by V. A. Stuart
Not that Lord Lucan had much to recommend him … again if gossip were true. He, too, had purchased his promotion and there had been frequent criticism of the manner in which he had commanded the British cavalry Division which, to say the least of it, had done very little up till now to distinguish itself. Lucan had earned himself the derisive nickname of “Lord Look-on,” bestowed upon him, it was said, by Captain Edward Nolan of the 15th Hussars, A.D.C. to General Airey and an expert on cavalry tactics, who was his fiercest and most out-spoken critic. Phillip suppressed a sigh and, beside him, Midshipman Daniel said, with youthful scorn, “One cannot imagine ‘The Noble Yachtsman’ risking his life for his men, as Captain Peel did in the battery the other day, can one, sir?”
One could not, Phillip was compelled to concede, but he did not say so. Instead, his conscience pricking him, he suggested to his young companion that, the way now being clear, they might quicken their pace. Daniel obediently kicked his pony into a canter and, when they came in sight of the tents of the 93rd, he prepared to take his leave, thanking Phillip politely for being allowed to accompany him. He said, on parting, “You want to keep your eyes peeled for Russian spies, sir.”
“Spies, Mr Daniel?” Phillip echoed, his tone faintly repressive. “What in the world are you talking about?”
“Oh, I mean it, sir, I assure you. One of the Queen’s mids—Wood, who’s a messmate of mine in the Naval Brigade—spotted a mysterious fellow in the uniform of the French Chasseurs d’Afrique, who seemed to be taking a great deal of interest in Gordon’s Battery a day or so ago. Wood pointed him out to my Chief, Captain Peel, sir, and he sent him to invite the French officer to dine with us. But as soon as Wood approached him, the supposed Frenchman took to his heels and couldn’t be seen for dust!”
“That’s scarcely a valid reason for believing him to be a spy, Mr Daniel.”
“Well, I don’t know, sir.” The boy’s voice was grave. “Young Wood is convinced of it—and he could be right, sir. I’ve heard that there have been some supposed British officers seen prowling about the French positions, who didn’t stay to be questioned either. Anyway, I thought I should warn you because … well, because Kadi-Koi would be a likely place for a spy to visit just now, if the Russians are planning to attack Balaclava, would it not, sir?” He smiled, touched his cap smartly, and made off before Phillip could think of a suitable rejoinder.
Daniel was a bright, intelligent youngster, he thought indulgently, his only fault, perhaps, the fact that he had too vivid an imagination, but his entertaining conversation had been the means of enlivening an otherwise long and wearisome ride. Phillip found himself echoing young Daniel’s smile, as he turned his horse’s head in the direction of Kadi-Koi… .
2
The Highlanders’ tents, pitched some distance behind the village, proved to be deserted when Phillip reached them, save for a few women gathered in a small chattering group about their wash-tubs, sleeves rolled up and aprons of coarse sacking girded about their waists. They eyed him incuriously as he approached but broke off their conversation to give him the time of day in response to his greeting. Like most of the womenfolk who had followed their men to war, they were—collectively, at any rate—unprepossessing and notable rather for the toughness of their physique than for their looks, but Phillip found an unexpected pleasure in the soft, lilting sound of their voices.
It was a long time, he reflected, with a twinge of sadness, a very long time since he had last listened to a woman’s voice, speaking his name. And then it had been the voice of Mademoiselle Sophie heard, it had seemed to him, in a dream, when she had bidden him farewell in Odessa, on the eve of her wedding … he reined his horse in, leaning back in the saddle, as the animal picked its way slowly between the tent-ropes. What had Mademoiselle Sophie said to him as he lay in that room in the Governor’s residence, more dead than alive, seeing her face indistinctly through pain-dimmed eyes, as if it were the face of a ghost?
