Soldiers in the Mist

by Garry Douglas Kilworth

  A shocked Campbell stood up abruptly and crashed his head on a beam, breaking the skin. He felt the blood trickling down his cheek. The two lieutenants stared at him in some concern.

  ‘Are you all right, captain?’ asked Blightwell. ‘Are you hurt?’

  ‘Damn!’ Campbell cried. He took a kerchief from his tunic and held it against the wound. At this moment he was more concerned about his situation than he was about his injury. ‘Look here, did you say “out to sea”?’

  ‘Why, yes,’ replied Holliday, with an innocent expression. ‘You knew we were setting sail at six o’clock, did you not, captain? I understood that you wanted an excuse to leave the Crimea. You may blame it on us, sir. We do not mind in the least. Our captain is a lenient man. We intend saying we were deep in conversation and before we realised it the ship was on its way to India . . .’

  Campbell felt the colour drain from his face. ‘To India?’

  Blightwell, his expression one of total guiltlessness, nodded his head.

  ‘Why yes. That is our next area of duty. Part of your regiment is in India, is it not? We understood you wished to transfer to them, to join your brother in India, but your application was refused by a senior officer hostile to your family? This way it is a mere accident of fate. You were on board the Antigone when it set sail and were unfortunately unable to disembark, due to unforeseen circumstances. Once in India, you will be able to join your preferred battalion. These are your wishes, are they not?’

  ‘What in the blazes made you think that, you idiot?’ raged the captain, losing his temper completely. ‘Are you mad? Are you both refugees from Bedlam? I shall be shot for desertion. Who put you up to this? Who told you I wished to go to India?’

  The smile which was a semi-permanent feature of Lieutenant Blightwell’s face was instantly removed.

  ‘Why, Mr Jarrard, the war correspondent. He saw to it that your belongings were brought on board, after we started our game. The captain need not know it, but your wardrobe and personal effects are hidden in the hold. We can soon smuggle them on to shore once we reach Calcutta.’

  Campbell’s temper subsided, to be replaced by a calmer but more unpleasant feeling of panic.

  ‘By God,’ he said, slowly and carefully, a horrible feeling of sickness, quite unconnected with the sea, stealing over him, ‘I sense some sort of plot here, but the reasons escape me. I need to speak to your captain. He must set me ashore . . .’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s impossible,’ replied Holliday, with maddening logic. ‘We are now too far out at sea.’

  Crossman stood on the quay at six o’clock, and five minutes later he was joined by Rupert Jarrard.

  ‘Why am I here?’ asked Crossman. ‘You said something about proving your scruples worse than my own. I’m perfectly willing to believe they are, Rupert, without needing any proof.’

  The American was looking smug. ‘See that ship out there, just dipping down over the horizon?’

  ‘I can see a set of masts, yes – the hull appears to be already out of sight.’

  ‘That’s the Antigone.’

  ‘Is it?’ Crossman said. ‘Captain Collidge’s ship? On its way home?’

  ‘No, it’s been sent to India,’ Jarrard said, gleefully.

  Crossman was beginning to lose patience with his friend.

  ‘Look, you seem to be exceptionally pleased with yourself for some reason, Rupert, but I haven’t the damnedest notion why. If you’ve got something to tell me, say it now. It is most frustrating standing here watching you wallow in self-satisfied pleasure.’

  ‘You know who’s on board that ship?’

  ‘I have no idea, unless you’re going to tell me Wynter has stowed away and is out of my hair forever.’

  ‘Someone – not Wynter – someone you would rather get rid of than Wynter.’

  Crossman shook his head. ‘There is no one in this world I would rather shed than Lance-Corporal Wynter, bless his dirty socks and foul breath.’

  ‘Not even Captain Campbell, late of the Sutherland Highlanders?’

  Crossman took some seconds to absorb this remark. He stared hard at the departing vessel, just the tip of the main topgallant mast showing now. Then he looked back again into the grey eyes of the American.

  ‘Captain Campbell is on board that ship?’

  Jarrard nodded slowly.

  ‘And it’s bound for India?’

  Another slow nod.

  Crossman stared at the wake of the vessel, which formed a flat wavering line snaking out to sea.

