Yorwarth took the opportunity of the break to have a furious scratch at his chest and genitals, and anywhere else his nails could reach.
‘Don’t worry about that,’ he growled, ‘it’s this bloody rash that’s turning me to a lunatic.’
‘Stop that!’ ordered Crossman. ‘You’ll take your skin off.’
‘I wish I bloody could. It ain’t much use to me like this, is it?’
At that moment, Gwilliams cried, ‘One going off!’ The sound of a horse’s hooves came to the ears of the rangers. There followed a shot from the ledge, then a satisfied, ‘One out of the saddle.’
‘You got him?’ queried Crossman.
‘Knocked him clean off.’
‘Dead?’
‘Looks like it. Good as, anywise.’
Crossman nodded. ‘They won’t try that again. Nice shot, Gwilliams.’
‘Couldn’t miss. He filled the skyline.’
‘Good work, anyway.’
Twilight arrived not long after this incident and this heralded a lull in the fighting. Neither side was making any impact on the numbers of the enemy. Yellow firelight appeared in the bank of trees below. Soon the smell of cooking came wafting up to the rangers. Crossman ordered the lighting of two fires, one either side of their position. He knew they would illuminate the rangers’ camp, but they needed to view the slope. Fortunately for him and his men a huge moon rose in a clear sky. If the Russians had thought they could send a rider out in the darkness, they were mistaken.
After eating, Yorwarth changed places with Gwilliams, and the American tucked into some heated food with relish. They also made tea on this third, smaller kitchen fire. There was a short interlude in the festivities when lumps were noticed attempting to crawl unseen up the escarpment and had to be fired upon to drive them back to the trees. Then the meal was resumed, pipes were lit behind the shelter of the rocks. Conversation turned to things other than the current dire situation.
‘What got you in the army, Wynter?’ asked Gwilliams. ‘You took the shillin’ for a pint of ale and a game of skittles? Or did the recruitin’ sergeant offer you a soft bed and waiter service for the rest of your life?’
Gwilliam’s tone was jocular, but Wynter replied in all seriousness.
‘No,’ he said, ‘I always fancied the military, see. I didn’t want to be no horny-handed son of the soil, like they called the other farm lads. I mean, there was no space for me in the cruck an’ I always saw meself as a redcoat.’ He inspected one of his weathered, threadbare sleeves, now turned a dark purple hue. ‘It were red in them days, of course, with lovely white pipe-clayed straps. An’ even the shako seemed pretty to me then. The army gave you a musket, free of charge, an’ boots – I’d never had boots on before and they hurt like buggery at first. All that stuff they give you. And all to the tune of beatin’ drums and the trilling of the fifes.’
‘You pay for much of your kit,’ pointed out Gwilliams.
‘Yes, but they give me the money to do it,’ replied Wynter, with his usual warped logic. ‘Anyways, soon as I was fourteen I joined the militia. I went for the Yeomanry, but they wouldn’t ’ave me, bein’ as I wasn’t from a family with a trade. So I upped and joined the Volunteer Rifles. They give us a weapon, which we had to keep in the guildhall, to save us from usin’ it to hunt rabbits and such. I wanted to shoot Frenchmen of course, they bein’ the last enemy we had, but there weren’t no invasion and never was goin’ to be one, so next time the army came I upped an’ took the shilling.’
‘You regret it now, though, don’t you?’
‘Naw, not really. I moan a bit, I know . . .’
‘A bit?’ snorted Crossman, listening to this exchange with some amusement.
‘We-eeell, I weren’t never given to followin’ discipline,’ argued Wynter. ‘It’s against the grain of my nature, so to speak. I’m like a roe deer, I am. Free-spirited. It don’t come easy bein’ told what to do, when you’re a man like me.’
‘Everyone has trouble takin’ orders,’ replied Gwilliams. ‘You just have to learn it. Now take me, I wouldn’t join no army again. Not because I don’t favour taking orders, but because you have to swear allegiance. I’m alleged to no man but me, an’ that’s a solid fact.’
‘You’re a bloody mercen’ry, you are,’ scoffed Wynter.
‘Too damn right.’
