Attack on the Redan

by Garry Douglas Kilworth

  As Crossman stared down the lamplight caught the network of lash marks on Wynter’s back, covered now in reddish-yellow scabs. Those streaks, those scars, would never completely go away. Wynter would have them for the rest of his life. He should have had medals to go with them, but the work the peloton did was not yet recognized by the authorities as being worthy of such rewards. Not that Wynter would have kept them for long: he would have sold them a week after they were presented.

  Still, Crossman thought, they were quick enough to give the man a whipping when he had done wrong. It would not have hurt them much to have rewarded Wynter, and all the other members of the peloton, for doing their dangerous and unwholesome work for them. Such was the nature of large organizations. They expected utter loyalty, but gave little in return. They were made up of many individuals, most of whom were out for their own gains in terms of status and power. An army has many souls, of many shades and different colours. In a colony of ants each member works selflessly for the greater good. In a colony of humans any progress is through the advancement of individuals. The greater good comes along almost by accident when it falls into line with the desires of its leaders.

  Later in the week Jane came to see Crossman, ostensibly to find out how Peterson was coping after her ordeal. She and Crossman went for a walk in a nearby orchard, out of sight of enquiring eyes. They were able to kiss hello and take each other’s hands for a brief period.

  ‘How are you, my dearest Jane?’

  ‘I am well, Alexander.’ She used his real name in private. ‘If I looked a little peeked it’s because Lavinia will keep me up late at night playing whist with her friends.’

  ‘Oh, you don’t looked peeked at all. You look positively lovely. A nonpareil in anyone’s eyes. Look how rosy your cheeks are.’

  She laughed. ‘That’s because I pinched them hard before I came to see you. But I’m sure my eyes lack lustre and my brow is dark.’

  ‘I see nothing but stars and alabaster.’

  She laughed again. ‘Not very original, cousin, but it will do.’ Her tone changed. ‘How is Peterson? Has she recovered?’

  ‘Physically, I believe so,’ he replied, kicking at a fallen twig, ‘but who knows what is in her mind, Jane. This is all my fault. I should never have allowed her to remain, once I found she was a woman. It was selfishness on my part. She is so very good with a rifle-musket and her skill been very useful to me. It was wrong of me to exploit that.’

  Jane almost snorted in a very unladylike manner. ‘Alexander, she would not have it any other way. She would have hated you for revealing her secret to the authorities. So would they. What they are not supposed to know doesn’t hurt them. And Peterson does love the army. I confess it is all very strange to me, but it is a fact.’ Jane paused to reflect before adding, ‘One would have thought that an extraordinary sharpshooter like Peterson should be a narrow-eyed, leathery man with a soul the colour of slate, whereas Peterson is a sort of – well, soft as a dumpling and with very little brittle character about her. She is an incongruity, Alex.’

  ‘She is indeed. Talking of character, I hope she has the strength to weather the ordeal she went through. I cannot imagine what torture she’s been through, but one hopes she has enough reserves . . .’

  ‘I think you will find she is stronger than we believe her to be.’

  That subject over, Jane asked how Betsy was faring.

  ‘Never mind how she is coping with us,’ replied Crossman, ‘better to ask how we are coping with her. We managed to get the saddle and gun on her yesterday, but with a lot of fuss, and only for a moment or two. Did you know a camel can spit a wad some thirty yards? With a good deal of accuracy too. At least, Betsy can and I’m led to believe she represents the average dromedary in these parts. She struck Ali full in the back from that range, after he’d berated her for shucking off her saddle for the third time. I could see by the water in his eyes that the shot had stung him.

  ‘And naturally, she bites, and won’t get off her haunches when we want her to, or goes down on them when we don’t want her to. She relieves herself at the most inappropriate times. She seems to be able to release a foul-smelling gas at will. When she curls back her lips and shows her long brown teeth she is most formidable and unapproachable.

  ‘All in all she is a most uncooperative beast. Give me a horse anytime. I believe God made the camel, along with the stonefish and the stick insect, in order to provide the earth with absurdities. The camel is both comic and terrible – a product of whimsy and the ridiculous. It’s going to take a lot of patience on our part to get her to do as we wish – and of course, added to all her other vagaries, she’s female.’

  Jane, very amused at all this, knew of course that the last few words were meant to provoke her and she didn’t disappoint him.

