On His Majesty's Service mh-11

by Allan Mallinson

  Hervey inclined his head to signal that they themselves should withdraw.

  Fairbrother nodded thankfully.

  They scrambled back down the hill, scarcely believing the Vizier’s camp could be so careless of intruders. But then, why should there have been cause to think otherwise? What trespassers could there be here in the wooded fore-hills of the Balkan, the distant rampart of Constantinople?

  At the bottom they froze. Before them were Turks, looking over the horses.

  How many?

  Hervey could see three. He looked at Fairbrother, and mouthed silently, ‘Attack?’

  What was the alternative? Fairbrother nodded.

  Hervey motioned to him to cross the stream and cover him from a flank while he crossed closer to the horses. That way they might confuse the Turks and make them think they were more. It ought to be done with the sword – they didn’t need the Vizier’s camp alerting, even while it was being struck – but would they oblige?

  No time to waste. Hervey drew his sabre silently, took a pistol from his belt (Fairbrother held one in each hand) and began edging along the bank while his friend slipped into the stream, the sudden surge of birdsong welcome ally.

  There were three Turks, and a fourth holding their horses fifty yards downstream. Would he take off at the sound of a fight and alert the camp?

  Three Turks. He would have surprise for an instant, but three of them … It was risking too much, was it not? Pistols and be done with it. He had his Deringer too …

  The Turks were now laughing. No time to find out why – attack now! But which of them first – middle, risking both flanks, or left, leaving two together? Take the most brutish-looking – middle.

  Three plashy strides, up onto the bank and into them.

  They turn as one, but too late.

  ‘Give point’ to the chest.

  The middle man falls.

  ‘Cut five’ to the left.

  The Turk screams, his face slashed through.

  The third slices with his scimitar.

  Hervey guards, but no time to lock his arm. His sabre breaks.

  The Turk, off-balance, cuts upwards, late.

  Hervey swings his left arm round, fires.

  Nothing.

  Fairbrother’s pistol goes off like a cannon.

  The Turk falls as his scimitar touches Hervey’s tunic.

  A momentary glance of gratitude, and Fairbrother’s relief in return.

  But the fourth Turk is already astride and away.

  They tighten girths, spring to the saddle and ride for Yeni Bazar scarcely drawing bit.

  XV

  AN OFFICER’S WORD

  Later

  General Diebitsch had not returned from Madara when they reached Yeni Bazar. Hervey related what had happened to the chief of staff.

  General Toll listened without a word, and then turned to one of the interpreters. ‘Bir schei yok?’

  ‘“It was as it was”,’ came the reply, in Russian.

  ‘Es war wie es war,’ repeated the general helpfully.

  Hervey was disappointed – and puzzled. ‘It seemed more portentous. I can’t think what it meant. Except that the Vizier may have doubted what the horseman said, and he in turn insisted it was so – that the Turks could make no impression on the walls, perhaps?’

  ‘Well, there’s no profit in speculating, Colonel. You are sure it was the Vizier, and that he broke camp?’

  ‘No, General, I can’t be certain it was the Vizier, only that it was a man of highest rank. But he broke camp – no doubt of it – and he was in angry spirits.’

  Toll – Karl Wilhelm von Toll – had been a colonel on Kutusov’s staff at Borodino when Hervey was but a cornet. As the character of the Baltic Germans tended, he was not to be hastened to any decision. He thought for what seemed an age, and then nodded determinedly. ‘Very well, it will be dark in three hours; I shall give the order to be ready to move by stand-to-arms. By then we ought to have heard from the Cossacks, and Roth. You saw nothing at all of him?’

  ‘Not a sign. There again, we followed a path in the forest for a good deal of the way.’

  But it was the news he needed to hear, that the Vizier was making his move back to Shumla. Now they could bring him to a battle of manoeuvre. Toll looked grateful at last. ‘Very well. And thank you, Colonel Hervey. You may indeed have gained us time.’

  Hervey gathered up his leather and took his leave.

  He made straight for his quarters where he found Fairbrother studying a map, and Johnson making a stew of bacon and lentils.

  Johnson greeted him cheerily. He put the makeshift lid on the camp kettle and wiped his hands on his overalls. ‘There’s some coffee in that degsy, sir,’ he said, nodding to the stove.

