Soldiers in the Mist

by Garry Douglas Kilworth

  They reached a good ambush spot above the road which led to Kerch. There they lay in wait for any movements along the road. Luckily, although there were many troop movements, there were few waggons going into Kerch. Most of the traffic seemed to be going the other way. Crossman was reluctant to go into the town itself. It was one thing to carry out acts of sabotage, but quite another to go in afterwards and see what havoc had been wreaked.

  Eventually, after several days of waiting, Ali was on watch when a string of prisoners was herded along the road.

  ‘They come,’ he told the other two, waking them just after dawn ‘Many prisoners, from the Inkerman fight I think.’

  Crossman and Jarrard went with the Turk to a good vantage point and looked down on the road. There beside it, resting, was the line of British and French prisoners. Guarding them was a single half-company from the Koliwan Regiment. There was a captain in charge, a tall, thin and rather pompous-looking fellow who strutted along the line counting the captives. Alongside him walked two lieutenants: the older one seemed utterly bored and kept yawning ferociously behind the captain’s back; the other lieutenant was very young, not more than eighteen years of age, smooth-faced, immaculately turned out, keen and sharp.

  These three officers would not be the best the Russian Army had to offer, nor would they be men of high breeding. Guarding prisoners of any kind is commonly regarded as rather a lowly occupation, fit only for third-rate officers. That would not make them unwatchful or slack in their duty, for sometimes third-rater men do not know they are the scrapings from the bottom of the barrel. They sometimes believe themselves to be the élite, not yet recognised for being so, but top-notch army material. Occasionally they even convince themselves that the work they are doing is highly important, though clearly the older lieutenant travelled under no such illusions.

  Their troops were the usual pale, round-faced peasants who filled the ranks of the Russian Army by the thousand. These would be men who were too poor to bribe the conscription boards: too poor to be able to avoid service. As Crossman had seen in several battles with these small compact men, there was no lack of bravery amongst them. They were expected to fight and die for an aristocracy which gave them very little in return, yet they did so with honour.

  Crossman spoke with the other two about a plan.

  ‘It’s a day’s march to Kerch, but for fresh well-fed men. These look weary to their bones. Some are obviously coping with wounds. They won’t make it tonight, which means they’ll have to bivouac by the roadside. We’ll strike when they stop again to set up camp.’

  ‘Can you see Lovelace amongst them?’ asked Jarrard, peering down at the men’s faces.

  ‘No, but it would be difficult to recognise anyone from this distance, especially out of that grimy dishevelled group. I have not got a spyglass. I just hope he’s there somewhere.’

  Some time later, the soldiers and prisoners below were on the march again. Crossman, Ali and Jarrard followed, keeping out of sight in the ridges. It would not matter a great deal if they were seen, since there was nothing about them to distinguish them from Tartars. Indeed, they travelled through cherry and apple orchards, and across vineyards, without being challenged by the local people, who simply stared a little.

  Around four in the afternoon, three-quarters of the way to Kerch, the prisoners were halted. They fell on to the grass at the roadside: an exhausted, dispirited crocodile of men.

  Crossman judged there to be about fifty of them. It was not going to be easy, to go down there and look for a single major. He remembered his orders. He was to free Lovelace, but to ignore the pleas of the other captives. How difficult that was going to be when he made himself known to them and their hopes rose.

  Darkness fell. Crossman and the other two descended from the ridge, down on to the road behind the troops. There he posted Jarrard and Ali in some rocks, one either side of the highway, to cover any rapid retreat he might have to make. He left all the horses with them, travelling the rest of the way on foot. It was not difficult to find his way to his goal: the Russian infantry had lit fires on which to cook.

  The last three hundred yards Crossman travelled on his belly, until he was about twenty yards from the outermost sentry. Here he stopped and waited. Eventually, the camp settled down into sleep, leaving only the sentries awake. There were ten of them posted around the camp. Crossman took up a position between two of them and, when the watchfires were low enough, he slithered through the long grass into the camp. The sentries were not much interested in what went on outside the group. They were there to see that none got out, rather than guard against anyone getting in.