The conversation had to stop there as flashes and bangs came from wood below. The Cossacks were shooting at the fires, trying to scatter the logs. They gave up this pointless activity after a very short while, when they saw that even if they hit something it was soon replaced. Everyone settled down for a quiet night. Morning was soon enough to raise hell.
Normal fighting was resumed the following day. In the early hours a Cossack rider managed to get away. He had led his mount down beyond the tree line and was at a distance before the ledge sentry, Wynter now, could get a shot in. Wynter was never the best of riflemen anyway and he missed. By the time he had reloaded the Cossack was out of range. All the rest of the day Crossman expected to see a horde of Cossacks come riding back, hellbent on the destruction of the peloton, but none came for some reason. He could only guess, as the evening came round, that something untoward had happened to the rider. There was also the possibility that the commander to whom the rider had reported had decided not to risk any more of his troops. It was something of a puzzle. Of course, the reinforcements might arrive the next day, but Crossman had a feeling this would not happen.
This must have infuriated the Cossacks in the wood because at about three o’clock their frustration overcame them and they began blazing away like fury at the group in the boulders above.
The rangers, excited by the amount of metal in the air, responded in kind, with Wynter screaming, ‘Bloody barbarians!’ during every lull in the shooting.
‘Keep your breath, Wynter,’ ordered Crossman.
This was followed by a desperate charge from below. This time the Russian cavalry almost made it. One trooper, sabre flashing, reached the edge of the rocks before he was blasted from his saddle. The Cossacks retreated again, with Wynter still crying, ‘Barbarians!’
Another quiet period followed this heart-racing action.
Wynter asked, ‘Where the bleedin’ hell do they come from anyway, these Cossacks? Farm boys, are they?’
‘A bit more than that,’ replied Crossman, reloading his Tranter. ‘Barbarians, possibly, but I wonder if they consider themselves a barbarous race. They were indeed outlaws and fugitives at one time. There’s some Tartar and Kipchak blood in there. Ukrainians, mostly, but there are others – the Ottoman Cossacks are Polish I believe – and there are the Zaporozhe Cossacks, cousins of the Don Cossacks. In the Middle Ages they ranged over the areas on either side of the River Don . . .’
‘So that’s why they call ’em Don Cossacks!’
‘Well, it would seem so, wouldn’t it? I know they are intensely proud warriors, dedicated to force. You and I are merely part-time fighters, Wynter. A Cossack is born a warrior. There’s no wondering about whether he might be a carpenter or cobbler, as there is with us. Cossacks believe themselves to be the natural guardians of the Russian plains. There’s a traditional courage, a fearlessness that goes with being one of those men down there, of which we ought to be very cautious. It took a few weeks to turn you into something vaguely resembling a soldier, Wynter, while it took centuries of fighting to make one of those Cossacks in that wood. Their skill with the horse is legendary. Their sabre-talent, equally so. We may call them barbarians, but they are the sort of barbarians that soldiers admire.’
There were no further charges. That night was as black as gunpowder and a yet another courier was sent out from the Cossack camp. Crossman heard the hooves pounding on the hard ground. He put on extra security, the four men taking watches in pairs, in case the Cossacks sent up a party with knives. However, enemy numbers had been thinned somewhat and perhaps the Russians felt they ought to wait for their reinforcements. It was their style to
attack and overwhelm, rather than sneak up and slit throats. Cossacks went for flair and there was no glory in night assassinations.
There was a heavy dew on the ground the next morning, even though they were now deep into summer. The heights had something to do with it. Supplies were getting low, but more importantly ammunition was running out. The cavalry charges the previous day, along with the blistering firefights between, had depleted stores of cartridges. Now there were only a few cartridges left between the whole group of rangers. Crossman cursed himself for not keeping a better watch on the ammunition.
