Attack on the Redan

by Garry Douglas Kilworth

  Ali and Gwilliams went out just before first light and cut the throats of the Cossacks on the neighbouring ridge. It turned out there were two of them, one a corporal. The corporal did not die easily. With blood pouring from his wound he fought with Ali ferociously, while trying to call for assistance. Ali’s first cut had been deep and all that came out was a gargling sound not loud enough to travel to the farmhouse below. Finally Ali broke his assailant’s neck. Ali and Gwilliams took a Cossack horse: a gelding which had stood quietly watching the horrific skirmish between his master and the knife-man. They would need this extra mount.

  In the dagger-grey dawn four riders came out of the valley mists riding hard at the front of the farm. A Cossack look-out raised the alarm with a shrieking shout. Peterson, still roped to the chair, raised her head with a hopeful expression replacing the bleak look. Bullets began thudding into the farmhouse woodwork. The Cossack next to her spun as a lucky shot – it could be nothing else from the saddle of a galloping horse – struck him in the arm and knocked him aside. He lifted himself up and staggered through the doorway, into the farmhouse.

  ‘Sergeant!’ yelled Peterson, as if she were not in plain view. ‘I’m here!’

  The four riders thundered on, only two of them firing now, the others having spent their single shot weapons. The Cossacks began firing back. The attackers seemingly realized the odds they were up against. Straight away they wheeled, heading back out of the valley again.

  Peterson cried out, plaintively, ‘Don’t leave me . . .’

  Cossacks ran for their mounts, standing in rows of six, unruffled by the sound of firing and the commotion. A sergeant shouted something and two men stopped, walked slowly back to the porch. They looked disgruntled.

  The two remaining Cossacks stood on the porch, watching the dust cloud rise as their comrades rode hell for leather after the attackers. From sentries on a neighbouring hills came an enquiry.

  What had happened?

  Why, replied one of the two on the porch, the English assassin and his men had come and were being chased to their death.

  Good, good. We will eat breakfast, then come down to the farm.

  As you wish.

  One of the two Cossacks went into the farmhouse, the smell of freshly brewed coffee having drawn him. The other, a large man with thick, callused hands, fingered Peterson’s hair and smiled at her. She looked up at him with a tear-stained face and whimpered, ‘No – please – not again . . .’

  At that moment a single shot rang out and the Cossack’s ugly smile turned to red pulp. His legs folded under him and he fell heavily, crashing down the steps of the porch. The second Cossack was at that moment halfway through the doorway, carrying two tin cups full of steaming coffee. He stared at his felled comrade. There was a puzzled expression on his face. But his bewilderment did not last long. The next moment it turned to a sensation of agony as a bullet struck him full in the chest.

  He dropped the cups, splashing Peterson’s ankles with the hot coffee. She yelled in pain, kicking the cup away from her. The Cossack staggered forwards, reaching for a carbine that stood against the farmhouse wall. A third shot struck him in the back of the neck, snapping his spine like a twig. He flopped sideways, fell, and lay twitching, gargling in the back of his throat. By the time Ali came thudding up on his own horse with Yorwarth’s Sydney in tow, the body was still. Someone shouted from the hills. Ali answered. A silence followed, during which time Ali had cut Peterson’s bonds.

  ‘Get on Sydney,’ grunted Ali. ‘Quick. We take that right path into the hills. Quick, Peterson.’

  ‘Thank you,’ sobbed the young woman. ‘Thank you for coming.’

  She allowed herself a swift savage kick at one of the dead men. It was a foolish gesture. She almost overbalanced, being still groggy. Then she climbed awkwardly into Sydney’s saddle. Ali himself leapt into the saddle of his own horse. The Turk held the reins for her, while she gathered herself together. She was exhausted and emotionally drained, and needed a few seconds to gather the reserves of her torn spirit. Finally she gestured to Ali that she was fit to ride.

  A third Cossack now came out of the farmhouse, the man who had been wounded in the raid. Unsteady on his feet, his complexion was as grey as stale bread. He had no firelock, but tried to draw his sword with the wrong hand. It stuck halfway out of its scabbard. He struggled with it, weakly. Ali ignored the man, seeing no threat in him.

