by V. A. Stuart
“It seems highly probable, General Scarlett,” Sir Colin agreed dryly. “Unless we are attacked in the meanwhile, that is to say. In which case, I may be otherwise engaged.” But he echoed the Heavy Brigade commander’s smile and took cordial leave of him, before leading his small party off. Alex Sheridan rode at his side for a time, replying to Sir Colin’s questions and then, when the A.D.C. finally dropped back, Lawrence Shadwell introduced him to Phillip.
“A sailor on horseback is becoming quite a common sight these days, Mr Hazard,” the Indian cavalryman observed. “And, from all accounts, your bluejackets fight as well on land as they do at sea. I have the most stirring recollections of a party from the Britannia, under the command of Lieutenant Glyn and the young Prince Leningen, who made a very opportune appearance in two small gunboats on the Danube, just at the moment when were endeavouring to persuade a Turkish force to cross over from Rustchuk and drive the Russians from Guirgevo. Had it not been for their arrival, complete with sappers and bridge-building equipment, our attack would have failed. As it was …” He smiled reminiscently, “the Turks won a resounding victory and I have entertained the greatest respect and admiration for the Royal Navy ever since. This was enhanced by what I witnessed of the Fleet’s valiant engagement with the sea forts a week ago. Tell me, Mr Hazard, were you by any chance in that engagement or have you been ashore with the Naval Brigade all the time?”
Phillip shook his head. “No … I was in the attack on the forts, Captain Sheridan.” In response to the other’s urging, he described it briefly, “Now I am getting my first taste of soldiering and so far”—the confession was rueful—“I haven’t acquitted myself very well, I fear. My horse and I parted company yesterday and, as a result I am lame … though he, thank heaven, since he is the property of my Admiral and only on loan to me, does not appear to have suffered any ill effects.” He glanced admiringly at his companion’s superb grey Arab. “That is a very fine animal of yours, if I may say so.”
“Shahraz comes from Omar Pasha’s own stable,” his owner said, leaning forward in his saddle to caress the grey’s proudly arched neck. “He has carried me nobly since I landed in Bulgaria over five months ago. Quite a number of officers in my old regiment have tried to purchase him from me but now I would not part with him for a king’s ransom, for I feel about him as I imagine you sailors feel about your ships. Shahraz represents one of the perquisites—I might almost say one of the few compensations—for being in the Turkish service, Mr Hazard.”
“Does that require compensation, then?” Phillip asked curiously and was puzzled by the look of pain he glimpsed in Alex Sheridan’s eyes. But it swiftly vanished and the A.D.C. answered quietly, “Yes, it does, I’m afraid, when one’s own countrymen are engaged in a war. There is a … barrier, I suppose you might call it although, in fairness, the barrier, is caused rather by the fact that I hold a commission in the East India Company’s Army than because I happen temporarily to be serving with the Turks. We are all made very much aware of its existence, from General Cannon downwards. But—again in fairness, Mr Hazard—it stems only from a certain section of the British Army. There is no barrier where officers of the caliber of Sir Colin Campbell are concerned, of course … and I have not noticed anything of the kind where the Navy are concerned.”
“I’m glad of that, Captain Sheridan,” Phillip said, with sincerity, once more reminded of his conversation the previous afternoon with Midshipman Daniels and their meeting with Lord Cardigan. But he did not pursue the subject and Alex Sheridan seemed only too glad to drop it. As they trotted towards the Causeway, he talked of the Turkish troops in general and of those to whom defense of the redoubts had been entrusted in particular.
“Ably led, the Turk is as fine a soldier as any in the world,” Sheridan asserted. “In the Danube campaign he proved himself, time and again, a match for the Russians. The trouble is that, all too often, he is not well led …” He cited examples, to which Phillip listened with interest and ended, with a taut little smile, “Do not judge the Turkish army by these men here, Mr Hazard. They are, I fear, an undisciplined rabble, untrained by our standards and badly officered, with the notable exception of Rustem Pasha … and, as possibly you’ve been told, they are Arab irregulars, not Turks. Given time, we might have been able to make something of them but …” He shrugged. “You’ll see what I mean in a few minutes. It is doubtful whether they will have noticed our approach, for one thing and—”
“But surely they will have posted sentries?” Phillip put in, shocked.
