Clearly the Cossacks expected him to ride off, for they waited patiently for him to clear their path.
Suddenly, the excitement welled up inside Feltam. He felt his heart drumming in his chest. Here was his chance, by heaven! Here was the action he had craved. Did he dare to attack three Don Cossacks on his own?
By God, yes, he did dare.
Unslinging his lance from his shoulder he took up the charging stance. He drew out his percussion pistol and held it and the reins awkwardly in his left hand. Then he made a ‘Tra-la-tra-la’ sound, copying the trumpeter’s call for the charge, and spurred his mount forwards with his blood racing in his veins and his lips numb with fright.
Seeing him coming, they prepared themselves. The civilian calmly lifted a carbine to his shoulder, but before he could fire it Feltam shot him in the face with his pistol, then let the weapon fall to the floor. It was a lucky hit, for Feltam had too much motion to aim properly, but it unsettled the Cossacks to see their guide fall backwards from his saddle and down into the dust beside his fearful horse’s hooves.
‘Death or glory!’ cried Feltam, his lance point aimed at the first Cossack’s chest. ‘Here’s the 17th!’
The point of the lance skidded off the chest of the Cossack, who was turned partly sideways, and entered the hollow of the man’s shoulder. It struck bone and broke off, leaving the point buried in the rider. At the same time, one of the remaining two Cossacks drove his lance into Feltam’s thigh, close to the groin, and pain shot through the soldier, making him shudder.
The Cossack withdrew the lance, however, satisfied with seeing blood, and whirled around for a second try. The third Cossack could not get into the fray, Feltam already having a Cossack on either side of him. The lancer drew his sword at the same time as the wounded Cossack. Their blades met with a clash, the Cossack’s sabre sliding down in a sparking movement to clang against the three-bar hilt of Feltam’s sword.
Feltam performed a deft under-movement he had practised many times, dropping the slightly curved blade under the Cossack’s sabre, and then thrusting upwards at the man’s throat. This caused the Cossack to lean back, avoiding the thrust. Feltam then brought his sword up and then down on the side of the Cossack’s head, splitting the skull. The man slid to the ground, his brains spilling on the dark earth.
The second Cossack was coming in again with his lance. Feltam hacked at the pole, chopping it in two, but the broken end still caught him in the chest, knocking him sideways in his saddle. He whirled round, slicing the air with his sword, catching the rump of the Cossack’s mount. The horse gave a scream of pain and went charging off into the darkness, the Cossack sawing at its mouth with the bit.
One Cossack remained, just a few yards away. Even in the poor light of the moon Feltam could see he was just a boy, not more than sixteen or seventeen years of age. His eyes were full of terror and his hands shook.
Feltam howled at the boy, his face twisted into a terrible, savage mask.
‘Arrggghhh! Come on, you! I’ll spill your guts for you, you godless bastard. Come on, come on!’
It was enough for the young man, to be faced with such a roaring, evil presence in the near-darkness. Supernatural fears clouded his brain, to overwhelm his courage. He turned his charger and went after the man on the wounded horse, quickly disappearing in the dusk.
Relieved that he was not going to have to fight further, Feltam cheered. ‘Horray! Horray!’ he yelled hoarsely. ‘The 17th have charged, and won the day.’ He was almost feverish with excitement, not even feeling the wound near his groin, the warm blood soaking his grey overalls. A moment later a shot whizzed by his ear. Feltam looked up, alarmed, and saw a silhouette further up the hill.
The Cossack boy had returned and fired his carbine, hoping for a miracle such as the one Feltam had managed earlier, with his shot at the civilian.
It was not to be and the Russian finally vanished from sight again, this time for good.
Feltam rode back to his camp in a rather more sober mood than he had experienced at the end of the fight, prior to the bullet passing near to his head. He reported his action to his lieutenant, who sent some men out after the bodies. Congratulations came from all sides and other privates, NCOs and even the officers looked at him with some envy in their eyes. Roughrider Eggerton was brimming with pride for his cousin.
