Gwilliams snorted in contempt. There was no doubt about his loyalty to the sergeant and his concern for Peterson’s plight.
And Yorwarth yelled up the stairs, ‘Don’t you speak for me, you snivelling worm. The sergeant knows I’m with him.’
Lovelace looked at Crossman. ‘Sergeant, I shall go to Hawke directly, and tell him I’ve sent you to get Peterson. The colonel will understand. Try to be careful. They will know you’re coming. On the other hand, you know they will know you’re coming. This is as deep as it gets. Use every guile. No heroics. No holding back on this one. This is not a gentleman’s war, this fight between you and the blues – it’s a deadly business.’
‘I understand. No quarter.’
‘No quarter indeed. And I’m sure,’ the major hesitated for a moment, before continuing, ‘well, what I’m trying to say is, you’re not going to find Peterson in good health. Be prepared for that.’
‘I will, sir. And thank you, for understanding.’
‘Just get back in one piece. All of you.’
Over the next couple of hours the peloton prepared to leave.
They wore Tartars’ clothes and, after nearly a year in the Crimea they looked the part. They were all, to a man, bearded and weathered. Their skins were the colour of seasoned oak, some darker than others. They were muscled: Crossman and Yorwarth tall and lean, Ali and Gwilliams shorter, hard, stocky characters. Wynter was apart, being as short as the latter but thinner even than the former. He was what Gwilliams called a ‘whipcord’ man, light on his feet, remarkably fast, almost frantic in action, his movements often driven by that self-preserving, essential viciousness that some men possess. They were all strong men with strong eyes. They could stare down a general when disguised and on the road.
Dark men, then, with dark souls. If they had chosen careers as pirates or highwaymen they would have been called Black Jake or Robber Jones. All except Gwilliams, who had a touch of gold about him. Gwilliams’ rippled beard and hair were magnificent. His full set gleamed like hammered bronze. Had he been a member of some biblical tribe he would have been chosen instantly as their king, simply because of his imposing bearing, his glorious hirsute pate and chin. Even the contours of his head were regal: a large, marvellous head, the head of a lion. He held it as if it were heavy with a king’s crown.
‘We all ready then?’ said Crossman, as they armed themselves. ‘Yorwarth, damn you, what’s the matter now?’
‘Don’t know, sergeant. Woke up with it this morning.’ He looked down at himself and then started scratching furiously. ‘It’s all over. It started in the crotch.’
The others all stared at the Australian youth. His face had a horrible prickled rash covering two-thirds of it. Two eyes stared out from beneath puffy red cheeks. He looked extremely ugly.
‘God man, if anyone was to catch anything around here, it would be you. I can’t understand why you haven’t died of the cholera before now.’
Yorwarth had not long recovered from a broken jaw, which had to be rebroken and reset after Gwilliams had put a strange cage-splint on his face. He still had a bit of a lopsided look about him.
It was Gwilliams who spoke up now. ‘I can fix him, sergeant. I got this balm the Huron Indians give me. I could paste him now – but I ain’t doin’ his crotch. He’ll have to do that hisself.’
‘Well, hurry up then. Yorwarth, strip. Gwilliams, find the balm and get to work.’
Ali and Wynter helped Yorwarth rip off his clothes. Gwilliams went to a footlocker and found a large can with a rag for a lid. He used the rag to smear the contents of the can on Yorwarth’s skin. The private said it felt cool and nice, and had no doubt he would be cured in no time. Once they had him covered he looked like he had been greased for some diabolical purpose known only to savages about to perform pagan rites. At the last minute Gwilliams told him to stay away from naked flames.
‘If’n you don’t, you’ll go up like a torch.’
‘Well, tell me now,’ grumbled Yorwarth. ‘I mean, every damn weapon we use spits bloody fire.’
The suggestion was too much for an impressionable mind like Wynter’s and he absently took his clay pipe from his pocket.
‘Put that away,’ growled Yorwarth. ‘You want me to burn?’
‘Is it that inflammable?’ asked a concerned Crossman of Gwilliams.
