Attack on the Redan

by Garry Douglas Kilworth

  Ali shrugged. For him it was to be expected. Amongst the conquerors there was always a pig, one who took his pleasure from the pain and misery of others. There were British soldiers who would have done it, given a reversed situation. It did not mean that all Cossacks were bad, but he did not say this to the sergeant. He knew it would not help for the moment. The sergeant needed to vent his anger, to feel hate. The situation there, on the hill, had been dire. The sergeant and his men had been close so close to Death they could have shaken hands with him. That kind of experience needs an escape valve. So he said nothing. He simply shrugged.

  4

  The exhausted band of men arrived back at Kadikoi to find Peterson recovering from her ordeal. Crossman learned that she had been visited by both Lavinia Durham and Jane Mulinder. He had expected to find Peterson in pieces but it seemed that the ladies had helped to bolster her spirit in the way that only women can. That is not to say she was perfectly well, but she had not descended into a pit of despair. Words of comfort and sympathy – help and understanding – had kept her from falling into a dark place from which she might never crawl again.

  ‘Peterson,’ Crossman said one night, when they were alone in the hovel. He automatically slipped into that formal mode of speech he used with the opposite sex, especially when talking of subjects draped in petticoats. ‘I am sorry for what happened to you. I cannot imagine the pain and anguish it caused and I wish you had not had to experience such a thing.’

  Crossman was clearly embarrassed and upset at having to talk of such a subject to a woman whose soul he hardly knew. He and Peterson had been in a war together. They had fought side by side, had spent nights around camp fires talking, had been constant companions for months. Yet still they knew very little of each other’s private feelings. Even if their differences in class, rank, or the reserved nature of the nation had not prevented them from revealing confidences, the fact of the army definitely would. In the army you only let people see what you wanted them to see. Any weaknesses in character, any deeply felt views or passions, any skeletons in the cupboard, you kept strictly hidden. You showed your comrades only your battle-face and you kept a whole mass of secrets tightly sealed inside.

  ‘I know, sergeant.’ Peterson was more than embarrassed. She was writhing inside. She could not imagine what images were in her sergeant’s head and she did not want to. ‘Sergeant,’ she was visibly writhing now, ‘do people like Wynter know – know . . .’

  ‘Wynter knows nothing. Only myself and Ali are aware. The Turk is an insightful man. He guessed what had happened to you. Be assured that the secret will remain amongst those who think well of you, Peterson.’

  Her eyes went a little misty, but then she held up her bandaged right hand. ‘My finger’s getting better.’

  They were both relieved to slip into another subject.

  ‘Excellent! You’ll soon be able to shoot again.’

  At that moment the door was flung open and a half-drunk Wynter strode inside, his eyes unnaturally bright.

  ‘Congratulate me!’ he cried. ‘I’m goin’ into double harness again.’

  It took a moment for the other two people in the room to comprehend what it was that was exciting the lance-corporal.

  ‘You mean you’re going to get married?’ said Peterson, flatly.

  Wynter flung his arms up. ‘Yep! Me, hitched. Told you I would. Found this saucy Orkney girl. She belonged to one of them in the Highland Brigade, but he died of the cholera. Now she wants me.’

  ‘I wonder why?’ said Crossman. ‘Has she lost her reason?’

  ‘No, an’ she’s not blind nor stupid neither,’ growled Wynter. ‘She just wants a good man to look after her. Well, I’m a good man, see. I’ll take care of her, just see if I don’t.’ He was quiet for a moment, then added, ‘Likes a drink too, just like me. We suit each other. You want to meet her?’

  Without waiting for an answer he opened the door and yelled, ‘Mary! Come on over, meet the sergeant.’

  A dumpy woman in a rough skirt and dirty blouse came sidling into the room a few moments later. It was difficult to guess her age, but Crossman would have put her in her mid-forties: probably twice the number of Wynter’s years on the earth. She had a pleasant, if doughy face, with dark-ringed eyes dulled by gin. Her hair was mostly grey, with some of the original darkness in patches: it was tied up in a loose bun from which thick dirty strands had escaped and hung over her shoulders. On her feet were a pair of Russian soldier’s boots, cut to fit her larger size. The bare ankles above the boots were thick and covered in sores.