  ‘Then we have got rid of him, at least for a while.’

  ‘For quite a long while. Perhaps he won’t ever be back. I think I’ll have to get in some target practice with my Navy Colt if he does return. He probably knows by now that it was me who tricked him on board.’

  Crossman shook his head wonderingly.

  ‘Who put you up to this?’

  ‘Why, that lovable rogue Wynter, for whom you have so much admiration and respect. He and his pals Peterson and Devlin thought it a good idea to get rid of Campbell. Your boys wanted to help you. They saw their sergeant in trouble and they rallied. They roped me in because I am a gentleman and would be taken more seriously than they.’

  A strange feeling of comradeship for his men swept through a flaw in Crossman like lava through a fault line.

  ‘You are perfectly correct, Rupert, in your assumption that you have fewer scruples than I do. In fact I believe you to have no morals whatsoever.’

  ‘Not when it comes to dealing with cardsharps, I don’t.’

  Crossman, unstiffening his British reserve for once, put an arm around the American’s shoulders.

  ‘Rupert, I owe you a drink. Will you join me at the canteen bar? We shall get “my boys” and all drink to each other’s lack of principles. And you, my fellow conspirator, shall be carried home tonight on a litter, or my name is not Jack Crossman.’

  Jarrard smiled and started to walk forward, then he turned and frowned.

  ‘But your name isn’t Jack Crossman.’

  ‘In that case it won’t be whatever it really is, my Yankee friend, if you can work that out. Come on, I shall match you glass for glass, and the loser shall be carried home by the winner, like a trophy from the Greek games . . .’

  20

  The removal of Captain Campbell was a blessing to Crossman.

  He still had to deal with his brother’s infatuation for the redoubtable Molly Kennedy, but the Crimea was a strange place where events caused changes to take place every day. Crossman was convinced that a major attack was imminent, though the generals refused to believe it. Such an event would wrench his brother from the arms of Molly and thrust him into a more sobering position.

  The now reduced peloton was gathered in the hovel. Out along the front the ordnance seemed louder and more vigorous than usual on the 4th of November, even though it had been raining heavily the whole day. Wynter said it was in preparation for Guy Fawkes night, the next day.

  ‘We got our own fireworks,’ he said, ‘what with shells and all. We just need to make a Prince Menshikoff guy an’ burn him on a bonfire. What do you say, sergeant? Shall we make a Guy Fawkes?’

  ‘I quite appreciate the fact that you wish to promote our cultural ceremonies, Wynter, but I think Major Lovelace would not like it if he found us idle enough to play at bonfires.’

  Rupert Jarrard, who was there with them, developed a puzzled expression.

  ‘Who is this “Guy Fawkes”?’

  ‘Why,’ replied Wynter, ‘he’s the cove who tried to blast our parliament to bits.’

  ‘I should have thought by the way the politicians have conducted this war, that you would be drinking his health, not burning him on a fire.’

  Peterson laughed. ‘He’s not that recent. It was – when was it, sergeant . . .?’

  ‘November the 5th, 1605. Guy Fawkes and some other Catholic conspirators tried to assassinate King James, and would have taken parliament with him if the plot had
succeeded. We call it the gunpowder plot, Rupert. A quantity of explosives was found under the Houses of Parliament, I believe. Guy Fawkes and his fellow conspirators were put to death. I’m not sure they were burned at the stake, but they might well have been.’

  Wynter screwed up his face. ‘You make it sound as dry as dust, sergeant. You never could tell a story, could you?’

  Jarrard shook his head in bemusement. ‘And you celebrate this man’s horrific death by burning his effigy every year since then? Am I the only person in this room who thinks that smacks a little of barbarity?’

  Crossman said, ‘Just harmless fun, Rupert. A few pyrotechnics, a bonfire for the children . . .’

  ‘For the children?

  ‘It’s mainly a treat for the children,’ said Peterson.

  Rupert Jarrard shook his head in disbelief.

  ‘No wonder my ancestors decided to leave the shores of Britain for the New World. You are riddled with ugly rituals which corrupt the children at an early age, so that when they reach manhood they think that burning images of people is just a little harmless fun. Well, well. I’m glad I live in a civilised country.’