He realized now he had drifted off into that nether world where concentration and focus almost disappears. It was one of those situations – indeed, like the war in the Crimea itself – where conditions on either side hardly changed from day to day. Quite soon one slipped into the false state of mind whereby one believed they would never change, that the status quo would remain until some outside agency arrived to alter it. Well things had altered now, without any external intervention. The rangers had very few bullets left. Crossman wondered whether the leader of those Cossacks below was a step ahead of him. Perhaps the tactics yesterday were, ‘Get them to waste as much ammunition as possible and tomorrow, when they’ve run out of ammo, we’ll just ride in and take their heads’? Crossman could have booted himself up the backside. The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced that was what the Cossacks had in mind.
‘I’ve got three cartridges left, sergeant,’ said Wynter.
The others had similar amounts.
‘Looks like this will be the last day,’ Gwilliams said, grunting. ‘I won’t be shaving no more famous people.’
‘You never did shave famous people,’ growled Wynter. ‘That’s a load of old horseshit, that is.’
Gwilliams shook his head. ‘You’re a poor specimen of a man, Wynter. God made you from the bits left over, when he’d finished making the camels and yaks.’
‘Very funny.’
Yorwarth giggled and said, ‘I think it is.’
Crossman stared down the slope.
‘Looks like they’re getting ready for a final charge,’ he said, aware that he had only two bullets left for his Tranter revolver. ‘At least their reinforcements haven’t arrived. But they’ve had a good breakfast and now they’re going to finish us off.’
Wynter shook his head angrily. ‘How do they know we’re out of peas?’ he snarled. ‘They can’t know that.’
‘They can be pretty sure – I would be.’
‘Yes, but sergeant, we could have stashed a whole box full of cartridges up here. I know we didn’t, but they don’t know that.’
‘What do you suggest, Wynter?’
Wynter’s brow furrowed, but the idea was as far as he could go.
‘You’re the one with the big learnin’, sergeant. You tell us. You’re the one who went to a real school, an’t you? You must have read stories about things. You must know some tricks used by other soldiers in the same road as we’re in now. Come on, you’re the damn leader, use your noddle.’
Crossman flared. ‘Don’t be insolent, Wynter.’
‘I an’t bein’ insolent,’ shouted Wynter, ‘I’m tryin’ to spur something out of you. Anyways, who cares if I’m bein’ insolent or not? What’re you goin’ to do about it? Put me on latrine duty? Throw me in the stockade? Flog me? We’re all about to die, dammit.’
Wynter was right. Crossman’s authority was almost gone: dissipated by the fact that they were all about to meet the great leveller. There were no sergeants in heaven or hell. There were only lost souls and they were about to become just such creatures. The jaws of death were open wide and they were all about to be swallowed.
Wynter’s spur had done it though. Crossman’s anger had helped to hone his thoughts, had sharpened points on them. He recalled now an incident in military history that his father was always recounting at dinner, the old man having very little social graces or skill at intercourse, but relying on a huge fund of anecdotes and stories.
One of the tales the major was fond of telling was the story of the Duchess of Tryol, who lived in the fourteenth century. This Amazon warrior-queen, intent on expanding her territory, had encircled Castle Hochosterwitz in the province of Carthinia, intent on breaching its walls. Just when the duchess thought the castle was out of provisions a roasted ox, its belly stuffed with barley, was tossed over the walls into her camp. An enemy soldier yelled from the battlements that the duchess’s men might like a good hot meal, because they had a long wait if they thought they were going to lift the siege in anything like the near future. The duchess lost heart and broke the siege, leaving with her army and returning to her own province.
‘Of course,’ the major would add, with a wry chuckle, ‘that ox and the barley was the last food in the castle. The commandant was a wily old fox like myself. He had nothing to lose and he knew the value of a trick.’
‘Well, Father,’ muttered Crossman, ‘you may be good for something after all, you old boaster.’
‘What?’ cried Wynter. ‘Oh, Lord save us, the man’s lost his mind. He thinks I’m his pa now.’
Crossman shuddered. ‘Never that, Wynter, even in lunacy. Right,’ he became brisk. ‘Give me that black bottle you brought with you, Wynter.’
‘My ale?’ Wynter gasped. ‘I was savin’ that.’
‘A lot of good it’ll do you in hell. You can drink it now.’
Gwilliam’s eyebrows shot up. ‘He can?’
‘Yes, and quickly, they’re gathering below.’
