ He smiled benignly.

  ‘Take your expedition for example. Don’t approve. Can’t approve. Sneaking out in the night and sticking a bomb on a helpless ship at anchor. Blowing it to smithereens while sailors are sleeping and the watch is staring dreamily at the stars. Destroying the tranquillity of a peaceful evening. How can I approve? Still,’ he took up his glass and motioned that Crossman should do the same, ‘not my decision. Not for me to approve or disapprove really. When this is all over I shall just be glad to collect my half-pay and go into retirement.’

  He lifted his glass. ‘To the Queen,’ he murmured.

  Crossman lifted his also and automatically stood to attention. He cracked his head hard on an overhead beam. Sitting down again abruptly, he felt his mind spinning. He rubbed the sore spot.

  ‘Told you you were too tall for a sailor,’ laughed the captain. ‘Said you’d damage my deckhead, didn’t I? Don’t you know sailors never stand for the toast? There’s why, my boy. There’s why. End up banging your noddle on a deckhead.’

  Crossman felt a little better after he had drunk his port, but refused a second glass.

  ‘I need to keep my wits about me, sir. I’m sure you’ll understand.’

  ‘Of course, of course. Well, good luck to you – no don’t stand up so quickly, sergeant – take your time.’

  Just before he left the cabin, Crossman turned, and with a puzzled frown, asked, ‘This is not usual, is it, sir?’

  ‘What, my boy?’

  ‘Drinking with a non-commissioned officer.’

  The captain’s eyes twinkled.

  ‘Oh, an old salt like me can afford to flout convention from time to time. Look at these heavy-swell side-whiskers of mine.’ He plucked at the fluffed hair on the sides of his face. ‘Not considered good form for a naval man. Get me into trouble all the time at the Admiralty. “Horse Guards next door,” the first lord once roared at me when he saw them. Don’t care any more. No more promotion coming this way, eh?’

  ‘But is that all?’

  ‘No, Major Lovelace mentioned you was at Harrow. There meself y’ know. Should stick together us Old Harrovians. Too many of these Etonian bouncers about. Take all the best government jobs. Well, good luck again. Don’t know what an Old Harrovian’s doing in the ranks of the British Army, but I daresay that’s your business, sergeant.’

  ‘Yes, sir, thank you, sir.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  Crossman went back up on deck. His men were waiting there. The ship was now at anchor offshore and two canoes had been lowered into the water. It but remained for Crossman and the other three who were going with him to scramble down the nets and take their positions in their canoes.

  Once they had done this and were ready, they cast off, paddling away from the tall ship into the blackness of the night. Now that they had come down from the high decks of the warship, the waves seemed much larger. There was a swell running from east to west, which created great watery canyons. The canoes slipped down into these monsters easily enough, but paddling back up the other side was hard work. Soon Crossman’s arms were aching.

  ‘Are you all right, Devlin?’ he asked the man behind him.

  Devlin was grunting with the exertion. ‘All right as all right can be,’ replied the Irishman.

  Now that they were down amongst the waves, the coastline kept disappearing and reappearing too. It was not easy to navigate amongst the changing folds of the sea. Shore lights twinkled into existence, then just as quickly were lost again, having disappeared behind flowing, liquid horizons.

  ‘We’ve got about ten miles to do,’ Crossman said. ‘At this rate it’ll take us all night. Where’s the other canoe?’

  ‘Not far behind us, sergeant.’

  ‘Signal for them to come closer.’

  Devlin gave out a low whistle and then steered their craft towards Ali and Clancy.

  Crossman called out to the two dark silhouettes when they were within range.

  ‘We’ll have to go in closer to the shore. This headwind may be less fierce there. Not too close though. We don’t want to get caught up in any breakers. The onshore drift may well carry us on to rocks or into cliffs if we’re not careful.’

  Ali waved to say he understood.

  There was no telling what the coast was like at this point. Whether there were beaches or rocky cliffs could not be discerned in the darkness. They could see black lumpy masses in the starlight against the dark sky, but could make out no real definition. Here and there small points of light glowed like stars upon the ground – probably the lamps of farmhouses. In one place a fishing village added some cheery light to the otherwise gloomy landscape.

  On the other side of the canoeists was the vast open sea: an inky blackness that stretched out into infinity. Staring that way made Crossman feel very small and vulnerable, and the canoe just a flimsy piece of material beneath him. The waves were quite vigorous, and it took all their strength to keep the canoe upright. Should they overturn they would be lost. They might cling on to the canoe and try to swim it to the land, but they were in fact about a mile out to sea and would die in the freezing water within a few minutes. It was cold enough to kill a man outside the water, let alone in it.

  ‘Keep paddling,’ he said to Devlin.

  The Irishman had not in fact stopped paddling, but Devlin seemed to understand that these superfluous words had been used for the purpose of seeking comfort. There was little enough comfort to be had out there on the water. Thoughts were as dark as the sea and the night: deep gloomy ponderings that might drag a man down with them to the depths of despair. If one let it, a black panic might overtake a soul and create its own problems.

