‘Interesting tales, Gwilliams.’
‘There’s more, but what I’m tryin’ to say is, these here swivel guns on camels have been around long enough. If they wasn’t no good they’d be on the trash heap. That makes sense, don’t it?’
Crossman thought it did and supported Gwilliams.
‘The fact that they’re still in use, two centuries after they were invented – you did say two hundred years? – means they have a future. Ah, here’s Betsy now . . .’
The camel, gun-mounted saddle in place, was being led by Stik, who was as sullen as ever. The boy’s eyes rested on this group of soldiers with suspicion. What were they going to do to his camel today? He trusted none of them. Not even their leader, that man with three stripes. Stik would keep a wary eye open for any danger to his valuable beast and woe betide the man who caused it.
Crossman said, ‘We need to take her away into some quiet place in the foothills, where we can experiment out of the way of prying eyes. We don’t want the colonel’s secret weapon to be common knowledge amongst the troops. There are too many spies in Kadikoi . . .’
‘Sergeant Crossman’s peloton, to name but a few,’ said Jarrard.
They all trooped off north, up the Kadikoi road. Amongst many others they passed on the way a lady on a horse. She regarded them with some amusement. Jarrard doffed his hat, Crossman saluted.
‘Good morning, Mrs Durham,’ said Crossman in a very formal tone, aware that every man present knew that he had been this woman’s most intimate lover within the last year. ‘I hope the day finds you well?’
‘Thank you, sergeant, I am very well. Good day to you, Mr Jarrard. And have you captured one of the enemy? How fierce the beast looks. I am all a-tremble just studying his formidable ordnance.’ Betsy was quietly chewing away, her big doe eyes resting on nothing in particular. ‘Does the dromedary fire the weapon himself or is he assisted by a soldier?’
Crossman was of course irritated by this banter, but he knew he would have to give it to her back in kind, or she would feel she had won points.
‘My camel is very offended, Mrs Durham, since she is of the female gender, not the male.’
‘An Amazon? Great heavens, sergeant, you have your own Boadicea, leading you against the Russians. I am envious of her. You know I have always wished to be a soldier, but being a woman in a male-dominated world this has not been a possibility.’ Lance-Corporal Peterson made herself small in the background. ‘Yet here is a lady who has been recruited without regard to the fact that she is of the weaker sex. Yes, I am jealous.’
With that, Mrs Lavinia Durham rode away, leaving Crossman fuming with annoyance.
The worst was yet to come. They had to pass the encampment of the 93rd Foot, the Sutherland Highlanders. The jeers from the soldiers in kilts were more than even Wynter could bear and he almost came to blows with a private twice his size. In the middle of it all Crossman’s friend, Sergeant-Major Jock McKintyre came out of his tent to see what all the noise was about, bawled at his men to ‘get about army business’ and then had his own few jocular comments to make about camels and their masters.
‘Yer a few too short of a caravan,’ said McKintyre. ‘Ah could loan ye a wee goat or two, tae make it up!’
‘Very funny, Jock,’ replied Crossman.
‘Aye, ah thocht so.’ He laughed and then, as if noticing the glares directed at him, McKintyre’s face took on a serious look. ‘Och, ah’m sorry, Jack. Ah couldnae help mahsel’. See, what ye really wanted was advice as to yon other two, wasn’t it? Well, they went that way,’ he pointed up into the hills. ‘If yer right quick ye’ll catch ’em afore the noon.’
‘Who are you talking about, Jock?’ asked Crossman, wearily.
‘Why, Jack, the other two Wise Men, following yonder bright star.’
‘Sergeant,’ said Wynter, ‘I want to go home. Why are we all here? It only needs you and Yorwarth, don’t it?’
They left Jock McKintyre and his troops chuckling away to themselves. Throughout any campaign such as this the Highlanders had had to weather the jibes associated with their kilts, being called ‘ladies’ and worse, and it did their Scottish hearts good to get in a few barbed arrows.
Once they found a shallow valley where they believed themselves to be alone, Crossman and his men made ready with Betsy and her armaments.