  ‘Thank you, yes. It was rank stuff they had at the headquarters.’

  Johnson poured the thick black brew into a china cup.

  ‘Cap’n Fairbrother says tha were in a bit of a tamash, sir.’

  Hervey nodded. It amused him sometimes to contemplate confounding the code-breaker’s art by combining Johnson’s enunciation and his Hindoostani and rendering it into Greek script. ‘We lived to tell the tale, as you see. Is Mr Agar returned?’

  ‘’E’s just off-saddling now, sir.’

  ‘My damned sabre broke. And my pistol misfired.’

  Johnson looked anxious suddenly.

  ‘I carried that sabre all the time we were in India.’

  ‘I’m sure I can find thee another, sir. Them Cossacks ’re very obliging.’

  Hervey had his Mameluke still, but he’d never thought to use it. It was lighter than the service sabre, and the curve was shallower, so it handled differently. It was a thing of court dress, no more. ‘I’d be very obliged if they were obliging. By all means see if they’ll spare me one. Thank you.’ He sipped his coffee. It was very bitter. He screwed up his face. ‘Have we sugar, or honey?’

  ‘I’ll ask t’Cossacks for some an’ all.’

  Hervey smiled; Johnson’s simple cheer could be restorative. It was quite like old times. ‘Where is Mr Agar?’

  As if answering the summons, Agar came. He looked decidedly happy.

  Hervey nodded in acknowledgement of the salute. ‘A report, if you please, Agar.’

  ‘Well, sir, I believe I may say with certainty that the carvings are not of Thracian antiquity. The—’

  ‘Mr Agar, in the circumstances – our being on active operations in the proximity of an enemy – I consider the military details to have priority over the antiquarian, absorbing though the latter doubtless are.’

  Agar looked rather abashed. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I … That is,’ (he braced himself) ‘we saw no sign of Turk activity on the way to or returning from Madara – only, about a league east of that place, a good number of bodies, Turk, on which a pack of wild dogs was scavenging. We dispersed these, but I fear that they will return. At Madara, General Pahlen has erected gabions and mounted several guns to command the principal road, which is wide enough to admit the passing of waggons side by side, and has dug many rifle pits. There is very little opportunity to outflank the position, and not in any strength, save debouching either north or south of the entire ridge, a considerable diversion which would in turn expose a flank to the general’s cavalry and, in the north, too, to troops in Yeni Bazar.’

  ‘Thank you. Admirably clear. Quite exemplary. And the carving?’

  Agar’s expression turned to delight. ‘Ah, it is most intriguingly done, though much of what must once have been carving in high relief is eroded. It is nearer to Kaspichan than Madara in point of fact, some hundred feet above the level of the river, which is also called Madara, in a vertical cliff standing about three hundred feet. The horseman, a prince, I would hazard, is thrusting a spear into a lion which is lying at his horse’s feet, and an eagle flies in front and a dog runs after him.’

  ‘Why was it carved?’

  ‘Scenes such as this elsewhere are symbolical of a military triumph.’


  ‘But not Thracian.’

  ‘No, I am sure not.’

  Hervey listened, almost spellbound, as Agar then expounded at length on the crucial dissimilarities with extant Thracian symbols, and on how the inscriptions, though indecipherable, indicated a much later date, perhaps even medieval. What good fortune was his: Fairbrother, Agar, Johnson – such capable and diverting company. It fell to few men, he supposed, to know three fellows of such infinite jest and excellent fancy.

  But time was pressing and he adjourned the discourse.

  Corporal Acton now appeared, his jaw set.

  ‘Sir, may I speak, sir, please?’ he asked, holding the salute.

  ‘By all means, Corporal Acton. Stand easy.’

  Acton cleared his throat. ‘Confidentially, sir.’

  Fairbrother rose to leave.

  Hervey stayed him. ‘I will come outside.’

  Acton took a step back, turned about smartly and marched a dozen paces, until they were out of earshot.

  ‘What is the trouble, Corporal Acton?’

  ‘Sir, you was in a scrape with Turks, and your sabre broke and pistol misfired.’