Feltam felt taller but solemn in his victory, as if having done this great thing, he was now an older and wiser man. He wished he could go back to those 88th lads at Kadikoi and tell them of his feat for his regiment’s sake, but not for his own. Now that he had done it, he did not feel the need to boast.
When his wound was finally looked at, it was found to be a deep gash, but nothing that would not heal on its own. Some padding and skilful bandaging and Feltam would be ready for duty within a few days. This he felt was another stroke of fortune, or perhaps God’s will, for he would be fit for any future action with the lancers. He hoped there would be such action sometime, though just at this very moment his taste for war had been sated.
13
Wynter was almost impossible to live with now that he had returned from the latest fox hunt triumphant. He lorded it over the others in the peloton until they could stand it no longer. Wynter was insufferable with his blustering and swaggering. It was making the others choke on their food and drink. Devlin finally confronted him.
‘Wynter, you’re forgetting your place around here. I’m the full corporal. I’m in charge. I want no more of your boasting and bragging. Enough is enough, man.’
‘You don’t seem to realize who you’re talkin’ to,’ Wynter replied pompously. ‘Me and Ali, why we’re the men for the game. We made a riot all by ourselves and got the job done. Major Lovelace praised us himself.’
Corporal Devlin pushed a fist under Wynter’s nose.
‘If you don’t close that trap of yours, I’m going to take you outside and give you the larruping of your life.’
Now Corporal Devlin was not a particularly big man, although he was bigger than either Peterson or Clancy. Wynter looked at Devlin through narrowed eyes, weighing him up and obviously coming to the conclusion that he could take this Irishman any time he liked.
‘Now,’ said Wynter, taking off his coatee.
Devlin did likewise, while Peterson hovered round them saying, ‘You’ll get us all into trouble if you start fighting. Let’s try to settle this some other way.’
‘Eh?’ said Clancy.
The two men in question both looked at Peterson in surprise.
Devlin said, ‘What other way is there?’
Peterson looked around the three male faces and realized her views and ideas were those of a woman. Negotiation first and last. Only fishwives with the brains of a dead cod would go out in the street and use physical violence against one another to prove their point. Fishwives and men. Confrontation between men always ended in the same way: battling it out with their fists.
She could not explain to these two blockheads that once it was all over and one of them lay broken-nosed and bloody-mouthed in the dust, with the other swaying over him, just as damaged, that things would still be the same. Nothing will have been proved, except that one man could hit harder than the other, which might have been demonstrated that much easier by punching hessian sacks full of sand. However, she knew she was treading on dangerous ground, so she turned away.
‘No other way,’ she mumbled. ‘You go ahead and knock each other’s head off.’
Both men nodded. This was the right answer so far as they were concerned and they went outside.
Wynter threw the first punch, while Devlin was still trying to find suitable ground. He hit the corporal a clout on the side of the head and sent him reeling. Once Devlin had shaken his head however, and had set his feet firmly on the earth Wynter suddenly found himself getting the hiding of his life. Bold, solid punches came from the Irishman, whose fists seemed to Wynter to be made of hardwood. Wynter kept getting the odd one through the Irishman’s
guard, but for every strike he achieved he got three in return.
Finally, his arms aching and his face and chest numb from blows, Wynter keeled over and lay on his back.
‘’Nough, Corporal,’ he wheezed. ‘I’m done.’
Clancy slapped Devlin on the shoulders. ‘By gosh, you’re some fist-fighter, man. Could you teach me? Could you show me how to fight like that?’
Thereafter Wynter did not mention his great feats of prowess. He might have done, and fought Devlin again, and perhaps won the second time, but there seemed to be some sort of unspoken law that if you lost that one fight it meant you followed the expectations of the winner. Devlin had demanded nothing from the outcome of the fight. Wynter had promised nothing. Yet it was as if a contract had been drawn up and signed between the two and Wynter was adhering to all the clauses.
Shortly after this fight had taken place, Lieutenant Dalton-James, resplendent in his rifle green, came to see Sergeant Crossman on his sickbed. The lieutenant castigated the men for the sloppy way they were keeping their quarters and told them they were lucky to have a roof over their heads.
