Attack on the Redan

by Garry Douglas Kilworth

  ‘Poor Peterson,’ murmured Crossman. ‘Come on, Ali. We can’t stay here all night. If she gets away, she’ll go back to Kadikoi.’

  The two men began the walk back themselves, with Ali asking, ‘You have no wounds, sergeant?’

  ‘No, no, I’m fine. Stiff shoulder. Got clubbed, that’s all.’

  When the entered the hovel, Crossman was half-hoping to see Peterson sitting on her cot looking shaken. She was not there. Wynter, Gwilliams and Yorwarth were there. Yorwarth was lying re-reading a letter he had received – the first since he had been in the Crimea – and was completely absorbed by the words on the page. Wynter was in conversation with Gwilliams. They were talking about women.

  ‘I think it’s about time I found meself a wife,’ Wynter was saying, lying back on his blankets. ‘I need some creature comforts, see. A wife can give you those. Oh, yes, she takes some of your money, but it’s worth it for a good one. Someone to bed – every night if you fancy . . .’

  ‘If she fancies.’

  ‘Well, that too, but some of us are roguish men. They like a rogue, women do. They’ll do anything to hang on to a man like that. And I always choose saucy wenches, me. It’s something I do. I don’t mean a strumpet – I steer clear of strumpets. Just one that knows how to flick her hips and come out with a bit of breezy talk, to get you goin’ like.’ He paused before adding thoughtfully, ‘Some men don’t like their wives to be saucy, but that’s ’cos they’re scared they’re goin’ to run off with the gunner’s uncle. Not me. I can hold on to my women, saucy or not.’

  ‘I thought you was already hitched,’ Gwilliams said. ‘You said you had a wife back in England.’

  ‘Not so much a wife,’ came the vague reply. ‘I an’t heard from her in more than a year or so. We wasn’t married regular, not under the law nor the church.’

  ‘You mean you just lived together?’ This wasn’t an accusation of immorality, but simply a statement of fact.

  ‘Not even that. The house weren’t big enough, bein’ just two rooms, one up, one down, and there being seven of ’em in her lot. No, I just used to visit, after a night at the Duke of Wellin’ton. Sometimes twice a week, when I was feeling like it. Oh, there you are, sergeant.’ He had just noticed Crossman standing in the doorway. ‘Come on in, don’t stand on ceremony. Treat it like your own home. We don’t mind, do we, Gwilliams?’

  ‘Shut up, Wynter!’ snapped Crossman, furiously. ‘Just keep your mouth closed.’

  For once Wynter did not argue. He could see from Crossman’s face something was badly wrong. Yorwarth and Gwilliams said nothing. They too were aware that something awful had happened. They sat and waited for Crossman to tell them. Had the Russians broken through? Was there to be an attack on Sebastopol?

  ‘Has anyone seen Peterson?’ Crossman asked.

  It was a forlorn question and he knew the answer.

  ‘She went with you, sergeant,’ Wynter replied, quietly.

  ‘Yes, but she hasn’t returned?’

  ‘Well, I an’t seen her.’

  The others shook their heads.

  Crossman went from the doorway to the stairs and began to ascend. Halfway up, he stopped, and said, ‘If she comes in, during the night – wake me.’

  When he opened his eyes the next morning the sun was slanting through the window. A dazzling object hovered above the chest-of-drawers which Lovelace used for his sewing and shaving kits. Phantom echoes of the brilliant circle jumped from wall to wall around the room. It was a moment or two before Crossman realized that the brilliance was due to the fact that the item was a mirror and it was in the hand of the major. Lovelace was looking into the glass, inspecting his chin, presumably for any hairs which might have escaped the sharp edge of his razor. The mirror flashed its last message and was then replaced on the chest.

  Crossman went up on his elbows. ‘We lost Peterson,’ he said.

  Lovelace turned. ‘Oh, you’re awake.’ Then gravely, ‘Yes, I know. I have people in there, asking questions.’

  ‘People?’ He queried the word, but he knew exactly who Lovelace meant. Paid informers in Sebastopol. ‘When do you think . . .?’

  ‘Oh, today, I’m sure. They’ll get word out today.’ Lovelace paused. ‘Do you believe her to be alive?’