  As poor soldiers’ wives went, after two years away from home in a place where proper sanitation and ablutions were nonexistent, she was a reasonable catch for a man like Wynter. Mary had probably been lured away from similar conditions in a croft in the Orkney Islands – neither better nor worse than many other homes in the United Kingdom – and had spent a hard time in scratching a living in the army. No doubt before that her life had been somewhat harder and her life expectancy shorter. As any army wife she had to wash clothes and look after her man, probably several men, but she did not have to dig flinty soil and plant potatoes year in, year out. She did not have to carry firewood dozens of miles, nor spend her life in a dank scullery the size of an army officer’s toilet. Here her diet was a little more varied and the entertainment decidedly more sparkling.

  ‘Hello, sir,’ she said, curtsying to Crossman. ‘Very pleased to make your acquaintance.’

  ‘You don’t ’ave to call him sir,’ laughed Wynter. ‘He’s only a sergeant – they’re two a penny.’

  ‘I ken that,’ she flashed back at her husband-to-be, ‘but I speak as I would be spoken to.’

  ‘Well said, Mary,’ Crossman intervened, hoping to avoid a domestic scene. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing, marrying that reprobate.’

  She touched her grey hair and gave Crossman a look which implied that her choice was limited.

  Wynter crossed the room and threw up his arms again. ‘Mary, what d’you think of your new home? Eh? Palace or what?’ He turned and indicated his cot. ‘This is our bed. I’ll hang a blanket up, for the sake of modesty an’ all that. Save them lot gawking at us.’

  Peterson rolled her eyes and made a retching sound.

  ‘Well, not you maybe,’ said Wynter, ‘but that there Gwilliams. And Yorwarth – bloody hell, here he is!’ Yorwarth entered the hovel, raking his nails over his neck. ‘Yorwarth, you’ve broken out again – you scratch ’em like that and you’ll bleed to death. Now Mary here, she’s good at curin’ things. She could probably make you some decent ointment.’

  Yorwarth said, ‘I’ve had enough of damn ointments.’

  Crossman asked, ‘So, when do you tie the knot?’

  ‘We’re jumpin’ the broomstick this afternoon, at three. You’re invited, sergeant. And you, Peterson. It’s goin’ to be quite a do. All the girls from the black tent are comin’.’

  ‘You’re going to have those harlots at your wedding?’ cried Peterson. ‘Mary, is this true?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t care. He can have who he wants.’ She sounded weary, as if she had been through this a dozen times already.

  ‘They’re my friends,’ argued Wynter. ‘The trouble with you Peterson, is you’re jealous. You don’t have friends like me. Plenty of booze, that’s the secret. I’m goin’ to have the time of my life . . .’

  The day did not quite work out the way Wynter planned. He did indeed get married. There was no vicar of course, the pair did not even consider a chapel wedding, but he did jump the broomstick with Mary Robertson and declare his intention to be married in front of witnesses. Nothing more was required. Mary was now his chattel. In turn she would be fed and given shelter. Any more than that was dependent on Wynter’s benevolence. Mary did not expect anything more than her basic needs to be met. Wynter was not stingy with the gin, once he’d had a skinful himself, and she appreciated this generous streak in his otherwise mean nature.

  By six o’cl
ock Wynter was dead drunk.

  He and a friend from the 88th loaded a rifle with a ball-less cartridge, stuffing sea-salt crystals down the barrel for the ammunition. They planned to fire the salt like a pellets of shot at another soldier in the regiment. Wynter had a sour history with the victim, a young Irish private, who had once taken money from him at cards. Wynter had craved revenge ever since the fleecing and his wedding day seemed liked the perfect time to get even with his enemy. Since it was summer the men working in the docks and around the camp had taken off their shirts to work. This was important. Wynter had to blast bare skin so that the salt would be driven into the man’s body. It was an old trick used by Corsican and Sardinian farmers on poachers.

  The result of the salt entering a man’s bloodstream was the raising of the victim’s temperature for a few days. It would in effect cause the man to experience the same symptoms as a high fever. Death was seldom the outcome of such an act. In almost all cases the victim recovered, though for quite a long time he would be weak and sickly. Wynter wanted his man to know he couldn’t ‘cheat’ Wynter and get away with it forever.

  Wynter, grinning evilly, stepped out of the shadows and confronted the unwary soldier with, ‘Sullivan, d’you want some salt in your beef?’ He then fired at the bare chest of the startled man in front of him.