‘There are other men still out in the open,’ he said. ‘You should be thankful enough for this warm, comfortable billet to keep it in good army order. I expect it to be cleaned up when I come down from seeing Sergeant Crossman.’
‘Set to, set to,’ said Corporal Devlin, looking at Peterson. ‘You heard what the lieutenant said.’
‘Why me?’ cried Peterson.
‘Because you’re good at these things,’ Wynter mumbled through a thick split lip. ‘Look how well you keep your own part of the billet.’
It was true she was the tidiest in the room.
‘And you should do the same,’ she cried at the other lance corporal.
Dalton-James studied this exchange with disgust.
‘Just get it done,’ he ordered, ‘all of you. Wynter, Devlin, why are your faces in that state? Have you been visiting the Scottish canteen?’
Peterson was all attention at this question.
‘No, sir,’ mumbled Devlin. ‘We had a little boxing match – to keep us fit, you understand.’
Dalton-James nodded slowly, guessing exactly what had gone on. To Peterson’s horror the lieutenant did not seem to disapprove altogether. His next statement filled her with a new disgust for officers, who she thought would be superior in intellect to the boneheaded soldiers with whom she had to live.
‘Well, next time keep to body blows. I hate to see soldiers walking around with faces like jam scones. Keep the punches low – not too low – and wear your man down.’
‘Yes, sir,’ they chorused, grinning.
Dalton-James, having delivered his homily, went up the stairs to see Crossman. In the far distance, the guns were booming, as they had been since the first day of the bombardment of Sebastopol. The barrage was following its usual pattern: during the day the guns blared at each other and Sebastopol’s defences crumbled, then at night they were restored, ready for the onslaught on the next day. It was like the eternal spinning of the planets.
On reaching the room above, the lieutenant was surprised to see a lady in attendance. But when he glanced at Crossman, lying on a straw mattress, he forgot the female immediately. It was the first time Dalton-James had come to the sergeant since Crossman had returned from Sebastopol, and though he knew Crossman was unwell, he had not expected to see him laid so low.
The sergeant looked thin and wasted. His face was hollow and gaunt, and was a frightening grey colour. He was lying on his stomach, his bare back exposed, showing horrible festering wounds. Despite his detestation for the sergeant, Dalton-James was quite shocked by the man’s condition and felt sorry for him.
‘You don’t look too well, Sergeant,’ he said, using the usual army understatement. ‘But I see you’re in good hands.’ He nodded towards Mrs Durham. There were not many junior officers who did not know Mrs Durham, at least by sight, and Dalton-James put himself among her particular admirers. ‘Good day to you, ma’am. I hope you are well. I see you are performing one of your typically unselfish acts of kindness. The army thanks you.’
‘The army can do as it pleases, Lieutenant. I am here because my good friend Sergeant Crossman is unwell. I have come to care for him, not because I am unselfish or kind, but because his recovery is important to me.’
Dalton-James raised his eyebrows and was a little disconcerted by this speech and the tone in which it was delivered.
‘I – er – I’m sorry I did not gauge the situation accurately enough. Do forgive me. Sergeant Crossman has at one time been a friend of your family?’
‘Was, is, and will always be, Lieutenant. A friend of my family and once, years ago, a very good friend to me.’
There was no mistaking the underlying meaning of that statement. Crossman had at one time, undoubtedly before he joined the army, offered for her hand. Or at least, had been expected to. Yes, that was it. Crossman had given her cause to think he would come up to the mark, but had failed to follow through with his proposal. Perhaps that was why he was in the army, hiding himself under an assumed name in the ranks, to escape the scandal or the wrath of her family?
That meant there must have been a huge rift between them. She had obviously suffered unrequited love from a man who gave every indication of coming up to scratch, but for reasons of his own (which Dalton-James had no doubt were selfish) had not.