  ‘You obviously don’t know females very well, Alex. For instance, you should know that it is not polite to speak of bodily functions in the presence of a lady – even those of domestic beasts. We are not supposed to know that such things occur. Actually females are not so complicated as men believe them to be, the fault lying with the fact that men are not very bright.’

  Crossman was amused by her flippancy. He did enjoy her company. She was easy to speak with and seemed to have none of the swift mood swings of Lavinia Durham. He knew too that he was falling in love with her. Cousin Jane. Not really his cousin, of course, and surely he had loved her since she had been six? Perhaps he had better say something of that nature?

  ‘Jane . . .’

  ‘Hey!’ came a loud voice.

  They both looked up, startled, to see someone bounding through the trees towards them.

  ‘Rupert!’ muttered Crossman, heaving an impatient sigh. ‘Impeccable timing, as usual.’

  ‘Hello, Jack. Good day, Jane. How good to see you both.’

  Jarrard stood there grinning, his face showing one or two marks. A cut above his left eye. A swelling on his cheekbone. A thick lip with a smear of blood on it. Clearly Jarrard had been in some sort of fracas and wished to be asked about it, because he simply stood before them, smiling, posing for admiration and comment.

  ‘You’ve been fighting!’ gasped Jane. ‘Oh, Rupert!’

  ‘Damn right I have, but with whom, eh Jack?’ A wink followed this sentence and Crossman got it straight away.

  ‘Campbell.’

  ‘Exactly,’ replied Jarrard with heavy satisfaction. ‘I could stand it no longer, so I put myself in his way when he was walking to his mess tent. He of course challenged me – I couldn’t very well challenge him, because I wanted the choice of weapons – and I told him it was to be fisticuffs. He looked surprised and asked if I would not prefer swords or pistols. No, says I, a good set of bare knuckles was all I needed.’ Jarrard looked to the sky as if in praise of whoever lived there. ‘It was the perfect answer, Jack. I wouldn’t be in danger of killing him this way. In fact,’ he rubbed his cheek, ‘he wasn’t an easy man to thrash. I’ve met easier. Caught me a good few times, but right prevailed . . .’

  ‘Not right, Rupert. He was, after all, the injured party.’

  ‘Never mind that. I knocked the damn wind out of that windbag and pummelled him around the head a fair bit. I blacked one of his eyes and I’m sure I broke his nose . . .’

  Jane winced.

  ‘And he finally went down and stayed down, much to the chagrin of his seconds. Oh, by the way, I borrowed your Lieutenant Pirce-Smith for my second. He didn’t mind. I think he enjoyed it.’

  Crossman heaved a sigh of relief this time. ‘Well, at least that’s out of the way, so long as he doesn’t challenge you again.’

  ‘He won’t. I requested his word before we set to, that this would be the end of the affair. Reluctantly – for privately, Jack, I think he wanted to blow my head off – he agreed. I believe he thought he could break every bone in my body and thereby get his satisfaction that way. My bones are intact, my friends, and my spirit is soaring. If any of his fellow officers want the same sort
of satisfaction, I’ll happily oblige. I don’t think they will though. Somehow a man like that loses his glitter when he’s lying in the dust after a scrap. Different from being shot or run through with a sword. His reputation remains intact after a duel to the death. Sort of clean. But a man who’s been knocked silly, his shirt ripped and his trousers muddied – well, the gloss goes off him. I don’t think his friends will make any more of it.’

  Jane growled like a lioness, ‘How base you men are, sometimes. How can it make you feel good to know you’ve beaten a man senseless, Rupert? It may have been necessary, but you should still feel bad about it. You should be saying how unfortunate it has been and that you feel terrible. Men. I despair of you as a species, or a gender, or whatever it is that you are.’

  ‘But he was calling me names, Jane. Everyone was talking. And I’d be a hypocrite if I came to Jack and told him I regretted the fight.’

  ‘The word gentlemen is a misnomer. You are anything but gentle and you all remain boys of twelve years of age. I shall leave you now, to crow about your triumph. When you decide to return to civilized society, then I shall be glad of your company again.’

  Jane strode off with a swish of skirts in a manner which delighted both the men who stood and watched her grand exit.

  ‘She does that so well, doesn’t she?’ said Crossman, staring after her.