  Unfortunately for the bridegroom an ensign came round the corner just as he squeezed the trigger. Wynter was so drunk his aim was off. A certain amount of salt struck Sullivan, causing him to scream in pain. At the same time a little of the blast caught the sleeve of the ensign. Sullivan ran off, his chest streaming with rivulets of blood. The young ensign – not more than eighteen years of age – stood with wide, disbelieving eyes and then yelled hoarsely for assistance, genuinely thinking he had been shot at by a disaffected soldier running amuck.

  ‘Help! Ho! Murder here!’

  The ensign kept inspecting his coat, trying to find out where the bullet had entered.

  Men came running. Wynter was disarmed and secured by two or three strong soldiers. A colour sergeant slapped his face, telling him to come to his senses and that he had committed a heinous crime against a superior officer.

  ‘You’ll hang for this!’ said the colour sergeant.

  Wynter’s friend had disappeared like the morning mist. Wynter himself was taken into custody. He tried to explain to a rather unsympathetic captain what he had been trying to do, but after a beating was cast into a makeshift prison. He managed to get word out to Crossman, who had already heard a fragmented story from the wedding guests. Major Lovelace was consulted and with a great deal of negotiation and diplomacy on his part the attempted murder charge was dropped. The ensign however, and his superiors, were determined to exact a strong punishment on Wynter. Lovelace agreed that Wynter’s acts, both on the soldier and in tagging the ensign, required that he undergo punishment. ‘A lesson needs to be taught.’

  ‘Don’t let them flog me, sergeant,’ said Wynter, when Crossman went to see him. The miscreant soldier was white with fear. ‘They’re talking about fifty lashes. I can’t take no fifty lashes. I’m a sick man.’

  ‘The sickness is very temporary, Wynter. The result of your overindulgence. If you will drink to excess . . .’

  ‘Oh, shut that gentry-talk, sergeant. I’m in trouble. I had a few too many rums, that’s all. You can get Colonel Hawke or Major Lovelace to get me off. It was my weddin’ for Christsakes. I didn’t mean no harm.’

  ‘You shot at an ensign. Major Lovelace has managed to get the charge of attemptd murder dropped, but you can’t expect him to involve himself any further. You’re an idiot, Wynter. A complete fool. I can’t do anything more for you. You’ll have to grit your teeth and take your punishment. Other men have taken as much and walked away laughing. By the by, Sullivan is in a bad way. You’d better pray he pulls out of it, otherwise there’s nothing I or anyone else can do for you.’

  ‘He’ll be all right,’ grumbled Wynter. ‘He an’t gettin’ no fifty lashes, is he?’

  Sullivan did go through a bad time, his temperature soaring as it was expected to do, but he recovered from the attack. Wynter received his punishment. Crossman went to watch. Wynter passed by him, giving him a sidelong glance. The lance-corporal’s face was ashen. Those watching could see his legs were unsteady. No one blamed him for this, nor when he screamed out after the sixth stroke. The whistle of the lash made the man tense for the actual strike, which was all the worse for him. Wynter passed out three-quarters of the way through his punishment. When he was taken down, his back was flayed and he was insensible. Gwilliams and Yorwarth carried him on a stretcher to Mrs Seacole, who rubbed some healing ointment into the wounds and gave the pair instructions on further treatment.

  On opening his eyes, the first person Wynter saw was Crossman.

  ‘You bastard,’ he groaned. ‘You could’ve stopped that.’

  He tried to roll over on his back, forgetting that’s where the wounds were, and yelled in pain.

  Peterson said, ‘Don’t be a goat, Wynter. The sergeant couldn’t do anything. You took that on yourself, when you shot that private.’ Peterson paused a moment, before adding, ‘Oh, and you’ve been stripped to a private again yourself.’

  ‘What?’ cried the beleaguered man. ‘That’s me money cut, an’t it? I can’t afford to be married now.’

  ‘It’s a bit late for that,’ said Yorwarth. ‘You should’ve thought of that, before.’

  ‘Well, where’s me new wife, anyways?’ He tried to lift his head. ‘Where’s that cow got to?’