Yet she still wished to care for him? Dalton-James knew many women who would have gladly placed a knife between the shoulder blades of such men. Yet here she was, still good friends with a blackguard who, even if promises had been made, was now unable to make those promises good. She was indeed a truly noble person, a lady of great quality, a nonpareil.
‘Madam, I have nothing but admiration for you,’ Dalton-James said in a tone which revealed how deeply affected he was by her self-sacrifice and dignity. ‘You shame us all.’
Crossman snorted in disbelief at this remark.
‘And you, sir,’ said the lieutenant, turning on him with a frown, ‘must give me an explanation. I realize you are unwell, but I must have some answers. The breach-loaders were found where you had buried then, but I have to inform you that one of the Ferguson rifles is missing.’
‘One?’ whispered Crossman, hoarsely. ‘Why, anything could have happened to it. We did not count them. We merely took away from the Russian infantry what they had. Perhaps they disposed of one somehow?’
‘Or perhaps they kept one hidden from you and are now copying the design in St Petersburg?’
Crossman shook his head.
‘We searched them all thoroughly. No Russian soldier carried arms out of that valley. We even took the officer’s pistol. Are – are you sure the count is accurate?’
‘Sergeant Crossman, I am able to do simple arithmetic,’ said the lieutenant, pompously.
‘I’m sure you are, sir – but were the figures you received in the first place accurate? Some informer must have given us the information. Was his information totally correct?’
Dalton-James had not thought of this. He took it that when he had been told fifty rifles by his superiors, it was fifty, and not forty-nine. This was something he would have to mull over before taking any further action. He prepared to leave, glancing towards the Madonna at her embroidery, who seemed to him to be forever in a state of grace.
‘Ma’am? I take my leave.’
‘As you wish, Lieutenant. My compliments to the colonel of your regiment, who is a personal friend of my father.’
‘Indeed, ma’am. I shall convey them with all speed.’ He paused, then turned again to stare down at Crossman. ‘Oh, by the way, Sergeant, I see no reason for your men to lounge away their lives here waiting for you to recover. I intend to contact Lieutenant Parker of the Connaught Rangers and have him return them to their normal duties until you are well.’
‘Sir?’
‘Have you any objection to that? They seem to be doing little except playing at cards a
nd having fist fights among themselves. Worthy enough occupations for a soldier who needs respite from the activity of war, but for idle men these are pastimes which encourage indolence.’
Crossman could think of nothing to say, except the fact that his men would be mightily unhappy at the thought of digging trenches. Still, if they were doing nothing but gambling and fighting, they would be better off in the trenches. He nodded his head, briefly, and then lay it down to sleep.
14
Since it was going all day and every day the distant booming of the guns became, like surf falling on a tropical shore is to islanders, a sound which was no longer consciously regarded by the residents of Kadikoi village. The war had settled into stalemate. Men were dying on either side, violently and of the ever-present diseases, but with no gain to anyone except heaven and hell. The wounded were put on the death ships which carried them across the Black Sea to Scutari Barracks Hospital, many of them arriving as corpses.
The surgeons were kept busy, cutting off limbs and pronouncing soldiers dead. They were sad men, some still sensitive, but most having lost their empathy in the constant flow of blood and gore.
Purveyors were busy protecting their precious mounds of stores from the avaricious troops. The more goods and equipment a purveyor held, the greater his power. Without them he was nothing and so he clung on to them as long as possible.
Generals made plans and discarded them. Colonels worried over their regiments, captains over their companies. Private soldiers and NCOs in the line regiments were either bored or terrified, depending on their current circumstances. The cavalry in their dashing uniforms, astride their dashing chargers, were busy patrolling the countryside, desperate for a chance to clash swords with the enemy. Engineers – sappers and miners – were busy digging holes and filling them in again.
Crossman lay idle.
He was at last able to sit up in bed, though still very weak. There was an animal quietly gnawing at him from within and he fought against its demands to be fed. To divert himself he picked up his chibouque, filled it, lit it with a lucifer, and then much to the annoyance of Mrs Durham, began to smoke it.
The Valley of Death Page 15