‘’Fraid so, sergeant. Worse than lamp oil. Anyone lights a match near him and he’ll join his ancestors. The other use is for corpses on pyres, to make ’em go up quick. He’ll crackle all right, give him a light. Though it should be all fine, give it an hour or two, once it soaks in.’
‘This crazy bunch,’ muttered Crossman. ‘Why can’t I have men about me that are sane?’
‘’Cos only loonies would follow you, sergeant,’ said Wynter, grinning like a dog.
Provided with horses by Lovelace, they set out at a walk along the road, towards the hills. Until they were out of the town they presented a rough-looking picture, dressed as they were, with rifles wrapped in rags to hide the glint of gunmetal. Officers and men of line and artillery regiments, sailors, ladies, sutlers, all stepped out of their way, wondering who these tough-looking irregular forces were. One or two knew them. Jane saw them pass by and her eyes flicked a quick hello-and-farewell at Crossman. She did not openly acknowledge him, realizing he was going out on a mission.
A rather smart officer of Hussars riding down the middle of the street seemed about to refuse to give passage, then looking into Ali’s face, changed his mind and he too pulled his mount aside.
Crossman, rather childishly (he admitted to himself) enjoyed this show of the barbarian warriors going out to do mischief in the hills.
The sergeant had been given an inaccurate map, which showed the farmhouse. It was the only chart available, having been purchased by Lovelace’s father at a map shop in Sicilian Avenue, London and sent with others to his son at the front. This, and a compass, were his only tools. But he had Ali, who was invaluable. During off-duty hours the Turk had familiarized himself with the countryside all around the war area, riding out on a small tough horse, making mental notes. Sometimes he had taken his ‘companion’ with him: a very handsome bare-breasted local woman with broad shoulders, thick limbs and a strong nose.
Wynter was hopelessly in love with Ali’s companion, whose virtues were all that he himself would never own: steadfastness, uncomplaining loyalty, inner strength, immense stamina. The Bashi-Bazouk knew of Wynter’s adoration – it was hardly hidden in his eyes, fixed as they were on the woman’s bare bosom – and it amused him. Wynter would, of course, have died a horrible death if he had done anything about his feelings, and well he knew it, but it didn’t stop those longings in him. He suffered in silent joy, feasting from a distance on what he could not have.
Once beyond the town they came into an area of quiet beauty. Wild flowers grew in great variety and abundance. Dragonflies skimmed the wayside herbs and small birds showered the summer grasses. Trees with full foliage studded the rises and brooks, mostly dry at this time of the year, cut through between stony hummocks. Cimmerian Tauri, Ostrogoths, Huns, Khazars, Cumans and Mongols had all ridden this landscape, as the foreign soldiers were doing now, and had admired its contours and wildlife. To the north was the semi-arid steppe, where wheat and cotton fields flourished, sweeping down towards the Black Sea and its subtropical shoreline.
‘Say,’ Gwilliams spoke to Crossman, as their horses’ hooves rattled amongst the loose stones of a slope, ‘did I ever tell you? I read once that a Byzantine emperor had his nose cut off by army officers and was exiled to the Crimea. It was a Justinian. Can’t remember which number. Second or third, I think. I’m not so hot on the numbers.’
Gwilliams had been raised in a home with books and was always throwing out these titbits to his sergeant.
‘Who took the throne after that?’
‘One of the officers.’
‘That makes sense.’
Wynter, whose rivalry with Gwilliams was b
ecoming a pain in the neck to Crossman, was starved of attention. He rectified this, coming out with his own choice piece.
‘See the way they looked at us, riding out of town? We’re 88th, I know that, sergeant, but we could make our very own regiment. Just us.’
‘You mean, like Crossman’s Cut-throats, or Fancy Jack’s Fusiliers?’ said Gwilliams. ‘Yeah, I like that.’
‘No, I mean a real regiment, with colours and all. That’s what I mean. Of course, there won’t be hundreds of us, like in a regular regiment – just us few good men – but we an’t a regular bunch anyways.’
Crossman said, ‘Much as I like the idea, Wynter, I fear having colours is an expensive business. You count the cost in men. Have you stopped to think how many ensigns and sergeants we lose defending the colours? What a target they make for the enemy. Even lieutenants snatch up the colours when the bearer falls. One after the other. It’s a sad way to lose men.’