  Stiff from being tied to the chair, and in no little pain, Peterson was not in good health. She gripped the reins and kicked Sydney into motion. Although not always an obedient fellow, Sydney took off with alactrity, loving nothing better than a gallop.

  Ali’s own thick-set mount flew forward at the same time. He was a war-horse and knew his work.

  It was only as they were riding away that one or two shots came from high points around the farm. Breakfasts in the outposts had been interrupted and at last the other sentries had drawn the correct conclusions. The rounds were from carbines and fell uselessly in the dust behind the escaping pair. They went as if on horses with wings, flying out of the end of the valley, first north, then east, climbing up into the folded hills behind the farm.

  The Bashi-Bazouk had planned their escape with meticulous detail. He knew exactly the trails, paths and goat tracks he wanted to use. Peterson did not question him. She trusted Ali as much as she trusted her sergeant. While they climbed a narrow path the Turk gave her a waterbottle to drink from. Peterson refreshed herself.

  Then she asked, ‘Can I have that carbine holstered on your mount?’ Ali glanced down, then reached for the weapon, handing it to her.

  ‘We must keep the silence,’ he said. ‘No shooting. Only in emergency. You understand?’

  ‘I understand.’

  That night they found a cave, high up in the hills. The place was large enough for the horses and the two soldiers. Ali lit no fires. He took some cold fare from his saddlebag and handed half to Peterson. She took it and wolfed it down, not having eaten for two days. The Turk then noticed something. The index finger on Peterson’s right hand was crooked. He reached out and examined the finger.

  ‘They broke it,’ she said.

  Peterson winced when the Turk felt around the joints of the damaged finger. Then he suddenly grasped it and twisted. She let out a gasp which could have turned to a yell, except that Ali put his hand over her mouth.

  ‘Silence, please!’ he murmured.

  She was crying now. ‘What did you do that for?’ she whispered, fiercely, holding her right hand in her left.

  ‘Only broken from joint.’

  She looked at her finger again. It was swelling, noticeably, but it was straight now. ‘Dislocated?’

  ‘Yes, this is the word.’

  ‘Only that? Will it be all right?’

  ‘In one or two days. They do this to stop you shooting?’

  ‘I think so,’ she replied.

  ‘They not do proper job. They only take out of joints. Finger good as new in one week. Now we get some rest. Tomorrow they come look for us, follow our tracks. Sometimes I try going on the bare rock, but not always possible. We must be rested, get good start in the morning. You like the horse?’

  ‘He seems to be as gentle as a lamb.’

  ‘He is and, as you are not well, is better if you ride him tomorrow. Now you get to sleep. I watch.’

  ‘When will you sleep?’

  ‘I wake you four hours’ time.’

  It did not take long for Peterson to drop into a fitful sleep, despite her pain and her emotional state. Her dreams were jagged affairs which had her tossing and turning all the while. Ali woke her at the appointed time and she took over the watch for the next three hours. He let her sleep after that until the dawn, knowing it was dangerous to continue in the darkness. If one of the horses went lame they would be in serious trouble.

  Peterson woke the second time to the sound of birds. She opened her eyes and saw that a shaft of light was cutting across the entrance to the
cave. It looked intensely bright to her from within the gloom. She sat up and then put her hand out to heave herself to her feet, only to wince in agony. Her hand was puffed and painful. Using her left hand she managed to scramble to her feet. Outside, Ali already had the horses saddled and ready to go. Silently he handed her some unleavened bread and the waterbottle. She stuffed the bread into her mouth and washed it down with some water. Climbing up into the saddle she still felt as if she had been hit by a coach and four. Her bones ached, her muscles ached, in fact everything ached. The thought of safety and a decent bed was a huge incentive though and she tapped the horse in the ribs with her heels to get him in motion.

  The pair began to wind down a long slope to a grassy plain below. Three-quarters of the way down there came the sound of hooves thudding on hard ground. At this time they were passing through a flourishing orchard. The owner was caring for these apple trees even though his house was probably many miles away. Land on the peninsula sometimes consisted of small parcels miles from the owner’s farm. In times of intense competition it was not economically viable to work such pieces of land, but at the moment the farmers had a ready market for their goods. If the Russians did not buy the produce, the invading armies would. Tartar farmers did not have to ship the goods out of the Crimea: they could trade on their own doorsteps.