“We shall not meet again, Phillip—we cannot meet again, I … I know my duty.” He felt his whole body tense, as memory stirred and the words came back to him. “You will live, for my sake, Phillip … you must live. To know that you are living some-where in the world will comfort me. I shall think of you and pray for you … for you and your valiant Trojan.” Her voice was quite clear now, sounding above the faint murmur of the other women’s voices, as if she were close beside him. “The heart does not forget,” she had whispered. “However sad it is … may God be with you now and always, my dear English sailor …”
Momentarily, as the unmanly tears pricked at them, Phillip closed his eyes. It was foolish to think of her now, he told himself, ashamed of his weakness. She was no longer Mademoiselle Sophie but the Princess Narishkin, wife of a Russian officer—an enemy officer against whom, if destiny so willed it, he might have to go into battle. Hadn’t Graham told him that Andrei Narishkin had left Odessa for Perekop at the beginning of October, with the Governor, Baron Osten-Sacken, and thirty thousand troops? He was one of Prince Menschikoff’s aides-de-camp and Colonel of a regiment of Chasseurs—a regiment which might, even now, be with those gathering in the Tchernaya Valley—and, although he had been so severely wounded at the Alma, Narishkin might … the bay horse, allowed to wander at will among the tent-ropes, suddenly stumbled.
Phillip was flung forward and as the bay, receiving no assistance from its rider, came down heavily, he found himself precipitated over the animal’s head. Horse and rider rolled over together and, as ill luck would have it, Phillip’s right foot caught in the stirrupiron and, as the horse rolled over on top of him, his injured leg was trapped. The horse was up a moment afterward but the damage was done. White with pain, Phillip lay where he had fallen, clutching at his leg and unable to stifle the agonized cry that was wrung from him.
The Highland women, observing his mishap, abandoned their wash-tubs and clothes-lines and crowded about him, talking in their lilting Gaelic but hesitating, apparently, to touch him. Then a girl emerged from a near-by tent and came to kneel beside him, her fingers, deft and skilled, gently probing.
“I do not think your leg is broken,” she said in English, her voice as lilting as the others but her accent unmistakably educated. “We will carry you into my tent, where I will tend it for you and you may rest for a while.”
Phillip looked up at her, trying vainly to focus his gaze on her face but seeing it as a white blur, whose only distinguishing feature was a pair of smoke-blue eyes, alight with pity and concern as they met his own.
“The … horse?” he managed to ask, from between clenched teeth.
“The horse is all right,” the soft voice assured him. “You are the only one who has been hurt.”
“But it … it’s my Admiral’s horse and I … that is—”
“Do not concern yourself about the animal. We shall take care of it. Now if you’ll lean on me …” The girl’s voice seemed to be coming from a long way away and her face, when Phillip searched for it, receded and was lost to his sight in a swirling mist of pain as two of the women lifted him. He tried to tell them that he had an urgent message for Sir Colin Campbell and, on this account, must continue on his way but seemingly they did not hear or, at all events, did not understand him, since no one responded to his plea. He must have fainted then, he decided, for he had no recollection of being carried into the tent in which—evidently some time later—he found himself. Someone had ripped open his trouser leg and, glancing down, he saw that the cloth was deeply stained with blood.
“This is an old wound,” a strange voice said, still sounding distant. “The fall has opened it, I am fearing. A bad wound it was, by the looks of it, poor young man. But it is clean. Maybe if we …” The voice lapsed into Gaelic, in reply to a question someone else had asked.
“I will attend to it …” Phillip recognized the girl’s voice, a note of authority in it, as if its owner were one who was accustomed to being obeyed. “The surgeons all have their hands full and I am quite capable of
doing what is necessary.”
“Not you, Mistress Catriona … you are not accustomed to such sights and there is bleeding. Leave him to me.”
“Is it not time that I became accustomed to the sight of blood, Morag? Fetch me water and clean cloths, if you please. And there are unguents in my small valise …” Grumbling to herself, the other and—judging by the sound of her voice—older woman departed on this errand and Phillip was again aware of the gentle, probing fingers touching his leg with infinite care. “Lie still please,” the girl bade him. “Your leg isn’t broken, only badly bruised. I shall try not to hurt you but I must stop the bleeding …” There was a pause, pressure was applied and Phillip’s teeth closed over his lower lip in an effort not to cry out, as a fresh wave of pain swept over him. “There … that is all. I am sorry if I hurt you. How did you receive this wound?”
“From a … from a shell-burst.”