  ‘Saying she’s a cow make’s you a bull, does it?’ Peterson said. ‘I don’t think so. Wynter, when’re you going to get it in your head that no one is going to run around after you, even your new wife. She’s gone out drinking, so I heard. She said if you woke up before she was back to tell you she’ll bring you some eggs . . .’ But Peterson stopped here, because Wynter had slipped into unconsciousness again.

  Colonel Hawke sent for Crossman. The sergeant was halfway to the colonel’s ‘office’ when he noticed a certain captain heading towards him. Crossman recognized him instantly as Captain Sterling Campbell, the officer with whom he had once played cards. Crossman was quite evidently a sergeant, whereas Campbell had last seen him in a lieutenant’s uniform. There was little Crossman could do to avoid the captain, however, and as he passed he threw up a salute. Campbell was in a world of his own for he did not even acknowledge the sergeant.

  Crossman drew a deep breath and hurried on. Seeing the captain again caused him to wonder whether there had been any sort of showdown between him and Jarrard. Perhaps Jarrard was still ‘amongst the French’ and had managed to avoid meeting with Campbell. Jarrard was no coward, but the trick of sending Campbell to India had been for Crossman’s benefit and there was no reason why Jarrard should fight a duel over the matter. In fact Crossman would have felt duty bound to interfere if it did come to that.

  Hawke was pacing the floor when Crossman entered. He looked up, staring down that powerful nose of his.

  ‘Ah, sergeant. Come in.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Hawke’s bushy eyebrows knitted for a moment as he continued to walk up and down at the back of the room. He suddenly stopped and looked up. ‘And how is Lance-Corporal Peterson?’

  ‘Recovered, I think.’

  ‘That was good work, sergeant. I wondered at first – it was a risk, you’ll agree – but now I think I approve of looking after our own. These small groups, they’re very new, but they’re like families, aren’t they? A family looks after it’s own. Normally one would say that when a soldier is taken prisoner, in a battle for instance, that there would be an end to it. That soldier would be more or less forgotten. But with these bands, these pelotons, each member seems to be important to the whole. Yes, that was well done.’ He laughed. ‘I hope you would do the same for me.’

  ‘Naturally, sir. In a flash.’

  The colonel’s face darkened a little now. ‘On the ot
her hand, this business with Wynter, that was badly done. Is the man an idiot?’

  ‘Not far off, sir. A useful idiot.’

  ‘You think we should still keep him in the peloton?’

  Crossman saw a wonderful chance of ridding himself of Wynter, but found he could not mouth the right words. ‘That’s up to you, sir.’

  ‘What do you recommend?’

  Crossman sighed. ‘Perhaps give him another chance? He’s been with the group for the whole war. One of the founder members. It would be churlish of me to suggest you throw him out at this point, just when the war seems to be drawing to a close.’

  ‘I suppose so. Well, then, I take it he mends? Now, to get down to business. Something exciting for you. Zumbooruck! What do you think?’

  There was a triumphant note to the colonel’s tone that Crossman did not like the sound of. Crossman furrowed his brow wondering what he was supposed to think. What was that word the colonel had used? It sounded Turkish, but it meant nothing to the sergeant.

  ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to enlighten me further, sir.’

  ‘Ha! Caught you out, eh, sergeant? Well sir, a zumbooruck is a swivel gun, mounted on the saddle of a camel.’ He frowned as if musing, then corrected himself. ‘Or it might be the whole thing, the camel and the saddle-and-gun. That’s neither here nor there. The important thing is, they use ’em in India. Saw them in action myself, when I was there. Very effective. Scares the hell out of the enemy. Elephants are better of course, for making them wet their pants, but zumboorucks can do it too. This one was brought back by a captain from the 93rd. In fact . . .’

  ‘That wouldn’t be Captain Campbell, sir?’

  ‘You know him?’

  Crossman could have bitten off his tongue.

  ‘Well, as to that, you may recall, sir, that the 93rd was my father’s regiment, and that of my older brother, who was sent home sick a few months ago.’

  ‘Ah, there’s the connection. Yes, it was Campbell. Poor chap was abducted and shipped off to India. Somebody’s head is going to roll for that one day. Now where was I? Oh, yes – not only did Campbell tell me about these zumbooruks, he brought the equipment back with him. Won it in a game of chemin de fer, apparently. Campbell’s rather good at cards, but if you know him, you’ll be aware of that. It’s not a great secret. Over there, sergeant, in the corner of the room behind you. What do you think of that then, eh?’