Soldiers in the Mist

by Garry Douglas Kilworth

  Crossman would have given anything to smoke a chibouque full of tobacco, but his long-stemmed pipe was back at his quarters. It would be stupid to go back there, where the police major had no doubt posted a guard.

  In consequence, he spent the whole day after the battle looking for Major Lovelace, and at the same time trying to avoid the police major who was after his blood. At one point he did come across Lavinia Durham, who was riding past. She saw him and a look of relief came over her pretty features.

  ‘Alexander! I am so happy to see you. I thought you might have fallen in the action yesterday.’

  ‘No, as you see, I am very much alive.’

  ‘I’m glad for it, Alexander, but you must be warned! There is this quite horrid major who seems to think you capable of murder. A squat ugly creature with a permanent leering expression. He has been searching for you everywhere and is determined to catch up with you. Please be careful, Alex, for he seems bent on murder himself.’

  Crossman smiled at her earnestness.

  ‘Thank you, Lavinia. Do you know the major’s name?’

  ‘Yes, it is Paynte – Major Paynte – and he is a little fat man with a greasy upper lip.’

  ‘I know what he looks like, I just did not know his name. He threw me in jail two days ago. Well then, have you seen Major Lovelace, my commanding officer? I need to talk to him urgently, before I see this Paynte.’

  Lavinia Durham shook her head, her locks flicking coquettishly.

  ‘No, I have not. There’s another thing. Major Lovelace seems to have disappeared. He was listed amongst the missing after the battle yesterday.’

  Crossman felt a jolt of panic. Lieutenant Dalton-James was dead, Major Lovelace was missing, and General Buller was nowhere to be found. He had run out of people to vouch for his innocence.

  ‘You have gone pale, Alexander. Do you know of something I do not? It is not about poor Major Lovelace. Is he dead?’

  ‘I certainly hope not, Lavinia, or I am a cooked goose. Where are you going to at this moment?’

  ‘I was on my way to assist Mrs Nell Butler, whose husband is in the 95th. She is helping to care for the wounded. Oh, you should see Balaclava Hospital, Alex! It is dreadful. The wounded are overflowing into the yards. Some do not even survive the journey there from the battlefield, over those bumpy hill tracks. The jolting is often enough to kill them.’

  ‘Are they not being put on board hospital ships, bound for Scutari?’

  ‘Yes, and many will die on them, for they are not fit to carry pigs, those ships. And when they get there, I’m told the wards are running with rats and fleas, that there is no change of clothes for any man, and that they sleep on beds of rough sail canvas. Miss Nightingale was due to arrive at Scutari Hospital on the 5th of November, the very day of the battle, and I hope she makes a difference with her presence there.’

  Crossman had been told of the filth and stench of the Scutari wards, where nothing was clean. Where unwashed bandages, still clotted with one man’s blood and pus, were used on another once he died. Where open wounds festered and clumps of maggots bred in them, turning them into deep pits. Where the smell of gangrene was so strong it overpowered even the foul odour of raw sewage which flowed in the halls. Once a man entered Scutari he might as well pray for death to come quickly.

  If this Miss Nightingale – a lyrical name if ever Crossman had heard one – could make a difference, then it had to be for the good. He feared, however, that she would be one of those insipid females of the upper classes who drifted about in silks and satins and could do little but offer a word of solace or two to a dying man. He had seen such women before, whose intentions were good, but whose skills, and stomach, were weak.

  ‘I think you and Mrs Butler – and Mother Seacole – would make better nurses than this Miss Nightingale. You’ve seen the horrible wounds men can incur, Lavinia. I fear Miss Nightingale will be too squeamish for such work.’

  ‘Not from what I’ve heard, Alex. They say she is a no-nonsense lady with firm views on the use of clean bedding and soap. I think she will transform Barrack Hospital Scutari into a proper place for the sick – or die in the attempt.’

  ‘I hope she warrants your faith in her.’

  Just at that moment there was a series of explosions just a few yards away. Some soldiers had stupidly thrown a few Russian muskets on to their bonfire to burn them, and one or two of the weapons must have still been loaded. They had gone off and musket balls were whizzing through the air. Men were running, diving and ducking.