Water was brought, his leg cleansed and firmly bandaged, and the pain began gradually to lessen. Phillip was able to sit up, the girl supporting him, and to take a few sips from the cup she held to his lips, which contained some bitter tasting liquid he could not identify. He tried to turn his head away, nauseated, but she was persistent. “Drink it all, if you can,” she pleaded. “It will do you good and help the pain. I am sorry … it isn’t very pleasant, is it? Morag MacCorkill brews it from herbs and it is all we have. But we have found that it is effective.”
Controlling his aversion from the evil-tasting concoction, Phillip managed to finish the draught and murmur his thanks.
“Well done …” His self-appointed nurse set the cup down and he was able to see her then, quite clearly, for the first time. He stared at her in unconcealed astonishment for, despite the fact that she wore the same makeshift sacking apron as the other women, she did not resemble them, any more than her voice or her accent sounded like theirs. She was slender and young—about nineteen or twenty, as nearly as he could judge—and, beneath the apron, the dress she wore was of a good quality woollen material, well, if not fashionably cut. But it was her face which held Phillip’s bewildered gaze … small and lovely, it was so obviously the face of a lady of breeding that there could be no question as to who or what she was and, had there been any doubt, her hands would have dispelled it. They, too, were small and the skin smooth and white—far too smooth and too white to be the hands of a soldier’s woman, roughened and calloused by hard work. Her hair was raven-black, in striking contrast to the blue eyes … Celtic colouring, Phillip reminded himself, and as rare, in its true form, as it was beautiful.
“Who … who are you?” he asked, his bewilderment in his voice. Hearing it and guessing its cause, his rescuer reached for a shawl and hastily draped it about her slim shoulders, concealing her hands and the top of her dress beneath its folds.
“I am … Catriona Lamont,” she answered, after a barely perceptible hesitation, and then, her cheeks flushed, she added, “You will be feeling a mite better now, sir, I don’t doubt?” The “sir” and the clumsy attempt to coarsen her accent did not deceive him but, realizing that he had startled her by his sudden interest, Phillip affected to notice nothing and replied gratefully that he did.
Catriona Lamont rose. “That’s fine”—again the clumsy, unconvincing attempt to disguise her accent—“then I’ll away and leave Mistress MacCorkill to care for you. Her husband, Sergeant MacCorkill, has been sent for and will be here soon. But you’ll rest here for an hour or so, maybe, and when you’re able, the Sergeant will escort you to the naval camp.”
“No … no, I cannot stay here.” Belatedly recalling his mission, Phillip shook his head. “It is kind of you but I must go on. I have my orders, I …” He struggled into a sitting position, moving his leg experimentally, and the tent whirled about him.
“Wait!” In an instant, the girl was on her knees beside him, her hands on his shoulders, once more easing him back on to the rough pallet bed. “You cannot go on as you are. Please, you must rest that leg for a little while longer or it may start to bleed again. Mr … that is, Lieutenant … I don’t know your name, but your orders cannot be so important that you would risk re-opening and perhaps infecting that old wound of yours by being too precipitate in trying to carry them out. You—”
“My name is Hazard, Mistress Lamont,” Phillip put in. “Lieutenant Phillip Hazard of Her Majesty’s ship Agamemnon, serving at present on Admiral Lyons’s staff. I was on my way to Sir Colin Campbell when my horse put me down. I have a message for him from the Admiral which may be of considerable importance and which it is my duty to deliver to him without delay. Thanks to my own stupidity, I have already delayed far too long, so if you would be so kind as to help me …” He made another effort to sit up. “I shall be all right once I am on my feet.”
“Will you, Mr Hazard?” Catriona Lamont gave him the help he had asked for and then sat back on her heels, regarding him anxiously.
“Sergeant MacCorkill would, I am quite certain, gladly deliver your message to Sir Colin if it is urgent. As I told you, he will be here soon—Morag has gone to fetch him. He is in the 93rd and a most reliable man … you can trust him, I assure you.”
“Mine is not a written message,” Phillip explained. “So that I cannot entrust it to anyone else. And it is also possible …” The tent roof steadied and he cautiously got to his feet, this time unaided. “It is also possible that Sir Colin may wish to send me back to the Admiral with his reply, so you see, Miss—that is, Mistress Lamont—I must go myself.”