Wynter took the bottle of beer from his saddlebag and began guzzling it. Gwilliams whipped it off him, took two swigs, and then handed it to Yorwarth. Yorwarth put it to his lips and then said, ‘It’s warm from the horse’s arse,’ and handed it to Crossman. Crossman finished off the last few dregs. Then he tossed the empty bottle down the slope. It rattled and bounced amongst the stones, grabbing the attention of the Cossacks on their horses.
‘Right,’ said Crossman, ‘first one to break that bottle gets the drumsticks of the quail hanging from my harness . . .’
He himself began banging away at the bottle with his pistol, missing every time, bullets zinging from rocks. Gwilliams began whooping, American style, and fired at the bottle, just chipping the base. Yorwarth tried, at the same time yelling his head off. Wynter looked around him, amazed at the scene, and then fired one off himself.
They all reloaded, frantically, as if the bottle were running away on legs of its own. The air was full of their cries, their chirrups, their high-spirited yells. Finally, Yorwarth hit the bottle and it shattered, the glass flying everywhere, tinkling amongst the stones of the escarpment. A hoarse ragged cheer went up from the doomed men, now completely out of ammunition. They stood up with smoking rifles, staring down at the Cossacks, who were now milling around, silently, witnessing this crazy spectacle with narrowed eyes.
Crossman pretended to reload his pistol, indicating his men should do the same with their Enfields.
He shouted cheerfully down the slope in Russian, ‘Ho, boys, come on up now. We’ve had our target practice for the day and we’re ready to put more holes in you. Don’t take your time though, we don’t like a slow moving target. Too easy. There’s a brace of quail’s legs running on this one. First to get an empty saddle. What do you say? Coming up?’
At that moment a shot rang out from another high point nearby. A Cossack dropped like a stone from his saddle. Then another shot came, and another. The Cossack commander, now down to a corporal, fired back with his carbine at this point. Wynter, the only one with a shot left in his barrel, fired at the corporal and took his furry hat off.
The Cossacks had finally had enough. They dug their heels into the ribs of their mounts and rode away and out, down the track the way they had come, riding like maniacs. They hurled insults over their shoulders at Crossman, telling him they were going to get him one of these days, and they would hang him by the heels from a tree and use him for lancing practice. T
hey would take out his eyes, they yelled, they would take off his nose. He would be meat for the choughs circling the hills.
‘Bugger off, you bloody barbarians!’ screamed a delighted Wynter, into the wind. ‘Go on, fuck off, or I’ll kick your Russian arses for you!’
‘That’s enough profanity for one day,’ said Gwilliams, sternly.
‘S’not profanity,’ argued Wynter. ‘I didn’t mention the Church once – it was just plain cussing.’
After a short while Ali came down on his stocky horse from above, clattering amongst the loose scree. He was grinning broadly. Arriving in the camp he swung his portly figure from the saddle and he and Crossman embraced. ‘Well done, old friend,’ said Crossman. ‘It was you who got the riders they sent out for reinforcements, wasn’t it?’
‘I am guilty of that, sergeant,’ the Turk growled, still smiling.
‘Well, you did a good job of chasing that lot away too.’
‘It weren’t that,’ Wynter told the Bashi-Bazouk, excitedly. ‘I’m sure it helped a bit, but it was the sergeant’s plan that did it. I – I was the one who inspeared . . .’
‘Inspired,’ Crossman assisted.
‘Yep, inspired him. That was me. I told him to think sharp and he did, and there we had a result. They thought we had a deal of ammunition left, but we an’t got none. Not a bullet between us.’ He laughed uproariously. ‘Not a single cartridge to our names.’
They broke camp now and headed out towards the plains. There was a need to put miles between the siege hill and themselves. Wynter couldn’t help chattering, going over their trick countless times. Crossman and Ali rode together, exchanging news. Crossman wanted to know about Peterson, whether she was all right.
‘She has bad hand – and they rape her.’
‘Oh my God.’ Crossman was horrified. Poor Peterson. He knew she must be utterly broken by such an experience. ‘Why did they do that? They are bloody barbarians.’
Attack on the Redan Page 10