‘Stik, make Betsy kneel. Now, Gwilliams and Wynter, load the gun with a round shot. We’ll try a fistful of musket balls afterwards, but I want to see how she reacts to a cannonball first. Get to it.’
Jarrard went and sat on a grassy knoll, took out his leather-covered notebook and rested it on his knee. Out of his other pocket came pen with nib protector and a bottle of ink which had an ingenious seal. It was a traveller’s kit he always used.
‘I hope someone will talk me through things, as they are done. I would greatly appreciate it,’ said Jarrard.
Peterson, still very quiet since her ordeal with the Cossacks, went and sat beside him.
Ali, who had also said very little that morning, climbed to the crest of escarpment behind the knoll to stare out over the surrounding countryside. The Turk was ever on the watch for enemy cavalry, who roamed in packs in these parts. A hare started from right beneath his feet. Normally he might have whipped out one of his many pistols and tried his luck, but today he simply watched it run.
Down below serious work was in progress. The gun having been loaded, Yorwarth lit the portfire from a smouldering linstock and stuck it into a holder on the saddle.
Both Stik and Betsy regarded all this activity with mild anxiousness. Betsy kept turning her head to have a peek at what was going on. It was clear she did not like the smell of the raw gunpowder and the lighting of the portfire had her trying to get to her feet. These smells, not completely new to her but never so close before, were quite disturbing. She was aware she was carrying them on her person. The fragrances of frankincense or myrrh would have been fine: Betsy would have recognized them somewhere in her racial memory. But gunpowder and fire. Those were scents preceding something rather sudden and alarming.
‘Right, into the saddle, Yorwarth.’
‘I don’t like this, sergeant. What if she bolts?’
‘Stik will hold on to her reins.’
‘He’s a little-bitty boy. She’ll drag him from here to kingdom come, sergeant. I don’t like this at all.’
‘Yorwarth, I’m ordering you. Get on the camel. You have nothing to worry about.’
Gwillams said, ‘He’s yellah, just like that sultan fellah who got trampled to death.’
‘You do it then!’ challenged Yorwarth.
‘It ain’t my job,’ replied Gwilliams. ‘It’s yourn.’
Yorwarth finally climbed into the saddle and Betsy then gathered her strength together and got laboriously to her feet. They splayed out a bit more than usual, with the extra weight. She stood there, calmly, while Yorwarth swung the gun back and forth, testing the trajectory and arc of fire. Crossman’s restricting device seemed to work quite well. At least Betsy wouldn’t get her head blown off that long curving neck.
‘Wynter, you hold her tail,’ said Crossman, feeling a little anxious himself now. ‘Hold on to it tightly.’
‘What if she kicks?’ cried the put-upon private. ‘She’ll knock my guts out!’
‘You just hold her steady. Gwilliams, you help Stik with the reins. That’s it. Everyone ready? Right, Yorwarth, what are you going to aim to hit?’
‘That small tree up there,’ he pointed to a thorn tree halfway up the slope ahead. ‘I’ll go for the middle of the trunk.’
‘Good man. Lay the gun then . . .’
Yorwarth did as he was told.
‘Now, apply the portfire to the vent.’
The portfire was applied.
The gun fired. Betsy jerked sideways, but managed to remain on her feet. Though startled, she did not bolt. However the wet green wad she was chewing shot out of her mouth as if from a cannon and hit Gwilliams in the back of
the neck. At the same time Betsy loosed her bowels and a steaming flow fell as a stinking waterfall down Wynter’s legs and all over his boots. The shot from the gun hit a rock at the base of the target tree and ricocheted upwards, narrowly missing Ali, who was still surveying the scenery. It passed by his head an inch from his ear. The ball ended up imbedded in the hillside beyond.
‘Wow!’ cried Peterson, coming to life for the first time in weeks, ‘That was really something, sergeant. Do it again!’
‘Look at my boots!’ wailed Wynter.
‘Look at my shirt!’ yelled Gwilliams.
Stik was thoroughly disgusted with the whole affair. He threw down the reins and went and sat next to Jarrard.
‘Well,’ Crossman said, trying to muster some enthusiasm, ‘that wasn’t as bad as we expected. And Yorwarth almost hit the target. Let’s do it again, this time with canister . . .’