  He found the line of prisoners and worked his way along until he came to a group of officers. He slid up to the head of one of them, a colonel, and woke him with difficulty, for the man must have been very tired. He lay beside the officer as if he were asleep and one of them. The colonel stared into his eyes, looking very puzzled.

  ‘Don’t move or make any loud noises, sir. My name is Sergeant Crossman, from the Connaught Rangers,’ he murmured. ‘I am not one of the prisoners. I have crept into the camp to speak with you.’

  Hope sprang to the colonel immediately. He looked suddenly eager. Crossman winced inside.

  ‘I have not come to effect a wholesale rescue, sir. I’m seeking a Major Lovelace. Do you know if he is here?’

  The colonel hissed. ‘What do you mean? Why are you interested in just one man?’

  ‘I can’t save you all,’ admitted Crossman. ‘Major Lovelace is important to the high command. He has certain information they require.’

  ‘And we’re expendable?’

  The colonel’s voice was full of bitter disappointment.

  ‘I could sugar it for you if I wished, colonel, but that is basically the argument. To set you all free I would have needed a company, and you can’t hide a hundred redcoats in these hills for very long. We would never have reached you. Major Lovelace is on special duties. It is imperative I find him.’

  ‘Your major is not with us. I have acquainted myself with all the officers here and most of the men. There was someone they took aside before the journey began . . .’ The colonel described a man he had seen being roughly dragged from the group: a man not in regular uniform. ‘. . . he looked more like a Turk to me, though he spoke perfect English. I heard him arguing with the Russian officers. Would that have been him?’

  ‘That was he,’ whispered Crossman. ‘You have described Major Lovelace. Do you know where they took him?’

  ‘I heard the man himself shout something about not wanting to go to Mackenzies Farm.’

  ‘Yes, yes, he was letting you know where they were taking him. Thank you, colonel. I’m sorry I can’t do any more for you. I must leave now.’

  ‘Can’t you give us a small chance of success?’ pleaded the colonel. ‘These men will run like the wind once they are rested. Can’t you at least create a diversion to occupy the Russians, while we make a quick run for it? Some of us have sneaked through the guards before during the night hours, but of course only one or two at a time, and the Russians have the numbers to hunt us. We are counted every four hours on the dot and they know immediately if anyone has gone missing.’

  ‘I’m surprised you are not in manacles and chains.’

  ‘All spare iron is going to make ammunition for the guns around Sebastopol. In other words, they can’t afford to waste potential grapeshot on a bunch of motley captives.’ The colonel’s face hardened. ‘Those who have attempted to escape have all been shot dead. They don’t bother with bringing you back in. They hunt you down like an animal and shoot on sight. The penalty for attempted escape is harsh.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘However, if we break as a much larger group, some of us will surely manage to outwit our pursuers, especially if they are spread that much more thinly. The captain who is in charge of the Russians is not a very bright individual. A mass breakout would have him panicking, thus creating a better chance for the
men on the run. What say you, sergeant? Will you at least give us the fire power to put a bit of distance between us and our captors?’

  Crossman sighed heavily. ‘I am under direct orders not to.’

  ‘I see,’ replied the tight-lipped man lying beside him. ‘Then of course you must obey your superiors.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I understand you, sergeant, even if I do not understand the situation. I can see in your eyes you would like to help us, but cannot.’

  Crossman bit his lip and made a quick decision. It might result in him being flogged, but he could not leave this colonel and his men without doing something.

  ‘Colonel, I am going to disobey orders. It is not long until midnight. I have two good men with me. We will fire down on the Russians at precisely twelve o’clock. You must pass the word amongst your men to be ready to make the break at that time. Run north, for a tree-covered ridge, where we will be hidden amongst the rocks. We will cover your escape as best we can for the first few minutes, then you are on your own.’

  The colonel’s eyes lit up. ‘Bless you, sergeant. You sound like a gentleman, by your voice. You are really a sergeant in the Rangers?’

