‘I can see that, sir,’ replied the major, patiently, ‘but this man has murdered one of our own brother officers. He must be found and brought to book. I cannot possibly do it alone, don’t you know? He could be anywhere. There’s every possibility that he might strike again and murder another officer, and then we would be partly to blame.’
‘There are officers dying out there in their tens,’ came the reply. ‘I’m sure this killer of yours is not going to wait around a battlefield in the hope that one or two officers might leave it alive, so that he may do his dirty work on them. Major, please, get out of my way. The outcome of the war is in jeopardy – and you are worried about a single missing prisoner? We might all be marching to Moscow in chains this evening. Out of my way, sir. You should be in Bedlam!’
With this sharply spoken speech Codrington rode off into the thick of the battle, leaving the major fuming.
‘I have my work to do,’ muttered Paynte, ‘just as generals have theirs.’
He looked about him as if seeking someone to arrest in place of his missing prisoner. In doing so he spied the Duke of Cambridge, seemingly remonstrating with the colonels of two French battalions. The blue uniforms of the French looked rather strange and out of place in British lines. The Duke was of course an aristocrat like himself, and would not approve of rank and file murderers of officers. Major Paynte thought he might enlist the Duke’s help in obtaining men for a search.
‘Sir,’ he began, ‘I do beg your pardon, but . . .’
Cambridge, relatively young for a divisional commander, silenced him with a wave of his hand.
‘Do you speak French, major?’ asked Cambridge. ‘I do, but these fellows insist on not understanding what I say to them. Perhaps it’s something to do with my accent? Would you try to explain to them that we have a gap in the line I can’t fill with my Guards, even using men of General Cathcart’s 4th Division. We need them to stop the Russians breaking through. Tell these officers that if the Russians do get through, their own forces will be in danger of attack from the rear.’
‘I – I – I’m sorry, sir.’
The major’s French had never been good. He found languages difficult. He could get by in German, but though he had lived in Paris for three years as a student, he could not communicate in the French language with any success. Cambridge glared at him as if he were a pile of dung in the middle of a parade ground.
Paynte slunk away, before the Duke could request another duty of him which he was unable to perform.
At that moment it occurred to him that he had wandered near to an artillery position and that round shot was raining down all around him. Major Paynte was not a coward – so he told himself – but he always maintained that it was not worth getting killed for nothing. To die of stupidity was a crime in his eyes. It would be really stupid, he told himself, to be blown or blasted to bits near a piece of ordnance, when he had nothing whatsoever to do with the operation of that particular battery.
With this in mind he rode away from the whistling and fizzing of shells, towards Balaclava. All the while his eyes were keenly searching the faces of the men marching up to the front, seeking his lost prisoner. His temper was now such that when he found this Sergeant Crossman, he was likely to shoot him dead himself, without waiting for a trial and firing squad to do the work. An escaped prisoner was after all fair game. If such villains did not want to be shot, they should not escape in the first place.
Not long after these thoughts passed through his mind, and all the time putting the din of cannonade behind him, Major Paynte saw the wife of a quartermaster riding by. It was Mrs Durham, a delightful lady, who enjoyed the breath of battle as much as any man might. Paynte was gratified when Mrs Durham waved to him. He rode over to where she had halted her horse. There he saluted her, smartly.
‘G’day to you, ma’am.’
‘Why, Major Paynte, what are you doing riding away from the battle area? I myself am just on my way to see what is happening to our boys. Do they need any medical assistance, do you know? What are our casualties thus far?’
Major Paynte felt that his courage was being impugned here and he was called upon to defend himself.
‘Ma’am, I am about very important business. You know I am responsible to Lord Raglan himself for all miscreants in the Army of the East. It is my job to see that none escape and all are brought to trial. I’m afraid some have done just that, under the guidance of one particular rogue, and I must find them.’
‘Oh, very important business, major. You have just come from the front?’
‘I was under fire not five minutes ago. Even such a place as the battlefield is not out of my limits when searching for my charges. I am not particular when it comes to my duty and will brave what I must.’