  ‘Where men shoot each other in the street for some imagined slight,’ murmured Crossman. ‘Come on, Rupert, we all have our little foibles.’

  At that moment, two soaked and dripping soldiers appeared in the doorway. They had grim faces, as if they were on an unpleasant mission. Behind the soldiers was a young and very wet subaltern. This man stepped into the doorway, blocking out the light.

  ‘Sergeant Crossman?’ he enquired.

  Crossman stood up. ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘You are Sergeant John Crossman, of the 88th Foot?’

  Crossman was beginning to think something was very wrong. This looked like an arresting party.

  ‘I am he.’

  ‘Sergeant Crossman,’ said the subaltern ponderously, ‘you are under arrest for the murder of Captain Charles Barker, formerly of the 47th Foot. You will step outside, sergeant, and be relieved of your arms.’

  There was shocked silence from within the room. Then Wynter, probably without thinking, stepped in between the lieutenant and Crossman with a drawn bayonet. Whether he saw himself as a biblical Peter and would have sliced off the lieutenant’s ear was a matter for speculation, for Corporal Devlin grabbed Wynter’s wrist and pulled him out of the way.

  ‘That won’t do no good, Wynter,’ hissed Devlin. ‘Let the sergeant go with them.’

  Crossman stepped forward and followed the lieutenant through the doorway. Once outside he divested himself of his Tranter revolver and his hunting knife, the only two weapons on his person. The lieutenant took these quietly, not mentioning that they were not of army issue. He then motioned for his two soldiers to march Crossman away, before turning and confronting Lance-Corporal Wynter.

  ‘You threaten an officer of Her Majesty?’ cried the lieutenant. ‘You realise the punishment for such a crime? Are you all rogues here? What do you say, corporal?’

  Peterson looked about to intervene, but Devlin stepped forward and answered in a placating manner. ‘Begging your pardon, sir, we are certainly not all rogues. We are a special unit of skirmishers, for General Buller, and are often out behind enemy lines. We have to be quick with our hands, if not our wits, sir. Lance-Corporal Wynter here acted out of what you might call instinct, sir. It was not meant. It was a sort of self-protection act, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘If I might have a word, lieutenant,’ Jarrard said, stepping out of the shadows. ‘I am an impartial observer – Rupert Jarrard, of the Banner newspaper, from the United States of America. These men have been under great stress and hardly know the time of day.’

  ‘There are men in the trenches,’ pointed out the lieutenant, ‘who are under similar stress.’

  ‘I venture to suggest they are not the same circumstances. With these men a swiftly-drawn bayonet means the difference between life and death. They live in the pockets of the Russians, lieutenant.’

  The officer stared flinty-eyed at Wynter, who was now trying to look contrite.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ said Wynter, ‘I wasn’t thinkin’ straight. I thought you was the enemy, so to speak.’

  The lieutenant remained for a few moments, his hands locked behind his back, gazing at Peterson, Devlin and Wynter. Finally, he spoke again, ‘I shall overlook this incident, Lance-Corporal. Consider yourself very fortunate. You three soldiers, however, must rejoin your regiment at the front, until you know the fate of your sergeant.’

  The lieutenant then left them.

  Wynter grimaced at the lieutenant’s back, whispering to Devlin, ‘I thought he was the enemy and he bloody well is. I ain’t going to no front. I’m still on the sick list with this here leg. I’m going to the hospital, I am, and they’ll have to drag me out of it with a company of soldiers if they want Wynter back in the trenches.’

  The trio began to gather up their belongings in silence.

  The lieutenant caught up with the two soldiers marching Crossman through the driving rain towards a farmhouse. He took Crossman into the house alone, leaving the two guards outside. There, at a rickety table, sat a major. The field officer looked up as Crossman entered. He looked quizzically at the lieutenant, who must have made some sign or other out of Crossman’s sight. The major’s face assumed a stern expression.

  ‘So you’re the man who murdered Captain Barker?’

  ‘I think you ought to speak with Major Lovelace, sir,’ said Crossman, aware that water was running down his face from his hair as he met the major’s glare. ‘Or failing that, with Brigadier-General Buller.’