  ‘In the leaves,’ whispered Ali. ‘Quick – under the branches.’

  The outer foliage of some of the apple trees touched the ground at the edges, forming a wide skirt around the trunk. The pair found one of these trees each and hid inside the circle of branches. Peterson’s heart was pounding. She did not want to be captured again. She was ready to shoot herself rather than let that happen. Her legs shook against Ali’s horse, making him nervous, but she managed to hold him in, soothe him with whispers in his twitching ears. Finally, after what seemed a very long time, Ali came into her quiet little hiding place.

  ‘All right now. They go. Now we go.’

  The pair continued their journey.

  The next night was spent on a dry river bed. Peterson was scared that a flash flood might come in the night and sweep them to their deaths, but Ali assured her that it would not happen. She didn’t believe him. The whole time they were there she kept waking up from a deep sleep and listening hard for the sound of water rushing from beyond the next bend. Peterson was never more relieved when they set off again the following dawn, climbing through scree which had the horses skating this way and that. Once out of the loose rocks they were on grasslands again. The air was pleasantly aromatic. The scent of wild herbs pacified the horses. Peterson filled her lungs, breathing deeply. When trussed to the chair on the porch she had not expected to smell such delights of nature ever again.

  That night they slept in a copse of pines.

  Eventually they reached their destination and passed through the picquets, to enter Kadikoi. Amazingly, to Peterson, it had not changed in the slightest. There were hundreds, thousands of people, going about their business as if there was nothing happening out there in the hills. It seemed callous of them. Why were they not all fretting and worrying? Some would be, she knew, and indeed she was woken halfway through the morning by a lady wearing a dress of soft grey. The lady’s face was pale with concern.

  ‘Is the sergeant not with you?’

  ‘Ma’am? No, no, he’s not back yet. I don’t think so, anyway.’ Peterson looked round to ask Ali, but he wasn’t there. She remembered he had climbed on his horse as soon as he had delivered her to the hovel. Ali would now be riding hard, back to the peloton, to see if they needed his help.

  The lady was agitated. ‘You know me?’

  ‘Yes – Miss Mulinder, the sergeant’s cousin.’

  ‘Then you can tell me where he is, can’t you? Is he safe, still? I’m to be trusted, you know.’

  Peterson sat up, feeling miserable. The lady had a fragrance about her, whereas Peterson knew that she herself stank of sweat and many other even more unpleasant odours. The lady kneeling by her bed must have been quite strong not to reveal how offensive she must have found Peterson’s smell. Peterson shook her head to try to get rid of the buzzing sound in her ears. She was still muzzy from the horror of her experiences. Then she caught Miss Mulinder looking at her swollen hand.

  ‘They tried to break my finger,’ she explained. ‘To stop me from shooting.’

  Jane winced on being shown the blue-black injury.

  ‘You’re a sharpshooter, is that correct?’

  ‘Yes. Look, the sergeant – well, the rest of them are still out there, somewhere. I don’t know where, or I’d tell. They drew the Cossacks away from the farm – I was being held at an old farm – and then Ali came and got me. But I don’t know where they went.’ Peterson touched Jane’s hand. ‘He’ll be all right, miss. He knows how to get away from them.’

  Jane stood up. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come.’

  ‘It’s all right.’ Then, looking up into Jane’s sympathetic features it suddenly became all too much for the female soldier. Peterson burst into tears. She touched Jane’s ankle with her good hand, weeping freely, and said, ‘They were dirty with me, Miss Mulinder. I hate them. I hate them. They did nasty things to me . . .’

  Jane was almost as distressed by these shocking words as Peterson herself and she knelt down and put her arms around the soldier. She was unaware of the coarseness of the uniform or the foul smell of the person who was wearing it. Her heart had been pierced by the woman’s words, the hurt cry of a wounded fellow human being.

  ‘Oh – oh, you poor thing. How awful. How dreadful. Come on, let it out, let it all come out.’

  Peterson sobbed, taking comfort in another woman’s arms.