Mrs Durham’s mouth twitched at the corners.
‘I am sure you are courage itself, Major Paynte. Tell me, how does it go with our fine fellows? Are they showing the Russians their mettle? It sounds very exciting. I have been hearing the clash and clatter of war since dawn.’
Major Paynte felt that here he could regain some of the status he had lost over the few minutes previously. He was informed, he told her, well informed, that the Guards had made some magnificent bayonet charges, the 2nd Division were holding the Heights despite great numbers of the enemy, and other regiments and companies were doing their duty to stem the assault by Prince Menshikoffs troops.
‘Unfortunately, our men are short of ammunition,’ said the major. ‘There is not enough at the front and little can be transported to them. Shortage of pack animals I understand, though we are making do and mending.’
Lavinia Durham frowned on hearing this statement.
‘There is never enough of anything on this particular expedition,’ she said. ‘Not enough clothes to keep the men warm, not enough accommodation, not enough bandages, or candles, or blankets. We did not have enough pack animals on arrival in the Crimea because there were not enough ships to transport them from Varna . . .’
Major Paynte knew that Mrs Durham was recalling that the ships were so crammed with men, standing nose to nose with no place to lie down, that the pack animals and many horses had to be left behind at Varna in Bulgaria. Four thousand pack animals and horses had been left to starve to death after the fleet had sailed. It had grieved many in the Army of the East, but not the least Mrs Durham, who loved horses to distraction.
‘True, true, I know not where the fault lies.’
Ambulances had been left behind too, and waggons which might have been pulled by men, if not by animals.
‘I’m sure the fault lies somewhere, major, but it would be unwise of a man of your rank to state its source.’
‘It is true the word of a major carries little weight on a campaign where generals are common currency.’
‘Weights,’ murmured Mrs Durham, with a glazed look in her eye. ‘There’s another thing they were short of at Varna.’
Again, the major knew that this was a delicate area with Mrs Durham. He was not doing very well at all in his choice of subjects. He knew she was now recalling the fact that the ground had been so hard they could not bury the victims of the dysentery, cholera and heat exhaustion which had carried off many soldiers. Instead, they had weighted the feet of the corpses and thrown them into the sea.
Only there had not been enough weights to sink the bodies, so that when they became decomposed and filled with foul gas, they floated to the top and bobbed head-and-shoulders above the surface of Varna harbour, staring at the activities of the living. Hundreds of ghastly faces, floating about the ships, watching their live comrades board the vessels to sail to the Crimea. It had been a gruesome business.
‘Well, ma’am, I must be about my duty,’ said the major. ‘I have to catch this rogue Crossman, wherever he might be.’
Mrs Durham’s head came up sharply. ‘Crossman?’
‘An unmitigated scoundrel, Mrs Durham. A sergeant in the Connaught Rangers, that Irish regiment which produces rogue
s by the dozen. You would be well advised to keep a wary eye about you this morning, for the fellow is on the loose.’
‘What’s he supposed to have done?’ asked Mrs Durham, tight-mouthed.
Alas for Major Paynte, he took the narrow lips to mean that Mrs Durham disapproved of such villains so much she had difficulty in controlling her emotions.
‘Why, the fellow is very dangerous – a murderer. He killed a commissioned officer, out in the hills somewhere. He’ll hang before too long, or my name is not Paynte.’
‘Nonsense,’ hissed the lady before him, her expression one of fury. ‘What utter nonsense. Who told you this drivel?’
‘What?’ exclaimed the major, reining back his mount from this volcanic outburst. ‘What is nonsense?’
‘That Sergeant Crossman could murder someone, especially an officer in his own army. I know the man personally, major. He is a gentleman from a fine family . . .’
‘Or so he pretends to be.’
‘He is, major, believe me. I know the family. We are all very well acquainted, I can assure you.’
Major Paynte did not want to go into the business of discussing what a gentleman was doing in the ranks. Instead he looked upon Mrs Durham in great misery. It seemed that everything he said to this lady put him in a bad light. He so wanted to appear in a good one.