‘Well I agree about the officers, but sergeants is two a penny – sergeant,’ countered Wynter. Then he grinned at his own joke. ‘No, serious, sergeant, the colours is necessary, an’t they? For a rallying point. You need to rally in battle, sometimes.’
‘True, but why not let the colours be carried by someone lowly, someone fairly worthless, like a lance-corporal.’
Wynter grinned again. ‘Now you’re havin’ a go at me. Touch, sergeant.’
‘As you say, touch.’
Wynter had meant touché of course, but Crossman did not correct him. The sergeant already had a reputation of being a bit of an education snob and it did him no good amongst men like Wynter to reinforce this.
When they stopped for the night in a gully clustered with trees, the first thing Yorwarth did was strip off his clothes and start scratching like mad. Far from curing his dermatitis the ‘balm’ had inflamed and spread it further. Yorwarth’s skin was burning with millions of tiny red pinheads. They had to hold him down to stop him from clawing his skin off. He was like a raging madman for a while, until Ali found a waterhole. They took the cool mud from the hole and covered him, giving him some small relief, before throwing him bodily into the water to wash him off. Then Ali set about trying to cure the effects of Gwilliams’ ‘cure’.
‘It’s not the balm,’ complained Gwilliams. ‘It worked on Indian skin and it worked on mine. It’s Yorwarth. He’s a blamed natural child of goblins and pixies. Nothin’ seems to work with him. I make him a good workable face splint and he gets a crooked jaw. When he was in fever I gave him perfectly sound medicine, used on Mexicans and Apache Indians to good effect, and his body heat goes up like he’s got a furnace in his chest. I can’t be doing with him. He ain’t right, that boy. He’s from a different place.’
Ali spent an hour collecting herbs and mixing them in a bowl before applying another kind of paste to Yorwarth. They had by this time tied Yorwarth’s hands to his sides. His eyes were bulging. He swore at anyone and everyone. Hot tears of frustration ran down his cheeks. He begged, as Odysseus begged to have his cords removed on hearing the sirens’ call, to be released to scratch himself. It did not help him any that Wynter kept making jokes at his expense.
‘You an’t comin’ up to scratch, Yorwarth, old chum!’
‘I’ll kill him,’ raged Yorwarth. ‘I’ll rip his tongue out.’
‘No skin off my nose,’ said Wynter. ‘Plenty of skin off your back though, me old matey from convict-land.’
Crossman put a stop to the jokes but he could do nothing to relieve the stricken soldier’s suffering. He refused to release him from his bonds, but said that once Ali’s medicinal paste began to work he would consider it. However they found to make matters even worse, Ali’s paste attracted the midges and mosquitoes. Before long they were settling on Yorwarth like dark snow, threatening to make his wounds fester. Wynter said he now looked like a skinned boiled rabbit, covered in black pepper.
Yorwarth wept.
In the morning the youth’s eyes were black with lack of sleep, but his skin had improved enough for them to untie the ropes. He darted accusing looks at everyone who tried to sympathize with him. He muttered something about being ‘bewitched’ by one of the ‘painted ladies’ at Donnybrook. Gwilliams stared at him and said, ‘I surely hope you haven’t caught some Black Sea pox, for Wynter’s sake.’
‘Why?’ queried Wynter, his head coming up.
‘’Cause you always share his women,’ replied Gwilliams, matter-of-factly. ‘You get ’em cheap after Yorwarth, we all know, ’cause the boy’s so well endowed and the women is so satisfied they’re mellow and warm-hearted. If he’s caught somethin’, you’ve got it too, fellah.’
Wynter found himself subconsciously scratching. He stopped and glared at Gwilliams. ‘You think you know everythin’, Yankee.’
Gwilliams said, ‘See here, I will quote you somethin’ farmer’s boy. Somethin’ I learned off by heart from one of the preacher’s books. “In Xamdu did Cublai Can build a stately Palace, encompassing sixteen miles of plaine ground with a wall, wherein are fertile Meddowes, pleasant springs, delightfull streames and all sort of beasts of chase and game, and in the middest thereof a sumtuous house of pleasure.” Now that was writ in 1613, by a Mr Samuel Purchas, whereas that there well-known poem about Xanadu was writ by some Englishman poet just in the year 1816.’