  ‘I don’t know. I think I would know if she’d been killed there and then. I’ve spoken with Ali about it. One minute we were all together, the next it was chaos. You know what it can be like, a surprise attack in the darkness. If she’s alive . . .’

  ‘I know what you mean, sergeant. She. The fact that Peterson is a woman might work against her, not for her.’

  ‘Of course, they won’t know she’s the sharpshooter,’ Crossman added, the thought only now coming to his mind. ‘It could have been any one of us.’

  ‘They’ll get it from her.’

  Crossman thought about this. ‘Yes, they will, won’t they? And once they do, she’ll be in for a terrible time. Damn, I told Colonel Hawke . . . Sorry, sir.’

  Lovelace brushed his shoulders with a silver clothes brush.

  ‘Calcutta Hawke is his own man, sergeant. He probably regrets this as much as you do, now. He doesn’t know Peterson personally, of course, but he knows he’s lost a valuable soldier, his best sharpshooter. I found him in a very reflective mood this morning.’

  ‘If she’s alive, we must get her back.’

  ‘I agree. Once I hear from my sources, I’ll let you know.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Lovelace put on his cap and left. Crossman knew he could nothing for the moment. He got up, washed and dressed, and then thought about going to see Hawke. It was what he should do, after a fox hunt, especially one that had ended in disaster. But instead he felt the need for empathetic company. Calcutta Hawke might be ‘reflective’ but he wasn’t going to sympathize with Crossman and his fears for Peterson, whereas Lavinia Durham and Cousin Jane most certainly would.

  Lavinia Durham was an old flame of Crossman’s and Jane Mulinder (a pretend cousin, the daughter of a family friend) was rapidly becoming a new one. Lavinia was married to Bertie, a quartermaster, and was accompanying her captain husband. Jane had recently been jilted and had come to the Crimea to assuage her wounded pride. The two women were old friends and, here in the Crimea, inseparable companions.

  Lavinia wanted Jack to love Jane, for reasons of her own. Jack was smitten but held back because of past sins. He did not want to make the same mistake twice. Jane had been hurt once, very badly, and was keeping her own confidence. Since Crossman had done much the same to Mrs Durham as Jane Mulinder’s beau had done to her, he was not in a great position to be outraged and swear to avenge Jane’s wrongs. This was his great problem. The women held no secrets from one another. He had wronged one of them himself and he didn’t want to put himself in the position where he might wrong the other one.

  Things were further complicated by the fact that Jack Crossman had joined the army under an assumed name, to avoid being discovered by his father, a Scottish baronet and an ex-major of the 93rd Foot, the Sutherland Highlanders. Crossman had been christened Alexander Kirk, had found out that he was the bastard son of his father and an English maid, and had deliberately joined the ranks rather than let his father purchase him a commission. Father and son did not get on.

  He found that Jane was out riding with Rupert Jarrard. Crossman bristled for a moment, then let it go. Lavinia was studying his expression, keenly.

  ‘Alex,’ she said, using his real name since they were alone, ‘you mustn’t consider Rupert a rival, you know. Jane likes him as a friend, but it’s you she has a fondness for.’

  ‘I didn’t come here to talk about Jane,’ said Crossman. ‘I’ve just lost a woman to the enemy.’

  Lavinia’s eyes widened. They were in a lodge down by the quayside, to the east of the waterfront. Through the window they had a view of the Black Sea stretching beyond a rocky harbour towards a grey-green horizon. There were ships and boats in the scene. Sailors were
at their various tasks on decks or in the rigging, polishing lamps, coiling ropes, doing things that mariners did when time was not of the essence. Fishermen were drying nets on wooden racks. The activity was domestic and unhurried, almost charming: it did not feel to them as if they were in war zone.

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand. What woman, Alex?’

  Crossman now realized how it had sounded. ‘Oh, one of my men. That is to say, a woman who joined the army disguised as a man. You’ve seen her. Lance-Corporal Peterson. She is one of my best. Was. We went out on a mission last night and she was either captured or killed.’

  ‘The burly one? Of course. But Alex, how did she contrive to keep it secret?’

