Attack on the Redan

by Garry Douglas Kilworth

  Jarrard laughed. ‘He’ll be having parades next, with all six of you!’

  ‘He does already. At least he lines us up, shortest on the right, tallest on the left, and then marches slowly along the ascending curve of heads, peering closely into each man’s face and asking, ‘How are you today, soldier?’

  Jarrard was surprised. ‘He asks that? An officer of a ranker?’

  ‘He’s one of a new breed, Rupert.’

  ‘And what do they answer?’

  ‘Always the same. “Fine, sir, just fine.” Here you have Wynter, and others, moaning incessantly about the army, complaining night and day, and when they get the opportunity to air those moans and groans, what do they say? “Fine, sir, just fine.” It’s as if the world is run on rituals. One ritual is the moaning ritual, the other is the answering-an-officer’s-enquiry ritual. The two seem to have nothing to do with one another. Simply rituals, never changing, always the same. The world is kept safe with rituals.’

  ‘Litanies, you mean. The priest says “Lord, have mercy upon us.” The congregation responds with, “Christ, have mercy upon us.” The litany never changes. No one would think of changing it. They’ll still be saying the same things ten thousand years from now. The language suffers from it.’

  ‘But these litanies are like straws to a drowning man, Rupert.’

  ‘Yes, there is safety in knowing exactly what the response will be, without fail.’

  They were back where they started, so they parted and made a promise to meet later in the week, to attend the concert.

  Despite the warmth of the evening, Crossman wore a Tartar’s jacket over his coatee. Although he had always proclaimed that the ranks were just as worthy as the officers, the ingrained prejudices of his upbringing made him subconsciously wish to hide the fact that he was but a sergeant while in upper-class company. Most of the men, and the few women, who were attending the concert in the French camp were officers. Those who were not were generally serving those who were.

  It irked Crossman that he had to hide his rank, but he did not want any incidents to spoil the evening. There was always the cavalry lieutenant (usually it was the junior officers who were the worst, creatures unsure of themselves, they being the parvenus of the army) who felt he ought to assert his superiority. Should one of them require a glass of beer, or wine, and seeing his sergeant’s stripes order him to fetch one, he knew that in the company of Rupert and Jane he would tell that man to go to the very devil. This would of course cause a fuss and the evening would end there.

  So he ensured that they sat to the side, not in the middle seats, and he had specifically requested that Jarrard should keep his voice moderate and his clapping modest. The American was inclined to make a show of things. It was his wont to applaud with a very distinct and loud clapping of his rather large hands and yell ‘Bravo’ after every movement, even though he was aware one should wait to show one’s appreciation for the performance once the whole piece was finished.

  Love could not only be blind, but fairly brash too.

  ‘Are you comfortable?’ he asked Jane, for the wooden seats were not only hard, but rough to the touch. ‘I could give you my jacket to sit on.’

  He was relieved when she said yes and that his jacket was not necessary.

  ‘That’s good,’ he replied. And it was good, for not only did he not want to take the jacket off for reasons already considered, he was also concerned that it might contain lice. Lice were not uncommon in the Crimea, and no doubt Jane had been bitten more than once since she had arrived, but he did not want the bites to come from any circus owned by him. ‘What’s the programme? Have you looked?’

  Jane had been handed a piece of badly printed paper when she entered the open-air theatre – nothing more than an area roped-off and hung with hessian sacks, set with wooden benches – which told them of the delights to come.

  ‘It’s an evening of baroque,’ she whispered. ‘Do you approve?’

  ‘Wholeheartedly,’ he said with enthusiasm. He loved the music of the seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries. ‘Is Purcell there?’

  She smiled gently. ‘In a performance by a French orchestra? I doubt it.’ She looked again, then squealed in a delighted voice. ‘Yes, yes, they have Bess of Bedlam. How wonderful. And pieces by Albinoni, Corelli and Charpentier. What a feast.’