  ‘It was nothing. Captain Fairbrother put a ball in the man before I knew it.’

  ‘That’s not the point sir, with respect. It’s my job to put balls in Turks. What would’ve ’appened ’ad the captain’s pistol misfired too?’

  Hervey frowned. It seemed futile, pedantic even, to point out that it was the business of none of them to put balls in Turks. ‘Captain Fairbrother is an officer of too great experience to …’ As he said the words he realized the retort they invited. ‘What I mean is that it would be highly improbable that my and Captain Fairbrother’s pistols would both misfire.’

  ‘Sir, with respect again, Captain Fairbrother isn’t regiment – more’s the pity, if I may say so – and I am your coverman.’

  ‘With respect’ was not a locution to be ignored. Acton was right. ‘Very well, I concede the matter entirely,’ said Hervey, with a sigh.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Your attachment to duty is most commendable.’

  Acton smiled, just a shade wryly (the Sixth took its duty seriously, but not piously). ‘Thing is, sir, my promotion would be all behind me if I was to go back to ’Ounslow deficient a colonel.’

  An hour later General Diebitsch returned, and soon after, gallopers from Pravadi. Hervey made at once for the headquarters. An aide-de-camp told him the news: the siege had been lifted at three o’clock, and the Vizier’s army was in retreat. Hervey was gratified to hear the confirmation of his own assessment.

  But by which route would the Turks march? Whatever the answer, there was scarce a moon to speak of, and so it could not be at speed if they marched through the night. ‘Forbear waste of time’ had been Cromwell’s maxim, and Hervey had always found it apt; but in this instance, time was on Diebitsch’s side. It would be no waste of it to rest his army here at Yeni Bazar and then move at first light when the Vizier’s intentions were clearer.

  He slipped into the general’s office as the intentions were being discussed, but he could only stand uncomprehending. At length the confab ceased and Diebitsch appeared to issue a series of orders. Toll added words of his own and then the assembly broke up, with staff officers striding out purposefully.

  Seeing Hervey, Diebitsch beckoned him. ‘Your ride proved opportune.’

  ‘It did, General. May I ask what are your orders?’

  ‘You may. The army is ready to move as we speak, which is in no small part thanks to your address. Roth has had trouble extricating himself, getting his guns and waggons down the hillsides, and will not join before morning, so we shall sleep here and march in the morning to intercept the Vizier – as soon as I know by which route he comes. Or, of course, in the event he reveals himself this night, we shall march at once.’

  Hervey felt keenly the satisfaction of one whose address had bought advantage, which was ever the wish of the cavalryman. ‘Then I will take your leave, General.’

  Diebitsch took off his sword belt and sat on the edge of the desk. ‘One more thing, Colonel Hervey. You saw something of the country; which route would you choose?’

  ‘As a Turk, General?’

  ‘As you will.’

  Hervey had, in fact, seen only something of the northern route, and a very little of the middle, but he knew the Cossacks had ranged throughout of late and reported that the roads on the southern route through the numerous tributary valleys of the Kamtchik were so bad that it would be nigh impossible to take artillery that way. The northern route might oblige the Vizier to battle in the open – close to Yeni Bazar – with Roth’s corps, for he must assume Roth was withdrawing by this route (once he had discovered the ruse of the campfires and that Roth was withdrawing). The northern route – faster because of the open country – might well represent the best option, however, for to take the centre route would be to traverse country not greatly more favourable than that to the south, and with the risk of both his flanks being assailed.

  ‘I suppose he must soon learn of our presence here, and of General Pahlen at Madara?’

  ‘Yes, though perhaps not as quickly as he would need to. Roth’s corps will act as a screen of sorts. But the Vizier will certainly have word of Pahlen – though, we hope, thinking them but a part of Roth’s old force before Shumla. But Pahlen has learned of reinforcements at Shumla: five thousand Arnauts have lately come in. So it may be that the Vizier believes the Arnauts will clear his line of withdrawal.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Hervey. ‘That would indeed favour him towards the middle course. But for myself I would still regard the northern route as the most expedient. I should rather battle with an enemy in the open, especially having raw troops, as the Vizier’s are, than have trees to cower behind. But I would hazard that the man I saw today will take the middle route.’