  ‘She didn’t, of course. It was successfully kept from the army proper, but we knew. I’ve known for a long time.’

  ‘And she was taken last night?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Lavinia put a hand on the sleeve of his coatee. ‘And you feel responsible.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I am responsible.’

  ‘But they’re not children, Alex.’

  ‘In a way, they are. No, no, that’s very patronizing. But I’m just trying to decide whether I could have prevented it. I just feel – well, Lavinia, what do you think will happen when they discover what she is? One hopes they will behave, but no matter how much I tell myself they will, I have terrible fears. Poor Peterson. She’s quite vulnerable, you know. A simple soul. Nothing of your grit, Lavinia. You, I know, would meet fire with fire, but she’s a delicate creature, despite being a soldier.’

  Lavinia’s eyes suddenly went very deep.

  ‘I’m not sure in the circumstances that I would be any braver or more worldly than the picture you paint of Peterson. I shudder to think what they might do to her.’

  If Crossman thought he had come to Lavinia Durham for comfort, he was sadly mistaken, for they were a little out of tune this morning. He suddenly realized he was indulging in self pity. Peterson was a soldier. She had joined the army in the full knowledge that she might be captured or killed by any enemy the politicians chose to send her against. Hers was the responsibility, not his. The responsibility for the fact that she was a woman in uniform might be shared between several people, including Peterson, since it would have taken but a word in the right ear to have her thrown out of the army at any time. Crossman should have reported her. So should half a dozen commissioned officers. That part was cause for regret.

  ‘Thank you, Lavinia. You have clarified my thoughts on the matter.’

  ‘But I’ve said very little.’

  ‘What little you said, your reactions, were enough. Now, tell me, are you happy? What are you and my cousin doing with each other?’

  ‘Happy is not a word I have used since the day we parted, Alexander,’ said Lavinia with a little quiver to her lips. ‘However, we contrive to be comfortable.’

  Sometimes these little melodramatic statements from Lavinia were really felt and at others she was merely toying with him. The trouble was, Crossman could never tell which it was. Today he decided she was just being petulant and he wasn’t going to feed that petulance.

  ‘Fine, I simply asked. In future I shall keep my curiosities to myself.’ He looked about him. ‘What a glorious day. Halfway through the winter I believed the Crimean peninsula was actually hell, but now the June weather has arrived, it is very pleasant.’

  ‘You may change the subject, Alex, but I am quite serious.’

  In spite of himself he found he was playing her game after all.

  ‘You are also quite married, Lavinia, and whilst I regret the past I can do nothing to change it. I have told you how sorry I am a million times. We were young, very young. It is true I was very much in love with you and I can see now, now that you have grown even more beautiful, what a fool I was to let you go – but I did. You can surely forgive the caprices of a youth? It is I who am the greatest loser, for while you have only lost this ragamuffin creature you see before you, I have lost a jewel.’

  She smiled now and those magenta eyes sparkled.

  ‘There, I knew I could get you to say it. You loved me! I am all vanity, Alex. It was all I wanted from you today. And such a pretty speech to go with it! I never believed it possible. I thought your head was full of horrid noisy engines and inventions. There were times, Alex, when I wished I were a device invented by one of your heroes like Isambard Kingdom Brunel. I’m sure if I had a name like that you would have married me. But there, you have told me I am a jewel, and it was spoken so sincerely I’m inclined to believe you.’

  ‘But you have to like engines too – James Watt declared it.’

  Lavinia looked utterly mystified and Crossman enlightened her.

  ‘James Watt, of steam engine fame? He once said, “The velocity of violence and horrible noise of the engine give universal satisfaction to all beholders, believers or not.” Now I know you are not a believer, but surely Watt was right?’

  ‘He most certainly was not right,’ replied Lavinia, indignantly. ‘I hate the sordid things.’

  At that moment there was the clatter of hooves outside the cottage, then the door was flung open. Jane came tumbling into the room, her eyes revealing distress. Her riding hat was askew, her lacy cravat in disarray, and she was clearly in a state of upset. Crossman immediately jumped to conclusions. He was ready to rush outside and challenge Jarrard to fisticuffs at the very least, a duel if the assault on Jane had been serious. However, it was a good thing he did not follow through these rash assumptions, for Jane suddenly blurted out the reason for her obvious passion.