‘I am simply doing my duty, ma’am. The evidence is all against this Sergeant Crossman.’
‘Then I suggest you look at the evidence more closely, major, for I am certain he is innocent of any such crime as murder. Sergeant Crossman is not a common criminal. He is a man of honour.’
With that, Mrs Durham spurred her horse forward, riding towards the front.
‘Damn me,’ murmured the major, wiping his brow with a kerchief. ‘Damn me.’
27
During the time that Major Paynte was frantically riding around the countryside, trying to drum up support for his search for prisoners, Crossman managed to deliver his message to General Pennefather. Thereafter he was free to join the battle where he wished. He and Johnson were on the ridge when they saw the only British regiment not wearing grey greatcoats preparing to move against the Russian Selenghinsk regiment.
The 4th Division’s 68th Durham Light Infantry were in their red coatees, a splash of colour amongst the dull grey masses on both sides. Crossman raced to join this line, but was waved away by an officer of the 46th South Devon, who saw that he was a Ranger.
‘Go and find your own regiment, sergeant,’ said the officer, imperiously. ‘This is not your line.’
‘Sir, there are loose soldiers everywhere, joining with regiments not their own.’
But the 4th Division had just come up to the front line and did not know of the morning’s history. This particular officer was fanatically patriotic about the 46th and insisted on its purity. He wanted no outsiders sharing the glory with his men, who were, of course, the best in the army. To his chagrin, however, some 20th East Devon had joined the line while his attention had been on Crossman. There those Devon men stayed and went on down into the battle.
Ahead of Crossman, the Guards were still engaged with the Okhotsk, but they certainly would not approve of an outsider coming into their ranks. At that moment an officer of the Grenadiers leapt over the sandbags, calling for men to follow him in a charge. Several Guardsmen heeded his call and joined the officer, who was almost immediately swamped by Russians. The officer fired his pistol into the face of a Russian soldier, but was in danger of being bayoneted from behind, when a Grenadier private killed the attacker before the officer could be stabbed.
A terrible mêlée then ensued, with several Guardsmen bayoneting enemy soldiers and being bayoneted by others in turn. Fists and boots were flying, as well as blades and bullets. It was a scrap the like of which Crossman had not seen before, and miraculously, several bearskins came out from within this struggling mass alive. There were wounds among them, where bayonets had penetrated their greatcoats, but generally they seemed grimly satisfied with their efforts.
Coming from the Guards’ left, a company of the 95th now charged in support of the Guards, even when one of their officers called them back, they continued to lay into the enemy.
Crossman’s attention then went back to the 68th and 46th, and he saw that they had progressed to the right of the Guards and were pursuing a running enemy through the bush. The problem with this was that their line was breaking up badly. This put the two regiments in grave danger. Crossman would not have apologised for the fact that he was relieved he was not with them. He saw remnants of them down in the valley beyond, where they were hard-pressed from all sides, their advantage gone.
Wynter, still lying with the 88th, firing out towards Shell Hill, heard a regimental cheer to his right. He turned to see the 63rd West Suffolk and a Scottish regiment, the 21st Fusiliers, hurling themselves into the fray. Then he saw a sight which caused him to say to a corporal. ‘Well, look who’s here – the frogs have arrived at last!’
The corporal looked to his left just as the shrill high notes of French bugles rent the air with the tune Père Casquette. The blue-coated 6ième de Ligne and the 7ième Léger, led by General Bourbaki, descended on the Russians. The French did not like to go into battle unless supported by artillery. These men were young and inexperienced, and though British and French officers had cajoled and threatened them, they had not marched forward until a French general had arrived to lead them. But now here they were, with all their colour and verve, to the relief of those beleaguered British soldiers still out in the field.
All except xenophobes like Lance-Corporal Wynter of course.
‘What did they have to come and spoil everythin’ for?’ growled the Essex farm labourer. ‘We was doin’ all right without them here.’
‘They must have been asked for by Lord Raglan,’ replied the corporal in defence of the French. ‘Otherwise they wouldn’t be here.’