“Oh, yes,” Alex Sheridan returned. “But they will be watching for the appearance of Russians, not a British general. Apart from the sentries, the rest will be sleeping or smoking their hookahs, including the officers, and they will not welcome us at so early an hour, believe me.”
His forecast proved to be quite accurate. The first two redoubts, which had no guns, were occupied by riflemen, and all—with the exception of the sentries—were asleep. In No. 4, which overlooked the Woronzoff Road, there were two naval twelve-pounders and an alert British Artillery sergeant, who had somehow contrived to make all his men stand to their guns—although the officers continued to sleep. At No. 3, the Turks were also on the qui vivre, their British N.C.O. drilling them at their guns but at No. 2 the Artillery sergeant had been driven to despair by the Turkish officers’ indolent refusal to co-operate and by his failure to make himself understood by his charges.
Sir Colin Campbell’s unexpected arrival and the terse exchange between Alex Sheridan and the Turkish officers wrought a salutary change in their attitude, however, and by the time his small party started for Canrobert’s Hill, all the Turco-Tunisian auxiliaries were standing to their guns, looking considerably chastened. The redoubts, Phillip saw, were—as Sir Colin had said—hastily constructed and afforded scant protection to the gun’s crews. Major Nasmyth had started them, Alex Sheridan explained, but had been invalided to Scutari before the works were completed and since then, due to the failure of the Turkish officers to instil any sense of urgency into their men, little more had been done.
“Shadwell and I talked our heads off,” he added ruefully, “but the results are, as you have seen, hardly to be termed successful. We urged them to dig communication trenches between their positions and to construct earthen defenses, in the Russian pattern, loop-holed for riflemen. They duly made a beginning, but little progress, I’m afraid. No. 1 battery, on Canrobert’s Hill, is the only one which is strongly fortified. It has three guns and is garrisoned by a full Arab battalion, all picked men, under an able and conscientious commander, whose guns were sited by Captain Pipon of the Royal Artillery. It is, however”—he shrugged—“the most vulnerable to attack, if the Russians cross the Tchernaya by the Tractir Bridge and then advance on Kamara which, as you will observe, stands on high ground to the right rear of Canrobert’s Hill.” He indicated the village of Kamara and forestalled Phillip’s question with a regretful, “Yes, I know … we should have guns there. But alas, Mr Hazard, we have no guns, nor have we sufficient troops to man them.”
The garrison of No. 1 Redoubt, in encouraging contrast to the rest, was very much on the alert. Sir Colin was received by the commander with every appearance of pleasure and invited to make an inspection of troops and guns, which he did, afterwards congratulating officers and men on their vigilance and smartness, his words translated by Alex Sheridan into Turkish. A flag pole to the rear of the redoubt flew the Turkish crescent and star and it was arranged that in the event of a Russian attack, two flags should be hoisted, as a warning signal. Escorted courteously to his horse, Sir Colin took his leave, the expression on his lined face a trifle less anxious than it had been, Phillip noticed.
On returning to Kadi-Koi, the sight of Commander Heath and his seamen, who had brought up shot, shell, powder, and tents with them, served still further to lessen Sir Colin’s depression. Heath said that Admiral Lyons was expected to come ashore within the next hour and Phillip was despatched to meet him, bearing a written repo
rt of the situation from Balaclava’s commander. He rode back to Balaclava Harbour, to learn that the Admiral had landed from Beagle half an hour before and had gone to the Marine Heights, to confer with Colonel Hurdle. The Sanspareil was, it seemed, still lying at anchor off the harbour entrance and, within the harbour itself, Wasp and Vesuvius had joined Simoom and skeleton crews were exercising their guns.
Regretfully refusing several hospitable invitations to dine on board, Phillip set off once more in search of Admiral Lyons and eventually delivered Sir Colin’s letter to him an hour later. Sir Edmund read the report with furrowed brows and then looked up to meet Phillip’s anxious gaze.
“This needs no answer,” he said, his frown relaxing. “Save my felicitations, which you will be good enough to convey to Sir Colin, Phillip. He is confident that he can hold any Russian attack, unless it is made in overwhelming numbers, in which case—typically, I think—he tells me that he will delay an advance on Balaclava until reinforcements can be brought down from the plateau. Colonel Hurdle is equally confident that his Marines can hold their positions on the Heights and the Sanspareil—although Admiral Dundas is reluctant to order her into the harbour unless it is necessary—is to remain outside, prepared to enter should the situation warrant it. I am on my way to see Lord Raglan now …” He hesitated, glancing down at Sir Colin Campbell’s letter again. “He is a remarkable man, Sir Colin, is he not?”