“I think you are unwise,” the girl told him, with disconcerting frankness. “And I am Miss Lamont, Mr Hazard. I am unmarried.” Apart from this statement, she offered no further information concerning herself but she had now abandoned her attempts to feign an uneducated accent, Phillip noticed, as if sensing that, on this score at least, she had failed to deceive him. Wisely, he refrained from both comment or question and instead repeated his thanks, which she accepted with a shy, charming smile.
“I am only too pleased that I was able to be of assistance to you, Mr Hazard. But, if what I have done is not entirely to be wasted, may I beg that you permit Sergeant MacCorkill to escort you to Sir Colin? And, if a reply has to be sent to your Admiral tonight, let somebody else deliver it … because you are really not fit to ride back to Balaclava again, least of all in darkness.”
“In darkness?” Phillip echoed, in some dismay. “You mean that it is dark already? How long have I been here, then?” He moved unsteadily towards the tent flap and Catriona Lamont, guessing his intention, came quickly to his side.
“Lean on me, until you get your balance,” she invited. “You must have been here for nearly an hour, I should think … you were unconscious for half an hour, anyway. And, as you can see” —she opened the tent flap and pointed, with a small hand—“the sun is setting. It will certainly be dark by the time Sir Colin has prepared an answer for you to take back to your Admiral, Mr Hazard.”
Indeed it would, Phillip thought, his conscience troubled as, with a hand on the girl’s shoulder, he hobbled to the opened tent flap and looked out. Several of the Highlanders’ women-folk were moving about outside the tent and they raised a good natured murmur of pleasure at the sight of him and one—noticing his ripped trouser leg—fetched a needle and thread and, ignoring his embarrassed protests, swiftly stitched it up for him, kneeling at his feet in order to do so. He thanked her, putting out his hand to assist her to rise, but she flashed him an amused smile and scrambled up without taking his proffered hand. Another went to fetch his horse and Phillip hobbled to meet her when Catriona Lamont drew his attention to a red-coated figure approaching them.
“Here is Sergeant MacCorkill at last,” she announced with relief. “Wait, if you please, Mr Hazard … I will tell him what he is to do.”
The Sergeant, a big, broad-shouldered man, drew himself up as the girl went to him, and stood bareheaded, listening respectfully to what she had to say. Then he took the horse’s rein from the woman who was holdin
g it and led the animal over to where Phillip was waiting, saluting him smartly.
“You are wishing to go to Sir Colin, sir?”
“Yes, Sergeant, I am … and as quickly as possible, if you don’t mind. I’ve wasted rather a lot of time already.”
“So they are telling me, sir.” The Sergeant permitted himself a ghost of a smile. “Will I be giving you a leg up, sir?”
“I’ll manage, thank you, Sergeant.” To prove his point, Phillip clambered back into the saddle a trifle awkwardly but unaided. Once there, he looked round for Catriona Lamont, intending to take his leave and to ask if he might call next day to offer his formal thanks, but to his sirprise, she was no longer anywhere to be seen and, when he asked for her, the women shook their heads, eyeing him blankly, as if they did not understand to whom he was referring.
“We should be going, sir,” the Sergeant prompted, “if you are wanting to speak with Sir Colin.” He laid a big hand on the bay’s bridle, his manner still respectful but a mute warning in his eyes which—although mystified and more than a little put out—Phillip decided to heed. He ventured a question, as his guide led him towards the village of Kadi-Koi, but as the women had, Sergeant MacCorkill affected not to understand him and, still puzzled, he did not pursue the enquiry. For reasons of their own, obviously, Catriona Lamont’s presence in the Highlanders’ camp was not a subject to be discussed with a stranger but, Phillip reflected, there would probably be an opportunity during the next few days for him to call on her. And he would take it, if he could… .
The Sergeant, despite his unwillingness to speak of Miss Lamont, was communicative enough where other topics were concerned. The 93rd, he said, had not seen the inside of their tents for the past two nights … whatever Sir George Cathcart might think, Sir Colin Campbell was, it seemed, expecting and prepared for a Russian attack.