‘So what, Yankee?’ snarled Wynter, who hated to be spoken down to. ‘What are you tryin’ to say.’
‘Nothin’s new in this here world.’
3
Crossman intended to lead his men a long circuitous route, northwards at first, then west, then returning southwards, in the shape of a hook. He had deliberately staged that flamboyant departure from Kadikoi in order that it should not be missed by Russian spies. If they had been torturing Peterson the necessity would cease once they knew Crossman had taken the bait. Word would now have got back to the vineyard that he was on his way and it was to be hoped the Cossacks were not sadists and that now their scheme was in motion Peterson would not be subjected to further hurt.
Crossman did not intend hurrying and he avoided straight lines. The Cossacks would be waiting for him at various points. He had discussed these tactics with Yusuf Ali, who thoroughly approved. Now that they were on the trail they needed to avoid all contact with human society. No one was to be trusted. They stayed away from other farmhouses, orchards and tracks as best they could. Crossman made what he believed to be unpredictable moves, changing direction by whim. In this way he hoped to keep clear of ambuscades. The Cossacks were not good at ambushes anyway. If they had been at one time, now their prowess lay in charging across flat areas slashing with their swords and pricking with their lances.
At noon they came to an old iron mine: a black shaft that went into the side of a rocky hill. The entrance was low and wide. Any miners entering that tunnel would need to crouch double. Ali found goat and wolf droppings close to the opening. When he investigated further, he realized there were still some goats inside the mine. Not hesitating any further he crawled in, took one, and slaughtered it for their next meal. There was a short debate about whether or not to light a fire and Crossman decided there were enough dwellings and herders in the area, with their own fires. If the Cossacks were looking for smoke they would be chasing phantoms all day long.
After providing them with water and feed, they hitched the horses to some stunted pines which stood on the shoulder of the shelf. Yorwarth’s chestnut gelding was the largest and most bad-tempered of the mounts, so he was kept apart from the others. Sydney was fond of biting and kicking. However, the tall chestnut was fleet of hoof, and therefore valuable in emergencies. If a messenger was needed, Yorwarth was the man. He maintained that when it came to run and chase, Sydney was always out front, ‘too bloody-minded to be caught by any Russian nag’.
‘This meat is really good,’ said Wynter, the hot fat running down his chin. ‘Who’d have thought goat would be so tasty.’
‘Not much difference between goat and sheep,’ said Yorwarth,
scratching his face with a thigh bone.
While they were eating, Gwilliams, who was on sentry duty, gave the alarm. They scattered amongst the rocks, Yorwarth crawling in the entrance to the mine, hiding himself behind a thick shoring timber.
A Tartar came up the hill, a young man with a slight limp and using a staff. He paused on cresting the initial climb, to stare at the wide ledge. He sniffed the air. Yes, there was the fire he had smelled from below. Looking puzzled he proceeded to investigate, staring with a bemused expression at the bones around the fire. Gradually Crossman saw the truth dawn upon his face: someone had been eating his goats. He looked around him quickly, angrily, seeing nothing. Next, he went to the entrance to the mine and chirruped, calling what remained of his goats to him. Out of the darkness of the interior came the muzzle of Yorwarth’s rifle to within an inch of the startled goatherd’s nose.
‘Don’t say a word,’ ordered Yorwarth. ‘Not a sound.’
Crossman now came out and repeated the order in the Tartar’s own tongue. The youth was so frightened by the sudden appearance of a gang of brigands he sat down, his face white. They crowded round him, looking down on him.
‘What we do with him, sergeant?’ said Ali. ‘You think we have to kill him?’
Crossman hated these decisions. He had never yet come to terms with this side of the nasty business he was in. He was not ruthless enough for these cold-blooded killings of civilians, even though they threatened his own life. If they let the boy go, he could warn the Cossacks. The Russian cavalrymen might already have primed the local inhabitants, warning them they must pass on any news of strangers. On the other hand, the Cossacks already knew the peloton was coming, so if they were out of this area by mid-afternoon, the youth’s information would be obsolete.
Attack on the Redan Page 7