  Crossman was looking at a white shoulder, partially covered by a pashmina shawl. Jane’s skin, that which he could see sweeping out of the shawl and into the lovely swan-neck, was delicate and scented. Her hair was pinned up, but some strands had come loose and coiled in the curve of her throat. There were no pearls or necklace of any kind. Simply a dimple there which he yearned to touch. He refrained, of course. The action would have been entirely inappropriate.

  The rustle of her dress when she moved was one of the most exciting sounds he had heard in a long time and he found his heart was beating faster with every moment. Was it possible that a woman could do this to him, after all his escapades in the Crimea? It seemed so. It seemed that Jane, this fantastical-evening Jane, could send his blood racing round his body faster than an oncoming Cossack charge. He found himself murmuring poetry.

  ‘Whereas in silks my Julia goes then, then (methinks) how sweetly flows, that liquefaction of her clothes.’

  Jane immediately turned to him. ‘What was that? Who is this “Julia”?’

  He became flustered. ‘No one. That is, someone, but not known to me. It’s from a poem by Robert Herrick. I – I was thinking of you, actually, and the sound your dress was making.’

  She smiled. ‘Oh, how – how sweet of you, Alexander. To be thinking of me, just because I’m sitting next to you.’

  He laughed. ‘Yes, it was a ludicrous thing to say, wasn’t it? But it happened to be true. I have been thinking of you a lot, lately, pretend-cousin Jane. I think you know that.’

  ‘I think I do.’

  5

  ‘There’s Monique,’ whispered Jarrard, as the musicians came out on to the stage. ‘The second cellist.’

  Crossman actually needed no pointer. Jarrard’s earlier description fitted her perfectly. She was an elfin-like creature, diminutive, with darkish urchin-cut hair. Her face was small and heart-shaped, with large expressive eyes that twinkled when she looked in Jarrard’s direction. To Crossman, she was the typical type of French girl – for girl she seemed, rather than woman – one would see in a village in southern France. One of those light-framed young women with an easy swinging walk, with no pretensions, no voluptuous movements such as a full-bodied Florentine or statuesque Andalucian might use. She was a sprite. A nymph. A girl with a quick and ready smile.

  Crossman felt, just by looking at this young woman, that she could be easily hurt. She did not have a worldly air about her and any admirers she might have had previously would probably have been callow youths who did nothing more than blink from a distance. She appeared as fresh, lovely, innocent and yet vulnerable as wild flowers in a Provence field. Crossman had no idea of Jarrard’s previous relationships with women and he hoped the American was not going to play with this young lady. He hoped there was a streak of seriousness in his friend regarding Monique Foudre.

  Jarrard, cigar protruding from his mouth, was clapping fit to rival the thunder of Thor. He was the only member of the audience to give the musicians a standing ovation before they had begun to play. Monique smiled shyly, a little embarrassed, Crossman thought. He tugged at Jarrard’s coat, trying to get him to sit down. Jarrard finally did so, still clapping hard, with a dark look at Crossman.

  While the musicians were tuning up a dog began to howl in a low voice. Everyone laughed. Crossman turned to see a black Labrador sitting by the heels of a British army captain. The dog’s owner said, ‘Lie down, boy,’ curtly to the animal and the Labrador did as it was told, resting its head on its paws, without any further fuss.

  ‘Quiet, Sabre,’ said the captain. ‘Good dog.’

  It was then that Crossman noticed that the dog
’s owner was Captain Sterling Campbell. The captain suddenly turned and glared in their direction, except that he was looking at Jarrard rather than Crossman. The marks on the captain’s face, like those on Jarrard’s, had not yet disappeared. He looked quite ferocious and for a moment his eyes rested on Crossman, before switching again to the neck of his enemy, Rupert Jarrard.

  Crossman whipped round quickly, his heart beating fast. Had the captain recognized him? It seemed doubtful. Crossman remembered he had been clean-shaven when he had played cards with Campbell. Now Crossman’s face was covered in a big black beard. He and Campbell had passed each other just once in the street and there were soldiers aplenty in India and the Crimea. Hopefully the captain would fail to recognize him as the lieutenant he had once fleeced of a good deal of money.