  ‘Any of my Rangers would have done the same, whether gentleman or no,’ replied Crossman. ‘It is not breeding which brings forth this decision on my part, but simply a feeling of comradeship with my fellow British soldiers. You realise some may die in the attempt? You will have to take responsibility for any deaths, sir, for I shall not.’

  ‘None will take part who do not wish to undergo the risk, I assure you, sergeant. They will be given the choice.’

  ‘Very well. Good luck, sir. Hopefully I shall see you in the British lines within a few days.’

  ‘Ask for Colonel Davenport – I shall be there – or dead.’

  With that, Crossman made his way out of the camp, much the same way as he got in, using the tunnel he had created in the long tall grass. At one point he had the feeling he was being followed and looked back to see a figure in his wake. Someone had not wished to wait for the main break, but had decided to leave the camp on his own. This made Crossman angry, for by jumping his signal the soldier was endangering him, and his whole mission to find Major Lovelace.

  34

  Once he was far enough away from the Russian guards and hidden amongst rocks, Crossman turned angrily on the man who was following him.

  ‘You are jeopardising the safety of your comrades,’ snapped Crossman in undertones. ‘Who the hell are you?’

  ‘Don’t you recognise me, sergeant?’

  The man rose from his belly and stood facing Crossman.

  ‘Private Johnson? You?’

  The big man grinned. ‘Yes, sergeant. I got took in the battle by some Russe spuds. There was five of ’em. I laid out three with me fists, but the others clonked me on the head with their rifle butts.’ His face took on a more serious expression. ‘I want to come with you, sergeant.’

  Crossman groaned. ‘Johnson, what happens when they count the men and find you missing?’

  Johnson’s face took on a look of alarm.

  ‘Why, they usually double the guard.’

  ‘And they will also be on the alert. Your colonel and I have arranged a breakout at midnight. If they discover you missing before then, you will destroy any chances your comrades might have of escape. You must go back.’

  ‘But I want to come with you, sergeant.’

  ‘You can’t come with me. We are on horseback and we have a mission.’

  Johnson’s face fell. ‘Ain’t you got no extra horses, sergeant?’

  ‘No. That is, yes, we do have one spare horse, but she is for the man we are seeking. Now, Johnson, I’m ordering you to return to the prisoners. I understand there’ll be a count at ten o’clock. You must be in the line before then.’

  If Johnson refused, Crossman did not know what he was going to do about it. He could hardly manhandle the man down to the prisoners’ line. If Johnson caused any sort of fuss at all, they would be heard by the Russian guards. He could lay Johnson out with a pistol to the head, but that would just leave him with a heavy body at his feet. He waited, apprehensively, for Johnson’s reply.

  ‘I might get shot the second time.’

  ‘You might indeed, but you will be caught and shot anyway, without a horse. Once they do the count and the alarm goes up you will be on the run for your life. Without others to spread the searchers thinly, you will stand no chance whatsoever.’

  ‘An’ you won’t give me a horse?’

  ‘Not a chance, Johnson. General Buller would have me shot if I did. Go back into the line, now.’

  Without another word, Johnson turned and went down on his stomach. The last Crossman knew of him was the waving grasses as the big man crawled back towards the camp. He felt sorry for him, but there was no other path to take.

  At midnight Crossman, Ali and Jarrard were posted on the edge of a copse about two hundred yards from the line of prisoners. They opened fire all at once – Jarrard blazing away with his Navy Colt, Ali using a Ferguson breech-loader he had stolen, and Crossman with his Tranter. The Russian guards, not knowing where the firing was coming from at first, began to shoot back randomly into the night. There were shouts of alarm and the three Russian officers began to scream out orders.

  At that moment, while there was still confusion amongst the Russians who had been sleeping, the prisoners rose up en masse and ran into the guards, knocking them down and wresting their weapons from them. The Russian captain began firing into the prisoners as they spread into the night. A single shot from Ali’s Ferguson laid the captain low. He did not rise again. Those prisoners with firelocks fired once back into the flustered Russian soldiers, then flung their muskets away. Having no ammunition, the firelock was merely an encumbrance.