  Lavinia Durham’s horse shied, and Crossman grabbed the bridle to prevent her from falling to the ground. At the same time he saw Brigadier-General Buller riding just a little way off. The general had paused to look at the pyrotechnics. Crossman fought with the horse, trying to bring it under control, while Lavinia Durham strove to stay on its back and calm it with soft words. Just then another voice spoke from behind Crossman.

  ‘Unhand that woman, sergeant, or I shall shoot you dead where you stand!’

  Crossman inclined his head to see Major Paynte astride his own horse. He was levelling a revolver at Crossman’s chest and his finger was tightening on the trigger. If Crossman let go of the horse’s bridle, the beast might bolt. He kept his hand firmly on the leather and told Major Paynte to go to the devil.

  ‘What was that, sir?’ screamed the major.

  ‘I said go to blazes, you old fool. Can’t you see I’m battling with a mad horse here! Get off that mount and come and help me, before the lady is hurt.’

  At that moment Brigadier-General Buller came riding over, accompanied by a colonel. Buller demanded to know what was going on. The major yelled that Crossman was a murderer and that he was using the lady as a shield to prevent arrest.

  Crossman by this time had calmed Mrs Durham’s hunter. There were no more explosions from the nearby fire, and bystanders were now more interested in the drama surrounding the lady on the horse. Was this major her husband, discovering her in the act of an indiscretion with a common soldier? How was it that a general was involved? It was all most intriguing for the troops, and they gathered at a safe distance to watch further events.

  ‘Major, I know this soldier personally,’ said General Buller. ‘It seems to me that he was assisting a lady in distress, rather than using her as a shield. We’re gathering an audience here. Both of you come to my quarters and we’ll investigate this thing further. Put up the pistol, major, there is no necessity for a weapon . . .’

  ‘Sir,’ interrupted Paynte, ‘this man has escaped from custody once – I do not intend to let it happen again.’

  ‘PUT UP THE PISTOL!’ roared the colonel at Buller’s side. ‘Are you deaf, major, or simply foolish?’

  Paynte winced and holstered his weapon.

  Crossman took his leave of Mrs Durham and accompanied the officers on foot. Once they were in Buller’s room in an old farmhouse, Paynte went into a torrent of accusations. Buller held up his hand for silence, but it was only the warning gleam in the colonel’s eye which stopped the flood pouring from the major’s mouth.

  ‘Major Paynte,’ said the general patiently, pacing the floor with his hands linked behind his back, ‘I said I knew the sergeant personally, and I meant it. He is one of my most valued men . . .’

  ‘Moreover,’ added the colonel, ‘I witnessed this man fighting yesterday at the Barrier. He was with Captain Haines and was one of Captain Astley’s party who took Shell Hill. The sergeant fought like a tiger, as did most of those men, I recall. If you have something against him, major, you had better be in a position to substantiate it with firm evidence.’

  Major Paynte nodded enthusiastically. ‘Yes, yes. I have proof he murdered a British officer. An eyewitness.’

  ‘What do you say to this, sergeant?’ asked General Buller. ‘Do you have a story?’

  ‘Sir, it might be better that you listen to me in private, for the matter is very involved.’

  Crossman said this slowly and carefully, so that
General Buller would know it was spy business. Buller’s expression showed that he understood. However, he waved down the inferred objection to airing it publicly.

  ‘I do not think secrecy will serve us here, sergeant. The colonel will need to be better informed and the major cannot be silenced it seems. Go on, tell your story.’

  ‘The officer I killed . . .’

  ‘He admits it!’ exclaimed a round-eyed Major Paynte. ‘The fellow has the audacity . . .’

  ‘Do be quiet, major,’ said the colonel, ‘or you really will have to leave the room.’