  Campbell was used to winning at cards. His main occupation, outside being an officer in the army, was gambling. He would no doubt remember those who had taken money from him, but those he had beaten would number in the hundreds.

  A little later, once the music had begun, Crossman took a quick look behind him at Campbell, but the officer was no longer looking in his direction. His hand was down, stroking the neck of the dog while he listened to the music. There was a faraway look in Campbell’s eyes. Crossman had seen that look on other men who had been to India. That exotic land of the Honourable East India Company seemed to capture the souls of all who trod her soil.

  After the first performance, Jarrard predictably applauded like a maniac and yelled ‘Bravo!’ several times. Then he turned on Crossman and asked, ‘What do you think, Jack? Eh?’

  ‘I thought they played with great enthusiasm. How did you rate the performance, Cousin Jane?’

  ‘Very fine!’ replied Jane.

  ‘I don’t mean the performance, you weasel,’ growled Jarrard at Crossman. ‘You know I don’t. What do you think of Monique? And anyway, she played like an angel. I can’t think why she is not playing in the concert halls of cities like Prague, Salzburg or Vienna.’

  ‘No doubt I shall meet her after the evening is over and I shall be able to give her a much fuller appraisal, but going by her looks she is an exceptionally pretty girl. How old is she, Rupert? Seventeen?’

  ‘Eighteen,’ replied the American. ‘I know what you’re thinking. You think I’m robbing the nursery.’

  ‘No, I don’t. But I do think she looks a little . . .’

  ‘Naive? She’s wiser than she appears, Jack. There’s a good deal of maturity beneath that adorable face, believe me . . .’

  The music had begun again, so they were not able to speak more on the subject. In fact they said nothing until Monique joined them later, at a table in the French canteen that had been set up to serve customers of the theatre. She immediately ordered herself a drink in a very firm, no-nonsense tone and then turned to smile at the company. Crossman was of course on his feet and after Jarrard had introduced them, murmured, ‘Enchanté, mademoiselle.’

  Once the introductions had been made they continued in French, Jarrard a little behind the others, but still able to cope.

  ‘So how long do you plan to stay in the holiday resort of the Crimea, Mademoiselle Foudre?’ asked Jane, smiling.

  ‘Oh, as long as the rest of the musicians, I suppose. We have no time limit, but of course the troops will tire of us sometime.’

  ‘Do you not have venues to play at in France?’

  Monique shrugged. ‘We are not the best of musicians, unfortunately, and our services are not sought after.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ cried Jarrard. ‘You play magnificently. I could hear the Gods sighing in envy every time your bow touched the strings.’

  Monique laughed and nodded towards the American. ‘The voice of love,’ she said. ‘How sweet to the ear, but my dear Rupert, unfortunately I am not so blind towards my own music. I play moderately well, as do the rest of my group, but we are not great masters or mistresses of our art. We do as well as we can. I am young. I hope to improve as time goes on, but I shall never be in great demand.’

  Her pragmatism impressed Crossman. Jarrard was right. She was not as naive as she appeared. She had a good practical head on her shoulders.

  Throughout the evening this young French woman continued to reinforce this view Crossman had now formed of her. She spoke with a wiser mouth than she at first appeared to own. By the time the evening came to an end Crossman was quite sure she would not let Jarrard toy with her: in fact Jack rather feared for his friend’s feelings. In many ways Rupert was quite vulnerable and Monique, he was sure, would not throw in her lot with just any man. She appeared to be very fond of Jarrard, but she did not stare at him with adoring eyes, nor did she allow him to correct her when she felt she was in the right.

  Monique began telling them an anecdote involving a Hungarian prince, when Crossman felt something sniffing his ankle. He peered down to see the black Labrador. It licked his hand when he reached down to push it away, fearful of looking around for its master. A voice behind called the animal to heel and thankfully the dog obeyed. Crossman felt a little fortunate that he was with Jarrard, whose presence prevented Campbell from coming up to their table to claim his hound. Crossman realized he was still in a cold sweat some few minutes later, after the dog had long since gone.