Over the course of the morning they fired the gun several times and things improved. Betsy managed to control her bowels and eventually became blasé about the explosions taking place on her hump. Yorwarth became more accurate with the brass weapon. The importance of it all gradually seeped through into Stik’s imagination and he wanted a go with the gun, proving himself quite a capable shot with it. Gwilliams and Wynter cleaned themselves up with grass and water from a pool and even they began to see the funny side of the opening shot. Jarrard announced he had some very interesting copy which would have his readers in stitches.
By the time they were ready to go home, they were a fairly cheery bunch.
On their way back, the Bashi-Bazouk spotted a group of horsemen in a shallow depression to the north. With his spyglass he soon ascertained they were Russian Hussars, not more than a dozen of them.
‘Are they in range, sergeant?’ asked Yorwarth. ‘Can I have a go?’
Peterson loaded her Enfield. ‘We can all have a go, can’t we, sergeant?’
The British were armed of course, with their rifle-muskets, and Crossman could see that any cavalry below would have to charge up the slope to reach them. First he made sure there were no other troops in the vicinity. He didn’t want to fire on a dozen to find they were reinforced by a whole squadron hidden behind another ridge. After some time he was satisfied they were on their own and decided on action.
They would be able to pick the Russians out of their saddles with great ease, should the cavalry below decide to charge them. It was an opportunity too good to miss. He instructed Yorwarth to load the swivel with a ball, still keeping the riders in view. Just when Yorwarth announced that he was ‘Ready!’ the Russians turned and began heading south towards Crossman’s group, though it seemed from the casual way in which they held themselves that they were not preparing for a fight. They had simply changed direction at whim.
‘There’s someone down there!’ said Peterson, pointing.
Peterson of the eagle eye.
Using his glass Crossman picked out a figure walking amongst the rocks. It was a man with a brace of game birds slung over his left shoulder and a hunting weapon in the crook of his right arm. He seemed unaware of the Hussars, being in a gully and out of their line of sight. Peering hard through the glasses Crossman was able to make out the walker’s attire. He was wearing a shooting jacket and boots of a distinctive cut and cloth: clearly a British gentleman out bagging dinner for himself and his friends. There was an air of dreamy indifference about the way the man was walking, as if he believed he was on some country estate in his homeland and was thinking about coffee and biscuits after a morning’s hunting.
The two parties – the hunter and the Hussars – were on a collision course. They were clearly unaware of each other’s presence, the hunter being below the rise and walking parallel to it, the riders coming up the far side, ready to crest the hill. Suddenly Crossman saw the hunter’s head jerk towards the ridge. He had finally heard the sound of horses’ hooves. The lone man then looked about him quickly, found a boulder, and ducked behind it.
‘Time to show your skill, Yorwarth,’ said Crossman, the glass still imbedded in his left eye socket. ‘Fire at will.’
Yorwarth asked in an unsteady voice, ‘What’s the target, sergeant?’
‘Aim for the middle of those riders. Remember they are moving towards you, so allow for that, but not too much, they don’t seem in any great hurry.’
The shot thundered by Betsy’s ear.
Despite the fact that this intrepid beast had got used to explosions near or around her head that morning, there had been a long lull since the last shot had been fired. She jumped a good foot in the air, almost unseating Yorwarth. However, she did not project her wad and a mere dry fart came from the rear end, much to the relief of Ali who had forgotten the earlier incident and was standing close to her backside.
The ball landed in the middle of the Hussars, sending up a spray of rock splinters, earth and turf. None of the riders was hit, but they were clearly shocked, and one rider actually turned and galloped a hundred yards back the way he had come. Yorwarth loaded the swivel as quickly as his precarious position would allow. The riders were milling now, looking around them, seeking the source of the fire. A second ball was sent on its way. This time it hit a Hussar full in the chest, taking him out of his saddle and over the rump of a neighbouring mount. A corporal then saw where the shots were coming from and drew his sword to point with it.
‘Let’s have some sharpshooting here,’ said Crossman to his riflemen. ‘Find cover. Fire at will. Rupert, you may use my new Enfield, if you know how. Look after it, it’s government property. I shall direct fire.’