  ‘They all do, Jack. They all do. Now, let me take you through it, blow by blow. If Pirce-Smith tells you otherwise, don’t believe him. His version will be biased by the fact that it was a brother officer I pounded. Besides his vision was impeded by a fat French general, who happened to be passing by, and who stopped to watch the fun . . .’

  Jarrard took Crossman through the fight from beginning to end, at the culmination of which Crossman was called to see that Betsy had at last accepted her gun-mounted saddle. A great cheer went up as Crossman and Jarrard approached to see that the miracle had been performed. Ali was looking pleased with himself. Yorwarth was looking worried, for the next stage was getting him up into the saddle. Stik was scowling, jealous of so many people taking an interest in his camel. Wynter, Gwilliams and Peterson were all looking smug, knowing they had not got to mount the beast. There was a festive air to the proceedings. Even Betsy was looking rather pleased with herself, obviously aware she was the centre of attraction.

  ‘Right,’ said Crossman, surveying the magnificent gleaming weapon that protruded from the saddle. ‘Next we have to get Yorwarth up there.’

  ‘I told you, sergeant, I’ve never rode one of these beasts.’

  ‘We’re not expecting further miracles today, Yorwarth, and you can stop that scratching, your rash is not going to help you get out of this. If Betsy objects to you and shucks you off a few times, that’s to be expected. Look, we’ll put some hay down, to break your fall. It’ll be as soft a landing as we can make it.’

  ‘Oh, Lord,’ muttered Yorwarth. ‘If I break a leg . . .’

  Stik ordered Betsy to kneel with a tap on her nose and a quiet word. The camel did as she was told. Yorwarth was then helped into the saddle. He sat there, a nervous wreck, his whole body shaking. Betsy was asked to rise. She did so, majestically. Yorwarth sat unsteadily in the saddle. In fact, to everyone’s surprise, Betsy seemed quite happy to have him there. She simply stood and chewed and looked about her with those huge eyes, neither happy nor sad, but calm.

  ‘Hey!’ cried Yorwarth. ‘I’m up.’

  He took hold of the swivel gun and swung it in a sweeping arc, managing to strike Betsy’s neck with the muzzle. Still she did not bolt or make any fuss. She was probably used to clouts from her handlers and thought it was one of those. It was all, you might say, satisfactory. Yorwarth proceeded to destroy several enemy defences with the gun, swinging it this way and that, and making firing noises with his mouth. His comrades ran around the static camel, pretending to return fire with their Enfields. Wynter told Yorwarth he had been shot through the head. Yorwarth replied that Wynter had been blasted to bits by canister just a moment before he had fired his weapon. It was all quite enjoyable, both to participate in and to watch. When they had finished their fun, Yorwarth was allowed to step down from the kneeling Betsy and they all went off to one of Ali’s special lunches of brown rat stew, which he called ‘steppe-rabbit meat’ to ward off any squeamishness on the part of the British soldiers.

  Crossman thought about the arc of the saddle gun. He loved inventors and inventions but rarely had the opportunity to do anything himself. Well, here was his chance. He borrowed some tools from a railway worker and fiddled with the gun, putting two stops on the swivel plate. Thus, when the gunner swung the weapon in future, it would only sweep through 340 degrees. It now stopped either side of Betsy’s head, giving her 20 degrees of safety. Now if Yorwarth got overexcited he would not blow Betsy’s head off by accident. Of course if the enemy were in front they would have to turn Betsy herself, but at least she would live to the tale.

  He was standing by his handiwork, feeling very pleased with himself, when Jarrard called by.

  ‘I would like you to meet Monique,’ said the American. ‘How about her next performance, on Tuesday? Look, why don’t you bring Jane along. I’m sure she would enjoy a concert.’

  ‘I’m obliged to you, Rupert. It would be good to get away from here for a few hours.’

  ‘Great. Oh,’ Jarrard reached into his coat and withdrew a crumpled envelope. ‘Here’s something for you, from Paris, France. One of the cellists was asking around for a Sergeant Jack Crossman of the 88th. When I said I knew you she handed me this. I hope it’s not bad news.’

  Jack frowned, taking the letter. He opened and read it in front of Jarrard, who waited patiently.

  ‘It is bad news. I can tell by your expression.’