  The corpulent major’s red face looked as if it were about to explode.

  ‘Did you, or did you not, kill Captain Charles Barker?’

  Crossman realised he was not going to get anywhere by remaining silent on the issue. If there were to be a court martial, then Lovelace would be called. This major obviously knew quite a bit in any case.

  ‘Myself and another man were defending ourselves against an ambush by Captain Barker. Unfortunately in the exchange of fire Captain Barker was fatally wounded. It was not an unlawful killing, sir, as you will discover when you speak with General Buller.’

  The steam seemed to go out of the field officer now as he turned to the lieutenant.

  ‘He admits it! What is the army coming to, when villains like this can kill a fellow soldier, an officer in his own army, and boldly state it? Young man,’ he turned on Crossman fiercely, like a white-haired father on his son, ‘you will be punished, very severely, for this crime. I intend seeing you hang by the neck until you are dead. Who is your accomplice? Come, give me his rank and name. It will do you no service to keep this man’s identity a secret.’

  ‘Sir,’ said Crossman, with all the patience he could muster, ‘you are not listening to me. Stop for a moment, I beg you, and listen to what I have to say. The death of Captain Barker was sanctioned by a much higher authority than either of us. You will save yourself and your lieutenant here a lot of trouble if you simply go to General Buller and hear what he has to say on the matter.’

  The major blinked rapidly, as if he had just been slapped in the face.

  ‘General Buller? What has he to do with anything?’

  ‘I am not at liberty to say. I cannot tell you the name of the man who was with me and witnessed Captain Barker’s death. I am not permitted to say anything, even in my own defence, beyond giving you the names of Major Lovelace and General Buller. This situation will remain beyond your comprehension, until you speak with one or both of these two officers, sir.’

  The major was not a very bright individual. He was the kind of bumbling old fool who, in his middle-sixties, finds himself in a senior post simply because of the purchase system. He had bought his way through the ranks, had been kept away from any area of the army where his lack of intelligence might do some harm, and was tolerated by his peers because he came from the right sort of family. They knew him, they obliged him, bu
t along with everyone else, they still considered him an old fool.

  A more experienced lieutenant might have intervened before now, but at last the younger officer spoke up.

  ‘Sir, the sergeant seems adamant that we ought to speak with General Buller. Shall I arrange an appointment?’

  White bushy eyebrows rose up a plum-coloured brow.

  ‘Certainly not! You think I want to bother the general with the doings of a sergeant?’

  ‘It is murder, sir,’ protested the lieutenant. ‘It’s not simply a case of petty theft.’

  The major looked sharply at Crossman, while the lieutenant was speaking.

  ‘Where are you from, sergeant? You speak like a man of breeding. Are you one of these clerk fellows who’ve got a bit of education and ape their betters? I know men like you, sir, and I don’t like ’em. If you’re trying to be a gentleman, you’re doing it very badly. Men of breeding don’t join the army as anything but officers.’

  He turned to the lieutenant again.

  ‘And before you go harping at me again, I happen to know,’ said the major with some aplomb, ‘that Brigadier-General Buller and this man Major Lovelock or whatever, whose names this rogue keeps bleating at me, have both gone on an expedition to the north.’

  Crossman was alarmed to hear this. He was in little danger of being hung before these two key witnesses returned, but he did think that the major might do an awful lot of damage to General Buller’s espionage group in the meantime. If this major went to Lord Raglan instead of waiting for Buller to return, the commander-in-chief might begin his own investigations and find that a spy network was operating. Lord Raglan, as everyone knew, detested spying in any form.

  ‘Lieutenant, lock this man up now. I will arrange for his court martial. Keep him under close guard.’

  ‘But sir . . .’

  ‘Lieutenant, I do not want to have to repeat myself. That is an order.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Crossman was led out of the farmhouse in the pouring rain. He was taken by araba to a thick-walled, windowless croft near to the 2nd Division Camp on the Inkerman Heights. Prisoners were held here so that they could be used as labour in digging and sandbagging defences. In the croft were several men who had broken rules, regulations or laws seriously enough to warrant temporary imprisonment. A very damp and miserable Crossman found himself a corner in the stinking room, away from the eyes of the other occupants.