“Indeed he is, sir,” Phillip agreed warmly.
The Admiral folded the note and placed it in his breast pocket. He asked a few crisp questions concerning the general defensive position at Kadi-Koi and the Turkish redoubts on the Causeway, on learning that Phillip had visited them and then, consulting his pocket watch, prepared to continue on his way.
“Tell Sir Colin that I will endeavour to call on him later this evening, after my conference with Lord Raglan, Phillip.”
“Aye, aye, sir. Is there anything else I can do, sir?”
The Admiral hesitated, exchanging glances with Captain Mends, who was with him. Finally, as if reaching a decision concerning which, until then, he had been uncertain, he inclined his head. “Yes, there is. It places a grave responsibility on you, but I fancy you are capable of bearing it. Phillip, you will be with Sir Colin and the 93rd if—or perhaps I should say when—the Russians launch their attack.”
“Yes, sir,” Phillip confirmed and waited, wondering what was in the Admiral’s mind.
“Should it appear to you that the 93rd’s position is likely to be carried,” Admiral Lyons went on, his tone grave, “you are to ride down to the harbour with all possible speed and inform Captain Tatham that he is to signal the Sanspareil to enter …” He added precise and detailed instructions. “Is it quite clear to you? You understand what I want you to do?”
“Yes, sir, I understand.”
“Good. Then return to your post, Phillip … and God go with you.”
The small naval party, on their somewhat ill-matched horses, cantered off and were soon lost to Phillip’s sight in the dust cloud raised by their passing. His own horse was showing signs of weariness and, since the Admiral’s message for Sir Colin was not a matter of urgency, he let the tired animal choose its own pace. Passing the Highlanders’ encampment, he was careful to give the tent-ropes a wide berth but, observing a crowd of women gathered, as they had been the previous afternoon, about their wash-tubs, he rode over to them, intending to offer his thanks for their timely help following his fall.
They greeted him with smiles and the woman who had repaired his trouser leg for him came over to inspect her handiwork, beaming up at him when she saw that her stitches were holding.
“These could be doing with a wash, sir,” she remarked. “We are a trifle hard put to it to get enough water at times for our laundering but, if you have a second pair to change into and you would leave these with me, I would gladly attend to them for you.”
“You are very kind. But …” Phillip indicated his bandaged and swollen leg. “I have had to continue to wear them, since no others would go on over this. I was wondering …” He broke off, looking about him, hoping to see the girl who had dressed his leg the day before. “Is Miss Lamont here? Could she, perhaps, spare me a few minutes? I should like to express my gratitude to her and …” There was a sudden silence and the faces about him lost their smiles as if, for some reason, he had offered them a deliberate affront. “I mean Miss Catriona Lamont,” he explained carefully. “The … the young lady who came so opportunely to my rescue yesterday afternoon when my horse threw me.”
The women looked at each other but remained silent. At last, after a whispered conference in Gaelic among themselves, a tall, gaunt, middle-aged woman detached herself from the rest and came to Phillip’s side. “I am the wife of Sergeant MacCorkill of the 93rd, who escorted you to Sir Colin Campbell’s head-quarters, Lieutenant,” she stated. “’Twas to my tent you were brought after your fall and ’twas I who dressed your leg … do you not remember?”
“I remember only a dark-haired young lady, Mistress MacCorkill. A dark haired young lady with blue eyes,” Phillip asserted. “She told me that her name was Catriona Lamont and she—” he was interrupted by a chorus of derisive laughter and Sergeant MacCorkill’s wife said, with brusque finality, “You must have been confused, sir, or else you dreamed that you saw her. There is no Mistress Lamont here. But I have blue eyes!”
The laughter was redoubled. “You were falling on your head, sir,” the woman who had stitched up his rent trouser leg pointed out. “When that is happening, strange notions come sometimes into the mind. Maybe there is some young lady of whom you dream or you have a wife, perhaps?” She spoke gently, not deriding him and, as if her tone were a rebuke, the laughter of the other women ceased abruptly. “A man is lonely out here in this alien land and such dreams are coming unbidden from his heart because … why, because the heart does not forget, you see.”