  The wind, low as it was, bit into the faces and hands of the canoeists. Spray constantly flicked up over the bows of the home-made craft, stinging Crossman’s eyes, soaking him in the bargain. Although on the one hand his exertions were making him sweat, he was constantly shivering inside his clothes. Rivulets of water ran from his hair, down inside his collar, to his chest and back.

/>   There was nothing for it but to keep paddling, for what felt like an eternity. Hour on hour seemed to drag past, though each hour might only have been a quarter of real time. Sometimes Ali and Clancy overtook them, to take the full brunt of the wind and give them some relief. It was, of course, much easier to trail in the wake of the leading canoe.

  Finally they came to a headland on which a light brighter than most stood, like a beacon in the dark wilderness. Its rays shone over the waters. Crossman guessed this was some sort of warning to shipping, that there were rocks around. Beyond the light was a stretch of black lapping sea which seemed to have no end. They had come at last to the Straits of Kerch. All four men were very tired, yet they knew they now had to battle against the notorious currents which ran in the straits.

  Once again they dug deep into their reserves. The paddles went in and came out automatically. Somehow the canoes moved forward, but it seemed infinitesimally slowly. The bright light seemed to grow no nearer. In fact at times it seemed as if it were moving away. Finally, as the two canoes were abreast, Clancy let out a choking sob.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Crossman.

  ‘Cramp! I’ve got cramp in my legs. Oh, God, sergeant, this is agony. My feet were cramped a few minutes ago. I can stand that, but not my calves. It feels like my muscles are being squeezed and knotted in a washing mangle.’

  ‘Grit your teeth. Bear it until it goes away.’

  ‘I can’t do this, sergeant. My arms are falling off. My whole body aches to death. I’ve got to stop. This is killing me. I’ve got to get out and walk a bit. I’m no coward. I’ll go at the guns any time. But this is agony. This is murder.’

  Crossman knew how the man felt. His own hipbones felt as if they were cracking and crumbling within him. He too had had cramp in several places, which had been incredibly painful. But in addition to that there were constant shooting pains and aching in his joints and up and down his limbs. His shoulders hurt too, with the constant use of the paddle.

  The canoes had been designed so that the paddler sat on his own calves, his legs folded under him. There was no relief from the agony of ache that attacked a man’s lower back and legs in this position. One could slip down a little on to one’s heels, or kneel upright for a moment to relieve the pain on the legs. But the paddler could not move too often. It was dangerous. If one kneeled upright the canoe became unsteady and threatened to topple sideways. It simply had to be a quick shift of position and then back on the calves or heels.

  ‘Paddle towards the shore a little. See if there’s a beach where we can stretch our limbs for a few minutes. Otherwise we’ll all be in trouble,’ said Crossman. ‘Easy now, we don’t want to end up on any rocks.’

  Ali and Clancy led the way to the shore, listening carefully for breakers or the sound of waves on rocks. Crossman and Devlin followed on behind. No one, not even Ali, objected to the halt, though it was clearly an extremely perilous thing to do on a mission of this sort. There were unseen risks out there in the darkness, on solid ground, which were better avoided.

  10

  They found the waves lapping on a gently-sloping shore and gratefully took the canoes in. Crossman climbed out into the freezing shallow water and immediately his legs cramped. He staggered to the beach and fell over, groaning and massaging his limbs. Similarly, the others climbed from their floating boxes and walked like puppets. They stretched their arms and legs, trying to get some life back into them. Clancy complained about his back and Devlin said his neck would never be the same again.

  Crossman looked around him. In the starlight he could see they were on the beach of a small cove, encircled by shallowly-rising cliffs. White-veined tracks ran up the slopes to the top of the cliffs, where a single light shone. Apart from that one habitation, it appeared to be a fairly deserted place. There was the sound of goats or sheep coming from above, accompanied by a faint smell of manure on the night air.

  ‘Ten minutes,’ said Crossman, ‘then we’ve got to be on our way again. Walk up and down. Get your circulation going. Rub some life back into your limbs.’

  They did as he suggested.

  As they walked up and down there was a cold shaft of wind blowing along the beach. Starlight twinkled on minerals in the rocks. Along the beach was heard the rustle and sigh of the wavelets as they slipped over the pebbly shore.

  ‘Right, time to go,’ called Crossman, softly.

  The men gathered by the canoes. There were only three of them. Ali was missing.

  ‘Ali?’ called Crossman, staring into the darkness of the beach. ‘Are you there?’

  No answer.

  Crossman felt a surge of panic. The second canoe could not possibly continue without Ali. Clancy would not have the strength to paddle it on his own, it was difficult enough with the two of them. They could not leave the Bashi-Bazouk here either. Crossman knew his chances of relocating this small cove again on the return journey were negligible. And Clancy would never find his way back to the ship on his own: not without Ali to guide and encourage him.