  Diebitsch nodded. ‘I cannot of course hazard all, Colonel Hervey, which is why I am determined to wait on the dawn reports.’

  ‘Indeed, General.’

  ‘But one way or another we shall bring Reschid Pasha to battle tomorrow or the next day. He shall not enter Shumla.’

  Hervey believed him.

  As he was leaving, an aide-de-camp called him to General Toll’s office. The chief of staff was dictating instructions for the order of march. He broke off and asked the officers to leave them for the moment.

  When the door had closed, his expression turned to something approaching a smile. He had, indeed, a naturally benign face – large eyes, red cheeks – but the reverses of the previous season had weighed with him, whereas with Diebitsch they were but stimulant. ‘Colonel, I don’t believe I expressed adequately my esteem earlier. The army will be in immeasurably better condition tomorrow for your intelligence of the Vizier. It will stand down this evening in all respects ready to move. The general-in-chief knows this, too.’

  Hervey bowed. ‘No further expressions are required, General, though I am honoured to receive them.’

  Toll continued to study him, without a word but with approval, until at length he was ready to speak his mind. ‘Colonel, I am aware of the offer which the general-in-chief has made to you, for an active command and the prospect of a senior post. I hope you will consider very carefully the offer. It is the duty of generals-in-chief to bring on new blood, and in the service of the Tsar there are many who were not born to it. I myself was not born to it, nor indeed the general-in-chief, as you know. New blood, Colonel – not excess of it, but enough to refresh that which is shed for one reason or another.’

  ‘I could not but consider such an offer very carefully, General, I assure you.’

  Toll nodded very deliberately. ‘I myself hope to have time to plant cabbages on my little estate on the Dvina.’

  An hour before dawn they were up, shaved, and breakfasting, lit by a ‘windfall’ of candles, as Johnson put it, and watered from the copper boiler in the rear of the building, whose removal and onward portage he was i
n the course of planning. The otherwise unappealing black bread made very passable toast on the charcoal stove, with olive oil from the Cossacks in the same barter as a new sabre, as well as a bag of sugar and a doll in Cossack dress for Georgiana. Another flitch of bacon had ‘been found’ (Johnson was particular in using the passive voice), and, truly remarkably, more eggs, now hard-boiled, as their field rations of the day. So far they had not had to resort to the issue biscuit.

  At stand-to Agar had the dragoons bring the horses to the door.

  ‘I’ll wager the Turks come this way,’ said Fairbrother as they swung into the saddle.

  ‘You’ve changed your opinion?’ replied Hervey, unsure whether in fact Fairbrother had expressed one before.

  ‘I was thinking as I lay last night. The Vizier was an angry general yesterday, and he’s a proud one – he took Messolonghi did he not? – and if he’s been humiliated before Pravadi a second time and learns that an army’s advanced as far as here he may well throw himself in his rage at us. He may be the Sultan’s chief minister, but he’s got Greek blood.’

  Hervey rehearsed again his reasons for believing the Vizier would take the middle route, but an hour later it looked as if Fairbrother would be proved right. Just after the order to stand down, a party of Turk horse appeared at the edge of the forest, on the nearer ridge about a mile distant. Hervey saw them clearly, and so, he observed, did General Diebitsch, sitting in the saddle nearby amid a clump of cherry trees. But no alarm was sounded, the pickets remained out and the battalions went about the routine of breakfast and first parade.

  ‘I think we may conclude that Diebitsch is not a general to be bustled. He means to dictate the terms of this battle. The duke would heartily approve.’

  Fairbrother smiled to himself. He supposed that divining what the duke would do would be the practice of the army for years.

  But half an hour passed, and the Turks made no move. Perhaps they were transfixed by the smoke of the hundreds – thousands – of impromptu fires? It would mask the assembly of a fair-size army. Hervey agreed, yet was still amazed they were not on the move, for Diebitsch had seemed sure the first-light reports would reveal the Vizier’s intentions. But General Roth had not appeared, nor had there been any word – not that he had heard of. There had been distant cannon fire, muffled by the forest, but it was desultory, and there was little to glean from the pattern. He decided he should ride over to the cherry trees and enquire.