  ‘Lord Raglan is dead!’

  Lavinia’s hand went her mouth and she uttered a little, ‘Oh.’

  ‘What was it?’ asked Crossman, knowing that though Raglan rarely left his farmhouse headquarters these days, he did occasionally emerge. It was possible he was hit by a cannon, or even a sharpshooter. ‘Was it – on the field?’

  ‘His illness took him,’ said Jane. ‘We have just heard it from a staff officer. Jarrard has rushed away to copy something . . .’

  ‘You mean, write his copy,’ said Crossman.

  ‘Yes, that was it.’

  Tears sprang to Lavinia’s eyes. ‘Oh, that poor man.’

  ‘Many poor men have died here, Lavinia,’ Crossman pointed out. ‘There were ploughboys just as worthy.’

  ‘No, no, I didn’t mean that. Of course every death is regretted, Alex. I meant he died broken. It was the last straw, the failure to take the Redan. If the attack had been successful, he might have had the strength and the will to win over the disease. After the 18th he had nothing to live for. I am certain the protracted nature of this ugly war sapped him beyond his capabilities. He was such a nice man.’

  ‘Too nice, for a commander in chief,’ Crossman said. ‘I know, I know, he was a gentleman through and through, but we actually needed a savage lion here, not a noble antelope. It’s a shame he ever took on the task. I’m sure he regretted it a thousand times over. He was no Wellington, that’s certain. But I can see by your looks, ladies, that I must not speak ill of the dead, so I’ll add that he was an inoffensive man, an aristocrat who was caught up in a tangled net of duty and honour. It is a great shame, for I think he did his best, as he saw it. Let’s hope the cabinet back home now send us someone with a bit of fire in him, someone competent, a warrior with a keen sense of purpose . . .’

  ‘There is talk of a General Simpson – Sir James Simpson.’

  ‘Don’t know him, but he’s got to be a better general than Lord Raglan,’ said Crossman. ‘Sorry, sorry, I shall say no more.’

  Crossman took his leave of the ladies and went back to the hovel, where he found the only subject of talk was the death of their marshal.

  ‘What’s goin’ to happen now?’ Despite Wynter’s constant battle with authority, his rebellions over the least little thing, he found himself worried at any hint that order and the status quo were in danger. God had toppled dead from his perch. Did that mean chaos f
ollowed? He wasn’t sure. He felt insecure and vulnerable. ‘Will we all go home?’

  ‘No, o’ course you won’t,’ growled Gwilliams, who was polishing a knife blade. ‘Generals is two a penny. They’ll ship another one over, quick as you please. They got more generals than rats in a barn. What they ain’t got, is good ones. Good ones is hard to find.’

  Crossman said, ‘Gwilliams is right. Good generals are worth their weight in ammunition. Ali, can I see you outside for a minute?’

  Ali rose and followed Crossman away from the hovel, where they would not be heard by the others.

  ‘Do you believe Peterson is still alive?’

  Ali nodded his head. ‘I think so.’

  ‘Then we’ve got to get her back. If it were me, I’m sure you’d come after me. I certainly would come after you. Peterson will be suffering.’

  ‘I think so. We keep an ear.’

  ‘Major Lovelace has promised to seek information.’

  ‘Good. We wait for the proper information, then we go and get her.’

  ‘That’s my feeling too. I’m glad we’re together on this.’

  Ali grinned. ‘We go together on everything, sergeant.’

  Lovelace and Hawke were sharing a quiet drink in an officers only drinking tent. Hawke had it on the best authority that Sir James Simpson was going to be appointed commander in chief. His information had come to him via the telegraph and was quite up to the minute.

  ‘Simpson,’ he said, bitterly, ‘I ask you. Another Peninsula veteran. We’ve simply exchanged a dove for a pigeon.’

  ‘Yet who else is there?’ asked Lovelace. ‘There are no eagles to be had at the moment. We must rub along with these old men. I hear Simpson has been with Napier in India.’

  ‘Well, that’s something I suppose, but I wager he’ll prove no better than his predecessor.’