The heart does not forget, Phillip thought, and felt as if a knife had been twisted in his own. Mademoiselle Sophie had whispered these same words to him a long time ago, when she had bidden him farewell and he had heard them as in a dream, so … perhaps the woman was right. Perhaps Catriona Lamont was a vision conjured up by his imagination, a strange, pale ghost of Mademoiselle Sophie—now the Princess Narishkin, who had married a Russian officer to whom, since childhood, she had been betrothed. For him, neither Sophie nor Catriona had any real, tangible existence, he told himself sternly and, in any event, he had no business to linger here. He thanked both the woman who had spoken to him kindly and Sergeant MacCorkill’s wife and, as he turned towards Kadi-Koi, saw the hostility fade from the faces of the others and their smiles return. They wished him well, their lilting voices following him as he kneed the weary bay into a trot.
To the rear of No. 4 Battery, when he came in sight of it, he noticed that a number of extra tents had been erected and from O’Leary, who had evidently been on the lookout for him, he learnt that one of these had been set up as a naval officers’ mess.
“Captain Heath left word for you to dine with him there, sorr,” his orderly added, taking the horse from him, after assisting him to dismount.
“Thanks, O’Leary.” Phillip, unable to get his injured leg to the ground, had to cling to his stirrup-leather to hold himself upright, carefully flexing the bruised and swollen muscles. “My … my compliments to the Commander and say that I am more than grateful for his invitation. But I have to report to Sir Colin Campbell first … do you know where he’s to be found?”
“His Honor came back ten minutes before you, sorr, and I fancy ’twas Lord Lucan with him, by the cut of his jib and all the officers in fine cavalry uniforms trailing after him.” O’Leary waved a big hand in the direction of the derelict farmhouse, which Sir Colin used as his staff headquarters. “That’s where they went, sorr. But …” The orderly regarded Phillip with concern. “You look just about fit to drop, Mr Hazard, so you do. Would it not be a wise precaution, now, if you were to let a surgeon
dress that leg for you? ’Tis not a bit of good trying to do more than you’re able for, is it, sorr? And there’s two or three of our naval surgeons up here now, with the Niger’s party and twiddling their thumbs, the lot of them, with nothing else to do, so they say.”
Phillip released the stirrup-leather balancing himself with difficulty. “I’m all right,” he said thickly. “But the Admiral’s horse is quite done up. See what you can do for him in the way of food and a rub down, O’Leary, if you please, because I shall need him tomorrow. And then you can dismiss. Get some sleep yourself. I’ll want a call at first light, I expect.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” O’Leary acknowledged resignedly, but he was muttering to himself as he led the tired bay horse away.
On entering the farmhouse, Phillip found it full of officers—cavalry officers, for the most part, as O’Leary had said—and, spotting Lawrence Shadwell among them, he limped across the crowded room to ask him what was going on. Sir Colin Campbell’s senior aide-de-camp expelled his breath in a brief sigh. “It would seem that a Russian attack on Balaclava is imminent, Hazard,” he answered flatly. “One of Rustem Pasha’s spies has just come in with the most alarming intelligence yet. Sir Colin, Lord Lucan, and the Pasha are questioning the fellow now, to make quite certain he’s telling the truth as regards the enemy’s movements and intentions, for we don’t want another false alarm. But if he’s right, then I imagine we shall be on stand-to throughout the night.”
“Do you think he’s right?”
“Well, he seems to know what he’s talking about,” Shadwell admitted. He supplied terse details, and then added, “If I were you, I should get a meal and what rest you can, while you have the chance. I will see that you are sent for if you’re needed and, if you’ve any message for Sir Colin from Admiral Lyons, I’ll see that he receives it. You can do no good waiting here at the moment, I assure you.”
Phillip accepted his offer gratefully, and, having passed on his message, started to make his way to the naval encampment. Hobbling painfully along in the swiftly fading light, he was surprised to hear a familiar voice call him by name and, stifling an exclamation, looked up to see the portly figure of Surgeon Fraser blocking his path. They exchanged greetings and Phillip said, his tone faintly cynical, “Don’t tell me, Doctor, that you have also been transferred from Trojan?”