  ‘The officer I killed,’ repeated Crossman, ‘was a Captain Charles Barker. He was at the time trying to murder myself and Lieutenant Dalton-James of the 2nd Battalion Rifle Brigade. Charles Barker was a traitor. I had been ordered by my superior officer to shoot Captain Barker on sight, but the captain saw us first and opened fire. Lieutenant Dalton-James and I managed to kill this Barker before he killed us.’

  ‘Where did this take place?’ asked Buller.

  ‘Out in the hills, east of Mackenzies Farm.’

  ‘So, let me get this straight. Major Lovelace ordered you to kill this Captain Charles Barker . . .’

  ‘It’s a little more complicated than that, sir, but you have the core of the matter.’

  ‘Dalton-James and yourself carried out the act, then reported a successful fox hunt to Major Lovelace.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Major Lovelace said he would deal with the body. I considered the whole matter behind me at that point. However, it appears the drama was witnessed by a goat boy, and this is where Major Paynte comes in. He knows where to find the boy. I am telling you all this, sir, in the sure knowledge that you already know the details.’

  Crossman’s heart was picking up pace here, for the brigadier-general was listening to him with an intent expression on his face. It was as if the general were hearing the story for the first time.

  ‘I’m afraid you’re wrong there, sergeant. I know nothing of the matter. If Major Lovelace had discovered a traitor, he did not tell me, probably in order to protect me and my position. Unfortunately Major Lovelace is missing. He was last seen leading some of General Cathcart’s men into the gullies to the east of the sandbag battery, during the battle yesterday. You know the general was killed in the fighting? Many soldiers were lost with him, the 4th being out on a limb, swamped as they were by Russian troops.

  ‘You may or may not be aware that Lieutenant Dalton-James was also killed in the fighting yesterday . . .’

  Major Paynte could not help but intervene with, ‘Which is why he is using a dead man’s name.’

  General Buller ignored the interruption.

  ‘We are therefore left with no one to substantiate your claim that this was a direct order, sergeant. You took up special duties reluctantly, I seem to remember, when you were taken from your company by Major Lovelace, then a captain. He formed your little group from misfits. Since then you seem to have performed well, and certainly Major Lovelace thinks a great deal of your skills as a spy and saboteur. However, this will not satisfy any court martial of your innocence in the charge brought by Major Paynte here. We must therefore find Major Lovelace.’

  Crossman felt as if he were being betrayed by the general.

  ‘What if the major is himself dead?’

  ‘Then I cannot help you. You were warned that this kind of thing might happen.’

  It was true that Lovelace had often stressed the point that they – and Lovelace had included himself in this – were working outside the knowledge of Lord Raglan. It followed from this that they were working beyond the rules and regulations of the army. Their group was in fact illegal. Lovelace had said that Buller could not always protect them. Crossman needed Lovelace here to take responsibility for the killing of Captain Barker. Without Lovelace, Crossman could be hung for murder.

  ‘What do you suggest, sir?’ he asked General Buller, calmly. ‘How shall I defend myself?’

  Here the colonel, whose name Crossman did not know, came in with a suggestion.

  ‘General Buller, I know nothing of these affairs as you are aware, but it is obvious from this conversation that such dealings go on under your guidance. We do not know yet if Major Lovelace is alive or dead. No body has yet been found, though there are many still littering the battleground. Might I suggest that the sergeant takes a party to look for the body. If it is not found, then the sergeant will know he has a new duty, to find Major Lovelace, wherever he might be?’

  Major Paynte said, ‘I cannot agree to that!’

  ‘You, sir,’ said General Buller, fiercely rounding on the corpulent major, ‘will kindly keep your mouth closed. You have brought something down on our heads which endangers even my position in the army. If you interfere in these matters further, before I give you the word, then you will suffer for it.’

  The major blinked rapidly and took a step back.

  ‘I think,’ continued Buller in a calmer tone, ‘that Colonel Albright has the answer. You will find Major Lovelace, alive or dead, and bring him back. This is your next fox hunt, sergeant, and your own life depends on the outcome.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘In the meantime, Major Paynte will not interfere in your business. I don’t know where he thinks you can go to escape military law here, except to the other side. The major is not however aware that there is a price on your head. There are several Russian officers who would sell their grandmothers to slavery if it meant they could have you in their clutches. There are Cossack regiments who would eat their own grandmothers if they could have you for just one hour.