  The following morning Crossman was up and about when Jarrard came to see him at the hovel.

  ‘You approve?’ asked the American.

  ‘It’s not for me to approve or disapprove, Rupert. I liked her. I liked her immensely. So did Jane. What are your intentions, if I may be bold enough to ask? Are they serious?’

  ‘Absolutely. I am going to ask her to be my wife.’

  ‘How do you think she will feel about your chosen profession? I mean, you are much like a soldier, Rupert. You follow the drum, if for different reasons. Will she mind you trotting off to a distant war every five minutes? Have you thought of that? It’s not the kind of life every woman would want. Either she will have to forsake home and country in order to keep up with your global wanderings, or she will live the lonely life of a wife who waits at home for the occasional visits of her travelling husband.’

  ‘Well, I’ve thought of that, Jack, and you see, she does roam around at the moment.’

  ‘But she probably has no choice, if she wants to earn her living at playing her music. She may harbour a great desire to settle down in a little cottage with a white picket fence so that she may grow roses and vegetables and wave to her man from the window as he comes home in the evening. Lots of women do nurture this idea, you know, Rupert – false as it probably seems to you and I. Those who do not, and aspire to greater things, see themselves in a grand mansion overflowing with servants, with nothing to do all day but write billets-doux and plan the next ball. The husband does not feature so highly in this scenario, but he’s there all the same, ready to change out of his muddy riding clothes in order to dine with her and her friends.’

  ‘Lord, Jack, what pictures you paint,’ cried Jarrard, his broad brow furrowing. ‘I think I know women as well as you or any man, and what most of ’em want is love, pure and simple. They may hold those pictures in their heads, but they’ll settle for anything when the time comes, so long as they get the man they fall in love with.’

  ‘I hope you’re right, for your own sake.’

  Jarrard looked down at his highly-polished brown boots. ‘So do I. So do I. I keep convincing myself, then fading away again. There’s nothing so terrible, I’m told, as a disenchanted – no – a dissatisfied wife. They’re the very devil to please. But I do want her, Jack, and I shall have her.’

  ‘As you say, Rupert. I wish you well, you know I do. I just don’t want you to make a mistake.’

  That morning they were going out to test the camel gun. Jarrard had asked to go with him. He wanted to write a piece on their efforts.

  ‘I can’t see our own army investing in such a contraption, but the readers will be amused.’

  ‘Amused?’ said Private Yorwarth. ‘Li
sten, Mr Jarrard, we ain’t here to amuse. This is serious stuff, This is advanced warfare, so the sergeant told us. Battles have been won with these here progressive weapons. Gwilliams been asking around, ain’t you Gwilliams? Tell Mr Jarrard what you heard from those Turks you talked with the other night.’

  Gwilliams and Jarrard did not get on and insulted each other behind each other’s backs, but in public they were polite enough. Still Gwilliams could not get himself to copy Yorwarth’s ‘Mister’ and dropped it for purposes of telling his stories.

  ‘See here, Jarrard,’ said Gwilliams, ‘you know the word zumbooruck comes from Turkish? Well, that’s a fact. It means a hornet or some such and it was a device that was around before gunpowder. In the old times zumboorucks was big crossbows mounted on camels and the twang of the thing sounded like a hornet, I guess – much like the word musket comes from mosquito – the whine of the musket ball and all.

  ‘Anyways, they’ve been around for some time. Back there in the seventeen hundreds a Prince Bedar Bakht was killed by a shot from a zumbooruck gun in some battle down by a river, then damn me if his brother Walajah didn’t meet the same end when he tried to avenge his older brother’s death. Then just thirty years ago, in some place called Khorasan . . .’

  ‘Near Afghanistan,’ murmured Jarrard.

  ‘. . . there was this Futah Allee Shah. Anyways, this fellah hated war, had a yellah streak I guess, and he come up against some zumboorucks, fell from his horse in a swoon of terror and got trampled on by his own cavalry, and I guess he got his, being a coward and all.’