  ‘Ali,’ called Crossman, a little louder. ‘For God’s sake, where are you?’

  At this call there came the sound of a clattering amongst the rocks and scree.

  Crossman felt relief wash through him. Perhaps Ali had gone off to perform his toilet. Muslims were very particular about privacy. He waited, but when the sounds simply continued, without any sign of Ali, his apprehension rose again.

  ‘Ali, is that you?’

  Still no answer, but the noise of heavy footsteps came closer, as if heading towards the sound of Crossman’s voice.

  ‘Russians,’ said Clancy, reaching into his canoe for his carbine.

  Crossman was not so sure. If it was the enemy, how were they able to approach without some sort of light? It was almost pitch black amongst the rocks. And why come any closer? Why not just open up with guns or rifles and kill the British where they stood? These thoughts raced through the sergeant’s mind as he drew his revolver.

  ‘Ali, if that’s you, damn you, man, speak – or we’ll have to fire upon you!’

  Still no answer. The noise of the feet on the pebbles now indicated that it was more than just one man. It was too loud, certainly for Ali, who walked like a cat. There was the accompanying sound of heavy breathing too, and a strange kind of smell, a musty stink. Soon, whoever it was would be out of the deep shadow of the cliff, and into the starlight. They would at least be able to see a shape.

  ‘It’s a monster!’ cried Clancy, the superstitions of his Indian childhood rushing to the fore. ‘It’s a ghost. I can smell it.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid, man,’ said Crossman, but he had felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise at these words. ‘Keep your voice down.’

  At that moment a huge form loomed above them, coming out of the darkness. It had a peculiar loping walk and its large eyes shone in the starlight. A thick-lipped mouth hung open, dripping saliva and goo, which splattered on the smooth pebbles of the beach. It’s long neck arched out as it gave first a short snort, then a mooning bellow, on seeing the three men.

  Crossman lowered his pistol. ‘A camel,’ he muttered. We’ve been frightened by a dromedary. Clancy, here’s your monster-ghost. It probably belongs to that dwelling up on the cliff and has wandered away from its tether.’

  Clancy gave out a little sob. ‘I – I thought it was Muru, the Demon-with-seven-thousand-sons, come to slaughter us.’

  ‘Well, it’s not,’ said Devlin, who had been thinking of the Banshee himself, ‘it’s only a ragged old camel, you idiot.’

  The camel’s breath stank of whatever herb or weed it had been chewing on when the group had disturbed it. Crossman tried to shoo the beast away, but it remained shuffling its feet before them. It had found company in the long cold night and it was obviously a gregarious beast, happiest in society.

  Now that the emergency was over, Crossman began again to fret about the disappearance of Ali, but no sooner was he considering organising a small se
arch party to scour the beach area, than the Bashi-Bazouk appeared beside him.

  ‘Where the hell have you been?’ asked Crossman, angrily. ‘We thought you’d been taken.’

  A delicious smell wafted up from a battered metal pot in the Turk’s hands.

  ‘Stew, sergeant,’ Ali said, simply. ‘Warm our insides.’

  ‘Stew?’ murmured Clancy, stumbling forwards. ‘You mean, real food?’

  ‘Good Lord, deliver us,’ said Devlin. ‘I could use some o’ that.’

  The pot was placed on the ground and the men simply dipped their hands into it and began eating the contents. It appeared to consist of potatoes, carrots, cabbage and some kind of meat.

  ‘Mutton,’ said Devlin, in ecstasy, ‘or goat. I don’t much care which of them. It’s a miracle.’

  ‘Where did you get it?’ asked Crossman, as grateful as the others for something to warm him through. ‘At that place on the hill?’

  ‘Tartar farm,’ Ali replied. ‘Always they have some stew on the embers, ready to eat in the morning.’

  ‘Lord bless ’em,’ Devlin said. ‘I love those Tartars.’

  Once they had eaten, Ali placed the empty stew pot carefully above the high tidemark on the beach. The food had been a godsend, but Ali had no wish to steal the pot from the family who had provided it. Such a pot was a valuable item to poor farmers scratching a living from the soil. There had been local goatherds who thought themselves suddenly wealthy after having found a British soldier’s camp kettle on the trail.

  The dromedary lumbered off and began to lick the metal pot, which made a clanking noise on the scree.

  The men boarded their canoes and once more set off towards the harbour which was their destination.

  The stew had put new life into their paddling, but the wind, the cold and the twisting currents made their journey a bitter one.

  Eventually they came in sight of a town which, by its size, they realised must be Kerch. Crossman signalled silently to the canoe behind to follow his lead.

  They slid into a harbour full of ships as silently as two deadly crocodiles. There were one or two lamps lit on board some of the vessels. Others lay in darkness. Perhaps on most ships there would not even be a watch, for the Russians believed they were in a safe harbour, protected from any mainland attack by their army. Of course the British Navy might sail round and try to capture the port, but that would have been seen from miles away and reported all the way up the coast.