  ‘You have ten days to find Major Lovelace. Good luck. I hope for all our sakes you are successful.’

  The colonel nodded. ‘I watched you fight, sergeant. You are a good man, I am sure. I wish you luck.’

  Crossman left the room, closely followed by Major Paynte, who hissed in his ear as they parted, ‘I don’t believe any of this fairy tale. I’ll see you dangling from the end of a rope, sergeant, you mark my words. I’ll watch the crows picking at your liver and obtain great satisfaction from the sight.’

  ‘Major, you may be right. I may not find Major Lovelace and you will have your satisfaction. You will have the laugh on me then. But, major, it will do you no good whatsoever, for you will still be a squat ugly little toad in the eyes of women like Mrs Durham, and nothing I can think of will ever change that.’

  He left the major seething impotently, purple in the face with anger, knowing he had made an enemy for life.

  32

  Crossman’s first job was to find his Bashi-Bazouk, Ali, who knew the Heights well. With some questioning, he managed to locate him amongst his Turkish irregulars. Ali was with a female companion, a busty women Crossman had met before. Like Ali himself she was round and overripe, went everywhere bare-breasted, and she smelled strongly of goats.

  She smiled at Crossman with brown teeth when she saw him, and pointed to where Ali was sitting enjoying a pipe. He smiled back at this stocky Tartar woman with her embroidered goat skin coat and long thick hair. She was a strong, handsome female and Ali was very proud of her.

  ‘Ali, I need your help,’ said Crossman, squatting beside the Turk. ‘We have to find Major Lovelace.’

  ‘Major Lovelace go missing?’

  ‘Yes, he hasn’t been seen since the battle started, yesterday.’

  Ali nodded. ‘We take the men?’

  ‘Peterson and Wynter are exhausted. They fought well in the battle. You would have been pleased with them. Devlin was killed.’

  ‘That’s bad,’ said the rotund but hard-muscled Bashi-Bazouk, as he offered Crossman some tobacco. ‘He was good man.’

  Crossman said no more. He took the tobacco, then realised he had not got his chibouque to put it in. Ali, seeing this, yelled for a pipe from one of his Turkish friends. A black stubby clay pipe was produced from the folds of a deep pocket.

  It was much like the clay pipes used by British soldiers. The British infantr
y had even had them in their mouths, puffing away, as they battled the Russians the day before. This particular pipe was well used and the stem rattled with tobacco juice when Crossman blew down it. He could not afford to be fastidious however, and was soon smoking some of the harshest tobacco he had ever tasted. It made his head spin.

  Ali found a sheepskin coat which smelled even more strongly than his mistress, and gave it to Crossman, who put it on. Once wearing the coat, Crossman could have been a Tartar, with his black beard and unkempt hair. No trace of his uniform could be seen, since he was wearing Russian boots and his Oxford trousers were covered with a pair of blue pantaloons. He had not bathed for three days and was probably as high as his coat.

  ‘Dalton-James is dead too,’ explained Crossman, as the pair walked away from the Turkish camp. ‘I hope to God Lovelace is not, or I’m going to hang for murder. You remember the British officer I was sent to kill? They do not believe he was a traitor. They think I shot him for other reasons.’

  ‘I not let you hang,’ Ali said, very soberly. ‘I take you into the hills before they hang you. You hide there and then I take you back to Turkey by land. No man can hang my friends. They will not follow. They will lose themselves in these hills.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart, Ali, but I’d rather prove my innocence.’

  ‘Of course. We try to do this. But if we fail, then you still will not hang. I tell you this to keep you from a worry of the rope. They not hang you. They never hang you.’

  There was some comfort in the Turk’s words. Ali was very sure of himself. Crossman had no doubt Ali would help him escape if it came to the worst.

  On the way to the Inkerman Heights they met Rupert Jarrard. He waved them down.

  ‘Where are you two off to in such an almighty hurry? On another fox hunt?’