  Crossman, Ali and Jarrard continued to keep the soldiers pinned down, until one of the officers thought to douse the fires. Once the camp was in complete darkness there was little point in the trio remaining. They ran back fifty yards, mounted their horses, and scrambled down the slopes to a spot further along the road. It was too dangerous to canter over the countryside at night, but they could trot along a white ribbon of a road just visible in the starlight.

  Having put some distance between themselves and the Koliwan soldiers, the three slept away the rest of the night until dawn. Then they were back in the saddle again and riding west. It made sense to return to Balaclava and change the horses. It took two days to reach the British lines. By the time they got back the horses were blown.

  Once there, Crossman left word with Jock McIntyre of the 93rd, who guarded the pass to Balaclava, that a batch of British prisoners had escaped their captors and would hopefully be coming back, probably in small groups. Jock promised the picquets of the Sutherland Highlanders would be on the watch for them and would assist them.

  Crossman did not report to anyone. There was little point and time was growing short. They picked up fresh horses and took Peterson and Wynter with them. The five of them set out for Mackenzies Farm on the morning of the 13th of November. If Crossman returned without Major Lovelace this time, he would be arrested, for the period allotted to him by General Buller would have exhausted itself.

  When they finally arrived in the hills above the farm they found a cave to stable the horses. Then they went to the edge of the escarpment, the spot from which Crossman had seen Dalton-James approaching the farm two weeks previously. There they looked down on the house and the outbuildings. They saw that it was guarded by a whole company of infantry. It was not possible at that distance to tell what regiment, even with the spyglass Crossman had now thought to bring with him. There was also a squadron of Hussars camped around a windmill nearby.

  There were picquets posted out beyond the farm, but there seemed to be a concentration of sentries around one particular outbuilding, a barn of sorts, from which they saw one or two high-ranking officers emerge and go back to the house later in the day.


  ‘I’ll wager he’s in there,’ said Crossman. ‘I’ll go down this evening, after dark, and try to reach him. Ali will accompany me. Peterson and Wynter, you have your Miniés and will be best posted here. Rupert, you will come with us as far as the first line of picquets. You may have to assist us to escape. Now everyone get some rest.’

  ‘What happens if you don’t come back, sergeant?’ asked Wynter, rubbing his leg, which had again festered. ‘What do we do then?’

  ‘You make your way back to the British lines.’

  ‘Without you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  When darkness fell, Crossman, Ali and Jarrard went down to the plain below. They left Jarrard on the perimeter. Crossman and Ali crept through a vineyard, shielded by the vines, using their long lanes as cover. However, when they reached the end of the lanes they found they were still fifty yards short of their destination. There were far too many sentries around the barn to attempt a quick dash into the shadows at the back of the building.

  Crossman left Ali in the vineyard and snaked his way to a water trough close to the barn.

  He crouched there behind the trough in frustration, wondering if he would get a chance to proceed later on. But at that point a soldier came out of the barn with a dozen hurricane lamps, hanging them on hooks around the farm area. Crossman rolled under the trough, lying full length beneath it. The man with the lamps passed within two feet of him. Clearly the Russians were taking no chances. It was as if they expected someone to try to spring an escape.

  For two hours Crossman waited. From time to time moans of agony came from within the barn. Once, there was a terrible scream, which chilled Crossman’s blood. Clearly someone was being subjected to great pain behind those wooden walls.

  Then the sergeant had a stroke of luck. The barn door opened and four guards came out with a hobbled prisoner shuffling along in the middle of them. The captive was wearing Turkish pantaloons and a white shirt which had been torn open to reveal his chest. He had been beaten and abused: there was blood on the shirt, his hair was dishevelled, and he limped along as if he were in pain. His head hung low and his shoulders drooped from a bent back. In the light of the lamps Crossman could see purple bruises on his skin. His nose was a bloody, squashed mess in the middle of his face.