The peloton did as told and began shooting down on the Hussars. However, the distance was very great and the rifles had little effect except to inform those below that they were facing a small arsenal. Yorwarth sent another ball on its way, but just before firing Betsy had sagged at the knees for some reason, and the shot was low. It struck the ground a short way behind the figure crouched under the boulder and that unfortunate man turned and shook a fist. Then he set himself again, with his shotgun pointing at the ridge, ready to shoot the first rider who showed his head.
‘Don’t do it!’ murmured Crossman. ‘They don’t know you’re there and it’s better for you they remain in ignorance.’
The Russians remained indecisive, turning their horses this way and that, and then finally, as the shooting continued, they gathered up the dead Hussar, took his horse, and rode away. Crossman watched them go in great satisfaction. ‘Betsy’s first action,’ he said to the others. ‘The colonel will be delighted.’ They let out a hoarse cheer.
The British gentleman came up to them as they descended. He stared at Betsy and Yorwarth with wide eyes, then turned his attention to Crossman.
‘Sergeant!’ he said, smiling weakly. ‘What goes on here? You almost removed my head from my shoulders.’
‘Sorry about that, sir. Our gun emplacement decided at that moment to genuflect. She is not yet used to the correct procedures of the RCA and is inclined to dip her head occasionally in search of fodder, even during an important action. We are endeavouring to correct this habit.’
‘RCA?’
Crossman grinned. ‘Royal Camel Artillery.’
His men laughed.
The hunter laughed too. He was in fact Lieutenant Pirce-Smith, Crossman’s immediate superior. Pirce-Smith, though a newcomer, was now Major Lovelace’s right-hand man, a position Crossman would dearly have loved to fill, but being a ranker was not considered.
‘The colonel’s new secret weapon, sir. We call her Betsy and she punches like a prize fighter, don’t you think? In case you’re wondering, those were Russian Hussars on the other side the ridge. I was hoping you would not give yourself away, because we were too far to cause them much harm with our rifles. One of them was killed by a ball from our swivel.’
Pirce-Smith stared at the zumbooruck. ‘A falconet,’ he breathed. ‘I never thought to see one here. They are all the thing in Aden and India of course. An uncle of mine once
described one to me, while I was still a child playing soldiers, and I never forgot it. In fact I made one out of clay . . .’ He suddenly realized to whom he was talking and his tone changed from wonderment to sternness.
‘Well done, sergeant. You saved my bacon there. I was just trying out one of my new Lefauchaux pinfires.’ He showed an admiring group the shiny bluemetal shotgun with the dazzlingly polished stock.
The lieutenant now turned so that he was addressing Jarrard, the one man present who was a near equal to him in status and rank. The others could listen, if they wished, but they could not take part in a personal conversation with a commissioned officer.
‘The weapons were most kindly given me by Major Lovelace who has graduated to Purdeys. I must say they are most superior, the Lefauchaux I mean.’ He nodded towards the game birds strung over his shoulder. ‘Snatched the little beggars right out of the air. Absolutely dead accurate. The kick is pretty fierce of course, but you’ve got to expect that, with Lefauchaux. One could reduce the charge, but then the balance suffers. These weapons are finely tuned and there is a recommended charge. Mr Jarrard, you must come with me and try them sometime,’ the lieutenant added generously.
‘Obliged,’ replied Jarrard, keenly aware that his friend Crossman would have liked to be invited too, but also knowing it was an impossible situation with the British army. ‘Any time.’
‘We could come as beaters, sir,’ interrupted Wynter. ‘I was raised a boy on an Essex farm. I know how to organize a line of beaters.’
‘I’m sure you do, Wynter,’ Pirce-Smith replied. ‘And I thank you most kindly for the offer. Sergeant,’ he turned again to face Crossman, ‘I am most truly grateful for that action back there. I feel sure I should have been overrun, if not for our friend Betsy here. I will be speaking with Colonel Hawke about it and recommending something in the way of a medal. I know you probably won’t see one, being as we are, but the sentiment is there.’
‘Thank you, sir. I believe my men acted with promptness and efficiency, and I’m justly proud of them.’
Attack on the Redan Page 15