  ‘Yes.’ Crossman carefully folded the single sheet of paper, put it back in the envelope, and then pocketed it. ‘Yes, it is. Very sad news. You’ll recall I was once engaged to a French lady, the niece of the owner of a vineyard north of here.’

  ‘Lisette? I thought you were still engaged to her.’

  ‘Well, technically, yes, but my letters have gone unanswered for several months now, so I thought she’d found someone else and was concerned about telling me.’

  Jarrard raised his eyebrows. ‘And that’s what’s happened?’

  ‘No, no. This letter is from Lisette’s uncle. Lisette died of consumption in Paris six months ago. The uncle wrote to me then, and once more besides, but the letters have obviously failed to reach me.’

  ‘I am sorry to hear that, Jack. I recall you were quite in love with her, once upon a time.’

  Crossman stared over the hard baked-mud ground towards the distant Fedioukine Hills. ‘Yes, though it seems a lifetime ago. Time has such a strange quality about it, Rupert. A year at home – hunting, riding, shooting, fishing, walking the estates – studying, when I was younger – such a year passed by so very quickly. Spring followed winter, with summer right on its heels, and before I could take a breath, the apples were ripe and the leaves were falling from the trees. There, the seasons overtook one. Here they drag themselves along behind, wearing leaden boots. These last few months couldn’t have passed more slowly.’

  ‘I know – you want to kick July in the ass to shunt it on so that August can move up the tracks.’

  ‘Something like that. Men crave immortality. Well then, the way to achieve it is to have a permanent war in dreary conditions. It seems we have been at Sebastopol forever already and it’s been – well, yes, under a year. Incredible. So much has happened to me. So little has happened to the war. I have changed so very much and the war seems to be unchanging.’

  ‘That’s the nature of the beast, I guess. Look, Jack, I’m finding this conversation a little depressing. I came here walking on clouds. Can we cease with philosophizing and get back to happier moments?’ He paused for a moment, then said, ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I was forgetting. You’ve had bad news. Forgive me, Jack. I’m an insensitive bear at times.’ />
  ‘No, it’s me that’s insensitive. I think that’s due to the damn war, too. I feel very little. Sadness for a life lost, but I hardly knew Lisette. I mean, surely that’s what marriage is about, getting to know the one you have fallen in love with? I should be devastated, inconsolable, but I’m not. I just feel a little emptier than before. These diseases that take our lives, they’re rife amongst us, aren’t they? How many dead British in this war so far, Rupert? From disease, I mean? Come on, you keep the figures for your paper.’

  ‘My guess is around fifteen thousand. But look, Jack, I really have had enough of this moping. Buck up, boy. Climb out of the hole. I don’t mind sympathizing with you over the loss of your Lisette, but I’m damned if I’m going to stand here mourning the British army. Does the letter say anything else?’

  Crossman said, ‘Yes. She’s left me something. A small house in Paris. It was her grandmother’s house, left to her in a will. I really don’t deserve this, Rupert. I shall have to write to the uncle and tell him that someone in the family should have it.’

  ‘Is the uncle rich?’

  Crossman shrugged. ‘He owns vineyards, here and in France. I suppose he has money.’

  ‘Then keep the house. You’ll only complicate things back there in Paris, France.’

  Crossman nodded, thoughtfully. ‘I’ll consider it. Now, Rupert,’ he said, cheering considerably, ‘what is it with you Americans? Why do you always qualify Paris with France? There is only one Paris, surely?’

  ‘No, the primary Paris is in Texas.’

  ‘Oh, like the primary Sierra Nevadas are in western America, I suppose? Those in Spain being the secondary ones.’

  Jarrard grinned. ‘You’ve got it.’

  ‘We shall continue this discussion another time. Right now I’ve got to get the men ready for an inspection by Colonel Hawke. Sometimes he decides he ought to act like a real colonel and he descends on us with a strolling-cane under his arm and attempts to turn us into smart soldiers. Look at me.’ Crossman’s face was a weathered moon in the centre of a black forest of beard and wild hair. The uniform he was wearing was threadbare, dirty and of a strange brick colour. His crumpled forage cap sat upon the wild hair as if it belonged rather in his pocket. He was in truth, a mess. ‘Will I ever become a proper soldier again? A well-turned out redcoat? I can’t think it will every happen. Colonel Hawke goes through the motions.’