  Crossman had already picked out a spot to make his stand. The difficult part was in reaching it before the pursuing Cossacks caught up with them.

  But the horses held out. The soldiers made the semi-circle of rocks with little time to spare. Shots had been exchanged from the saddles, but no one so far had been hit on the chase, not Cossack nor ranger. The mounts were taken behind a tor and hobbled to keep them from bolting. There was a small beck nearby, dribbling down the a rocky channel. It was enough to keep the peloton in water, whereas the Cossacks, now ensconced in a tangle of trees lower down the escarpment, had none.

  Crossman had chosen his ‘fortress’ well. They were higher than the enemy, who had to shoot up the slope and were therefore at a disadvantage. There was good cover and they could not be encircled, since there were serious drops on either side of the gradient. A man might get round, but not on his mount, and any Cossack who tried to get behind the group would be stark against the landscape and would make an easy target. Cords of firewood had been stashed in the rocks earlier, so that fires could be lit at night and catch any stealthy movements in their light. Each man was carrying more than 120 rounds of ammunition. They had supplies in their saddlebags and were prepared for a siege.

  Allowing themselves to be governed by natural inclination – they were after all cavalry – the Cossacks first attempted to charge the position with their superior numbers. They were beaten back by the fierce firepower of the peloton. Unfortunately for the rangers, who were fatigued from their ride, their aim was poor due to unsteady hands. Also, they were excited by the charge and therefore blasted away frantically, firing at everything and nothing. The air was thick with bullets but only one Cossack was hit and he was only wounded in the shoulder. Still, the intensity of the fire, combined with the difficulty of the slope, forced the Cossacks back to the trees.

  Crossman heard an argument ensue between the various members of the force down below him.

  ‘What’re they sayin’, sergeant?’ asked Wynter, performing the difficult operation of reloading while lying down. He withdrew his ramrod and sheathed it back on the stock of the Enfield. ‘Are they comin’ again. I’m a bit more ready for ’em, this time.’

  Yorwarth and Gwilliams were already taking beads on the edge of the trees, waiting for the
next charge.

  ‘No – no, I think they’re going to bed down there,’ muttered Crossman, listening hard for the snatches of loud conversation that floated up on the breeze. ‘Yes, their sergeant is insisting on it. He doesn’t want to lose any more men at this stage. Gwilliams?’

  ‘Sergeant?’

  Crossman pointed. ‘See that ledge over there? It commands a view down the far side of the hill. If they go for reinforcements they’ll have to head out that way. I want you to get up on that ledge and shoot any rider that makes a break for open country. Can you do it?’

  There was a chimney of rock leading up to the ledge in question and Gwilliams felt he could make it safely to the flat stone which was angled away from the trees and therefore presented cover.

  ‘I’m on my way,’ he said, snaking across the dusty ground towards the chimney.

  ‘Take some water,’ said Crossman, tossing him a leather bottle. ‘And some salt beef.’

  Gwilliams grinned. ‘Got some in my pocket, sergeant.’

  The barber continued to wriggle to the rock face and, once there, began to wend his way up the granite channel to the ledge. Shots came from the trees, smacking into the stone face of the hill. Wynter and Yorwarth started to return the fire, furiously, while Crossman watched anxiously until he saw Gwilliams make it to the slab of stone above their heads.

  ‘Well done,’ he said, then joined the others in firing down the hill into the fence of trees.

  For the next few hours the battle raged in earnest. A goodly shower of meteors flew through the air, humming, zinging off stones. Yorwarth got stone splinters in his cheek from a ricochet, which drew a quantity of blood, but he was not seriously hurt. He was the only casualty during that fierce exchange. So far as they knew, there were none on the other side, either. At that point both commanders realized they were simply wasting ammunition and almost simultaneously the intensity of the firing dropped to the odd few sporadic shots.

  ‘You look as if someone’s drawn your cork,’ said Wynter, dabbing at Yorwarth’s face with a rag. ‘That’s a prime claret comin’ out there. Here, you’ve gone an’ got some chips in you . . .’ Wynter found his bayonet and began picking the gravel out of Yorwarth’s face with the point. ‘Yell if it hurts.’