‘That’s no bloody recommendation,’ answered the impudent Wynter, ‘seeing as how his lordship hasn’t done much which gets my vote of confidence in this war.’
He watched in distaste as the French charged the Okhotsk’s right flank, driving them forward with bayonet and ball, herding the Russians back down into St Clements Ravine like panicking cattle. With sourness in his heart, Wynter continued to pick off Russians, only huddling down when artillery opened up on his particular position, convinced the enemy gunners were out to get him and him alone. Wynter’s war was a very personal affair, between him and those out to destroy him, and his every successful shot at them gave him great satisfaction.
Immediately to Wynter’s right there were others who had done nothing to earn his distaste, but got it anyway. The Rifles in their dark green were sweeping forwards, driving into the Russian Iakoutsk regiment, which now retreated towards Quarry Ravine. Some of the 88th were asking their officers to lead them in a charge, but Wynter was glad to see this did not reach fruition. He felt the Rangers had done their bit earlier, when they had been out there with uselessly wet rifles and very little ammunition, almost without support
Down at the barrier, the 30th had repulsed the Borodino regiment, only to have before them now four battalions of the Iakoutsk. The 30th were so depleted by their efforts they had to fall back, firing, to safer ground.
Then up over Fore Ridge to plug a gap in the line came the left wing of the 20th, accompanied by the 57th. The 4th Division carried no Miniés, but were still armed with the Brown Bess muskets. These had neither the range nor penetration of the new rifles. Thus regiments like the 20th and 57th were having to fight on Russian terms, but without the backing of Russian numbers. They did it with such fierce pride and determination, underlined with the strange and bloodcurdling ‘Minden yell’, a battle cry which issued from the throats of the 20th, they sent the Russians back down the ravine in retreat.
All over the battlefield now the British regiments appeared to be in tatters. The Russian Army paused in its deliberations. Though the cost of t
he last assault had been over a thousand soldiers, there were still sixteen battalions which were untouched and waiting to be thrust into the battle. Over ten thousand men of General Dannenberg’s original attacking force still remained. General Gorchakoff had not yet attacked the French in earnest and had twenty-two thousand men ready for the purpose.
On the crest, facing General Dannenberg, were around three thousand scattered allied troops. They were utterly battle-weary, desperately hungry and thirsty, and had very little ammunition in their pouches. It would take a miracle for them to hold out against such odds.
Added to this, the Russians also had over two hundred guns, half of them on Shell Hill, much larger and certainly more numerous than the guns which faced them from the British side. General Dannenberg sent his columns forward again, this time confident of smashing through the British at Home Ridge.
‘Here they come again,’ croaked Johnson, his throat sore with gunsmoke. ‘Come on, sergeant.’
Crossman and Johnson joined with remnants of other regiments to hold the host of Russians back. Crossman’s shoulder ached with the recoil of the hot Minié. Like Johnson, he was parched and hungry, his eyes were smarting, and his head was spinning with the noise of cannons and howitzers. Shells were bursting, round shot was falling, all seemed confusion and chaos. Yet, strangely, the situation was quite clear to him. There seemed nothing to stop the Russians overrunning the British and turning the flank of the French.
A soldier near to Crossman suddenly darted forward, into a more dangerous area of fire, and began rifling through the belt pouches of a dead comrade. There were ‘travelling gentlemen’ watching this battle – men who had come out from Britain to see the war – and they might be forgiven for thinking the dead were being robbed. But this soldier was merely out of ammunition, and was replenishing his own pouch with the contents of his comrade’s.
No officer had ordered him to do this – privates, corporals and sergeants were using their own initiative to rearm themselves – and initiative was something army discipline had not instilled in its men. In fact it spent its time trying to knock it out of them and turn them into controlled automatons. Fighting soldiers were like identical small pins in a machine called a battalion: they were supposed to act together in a highly disciplined, regimented fashion. And then only according to definite orders. Individual resourcefulness and initiative was discouraged, disapproved of, even punished.
Soldiers in the Mist Page 21
