Attack on the Redan

by Garry Douglas Kilworth

  ‘Don’t try to stop me, sergeant,’ he warned. He stared at Peterson. ‘Even if you don’t think I was good to Mary, you can’t expect me to let her murderer get away, an’ nothing done.’ He armed himself with rifle and ammunition. ‘If he’s out there, I’ll find him. I know those hills as well as Ali now. I know how to track a man. I’m goin’ to find him and kill him dead as he made my Mary. She was like a little dove, she was, an’ wouldn’t have hurt no one. I’m going to put a ball in Dobson’s black heart and if he pleads for mercy while I’m doing it I’ll enjoy it the more.’

  Crossman could sense that the other members of the peloton approved of this stance by Wynter. They had all liked Mary and the thought that her killer should be at liberty, possibly never being brought to justice, was something none of them could countenance. The sergeant was out of sorts, physically, having had a bout of dysentery. The general malaise which a prolonged war creates in a man’s spirit had descended on him and a low state of morale was gnawing at him like a canker. He tried arguing with Wynter, but others interceded on the soldier’s behalf, and Crossman found the whole pack united against him.

  Finally he gave in. ‘We’ll all go, Wynter. But I need you to promise me you won’t kill him. We need to bring him back alive. It’s just possible he wasn’t the one who killed Mary . . .’

  ‘He was seen goin’ into that room with Mary by two men whose word I trust,’ said Wynter, emphatically, ‘an’ he didn’t come out again.’

  ‘I grant you that is damning. But we still have to hear what he says for himself. There may be circumstances . . .’

  ‘There an’t no circumstances.’ Wynter was firm. ‘A man with a violent temper like that, full o’ gin? Then he disappears off the face of the earth? He done the deed and he’s goin’ to pay the price. It’ll be a mercy from me. A ball instead of the rope? Why that’s a gift. But it’ll make me feel better to be the one to do it. They won’t let me haul on the rope, that’s sure, so a ball is what it’s goin’ to be.’

  Crossman nodded, but said to the others out of Wynter’s hearing, ‘If we catch this fellow, grab Wynter and hold him fast before he can shoot.’

  As the whole peloton rode out he said privately to Ali, ‘What I cannot understand is why no one heard her scream.’

  Ali shook his head. ‘Sergeant, you must go to Jonnie Bread’s house in the night. There is much noise from happy soldiers, from women with the gin and brandy. Mary can scream loud, but no one take notice or stop to think much. Too many other women scream in front room, with laughter, with drink, with loving. Even if they hear, maybe they think the scream from Mary mean different reason?’ He nodded, significantly. ‘They just smile into each other’s face and say, “Lucky man, Charlie.”’

  ‘I understand,’ Crossman said, sighing. For once he felt the general mood was against him and, feeling so low in spirit, he had no will to go against it. ‘This business is ugly though. I could lose my stripes over this. But Wynter is right, I suppose. We can’t let this man get away.’

  They spent the rest of that day and much of the next two, searching the hills for signs of Charlie Dobson. They found nothing, though they ran into a large column of Russians in an area on the other side of the Chernaya River and had to ride like the blazes to save their skins. After this incident Crossman told Wynter the hunt would have to be abandoned. They returned to the hovel in Kadikoi to find Major Lovelace anxiously pacing the floor wondering ‘where the hell’ they were. Crossman explained the situation, thinking it was better to keep to the truth, but Lovelace was not sympathetic and told him he was running close to the edge of a cliff.

  ‘I am aware of that, sir,’ said Crossman, finding it rather unpleasant to be dressed down by the major, who, because of the nature of their work, was normally inclined to be amiable and lenient with his men. ‘It won’t happen again.’

  ‘You better make damn sure of that, sergeant,’ said the coldly furious Lovelace. ‘Yours is a position of responsibility. We can’t have these juvenile escapades. I appreciate Wynter’s loss, but he’ll have to bear it in a civilized manner. You’ve been too much in Jarrard’s company. He’s been talking about lynching parties, hasn’t he? That’s mob rule, sergeant, and it won’t do for the Army of the East. Our work is already considered to be unsavoury in certain quarters. Don’t give our enemies more ammunition than they have already.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. It was stupid. I see it now. And Jarrard has had nothing to do with this. He doesn’t even know of it.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. I’m glad he’s no fool . . .’

  The major didn’t add ‘too’ but he might just as well have done. Crossman was dismissed and went away with his tail between his legs. He went for a walk to cool his head. It was usual when a sergeant got a dressing-down from his superior officer to go and take it out on the men, where the fault more often than not actually lay. But this time the fault was wholly with the senior NCO and he could not vent his spleen on the lower ranks, having condoned the whole expedition, if only to keep the peace. It was rather a bitter potion to swallow, being in the wrong. Crossman was not used to it. Lovelace could never be a father-figure, being only a few years older than Crossman himself, but the major’s fury had certainly brought back childhood memories of being severely criticized by his father for some infringement of household rules. They were ugly memories, of the young Alexander standing in the corner of the nursery, while his father berated him for speaking without being spoken to, or for running along the passageways, or for some other crime, equally heinous, which offended against the dignity of the Kirk household.

  Later, Yusuf Ali came to him when there was no one else around.

  ‘Sergeant,’ said the loyal Turk, ‘I was under window and hear the major speak to you. I never hear him speak to you this way before and it is of course not right for him to do so. You are our leader. You must have respect. This is not respectful. So, what must happen is this. The major will soon go into Sebastopol, to look at Russians, see what is happening. There is no reason why he should come back.’

  Crossman, still smarting under the deserved ticking-off was only half-listening, but at some point he suddenly realized what the Bashi-Bazouk irregular was inferring. He looked at Ali sharply. Ali nodded, half-closing one eye, as if to say, ‘The deed is as good as done.’

  ‘No, no,’ cried the panicking sergeant, gripping Ali by the shoulders. ‘You must not do anything to Major Lovelace. He was right in what he did. I am, after all, a lowly sergeant.’ Crossman actually realized this explanation was going to do no good in this case. He changed tack. ‘You see, the major and I are good friends. We went to the same school. In England that makes him almost my brother. What he did was between the two of us for the sake of the men. Later we laughed about it. It was foolishness.’

  This hastily cobbled-together story did not make the least bit of sense, but Crossman was desperate. He knew Ali was capable of anything if protecting his honour. The sergeant and he were family, therefore the sergeant’s honour was inextricably entwined with his own. If someone offended against the dignity of the sergeant, they offended against Ali. Where such things were concerned, they were as one man, undivided. Anyone who treated the sergeant with contempt was spitting on the honour of Yusuf Ali and there could only be one answer to that.

  ‘Foolishness?’ repeated Ali, grasping at a word which might make some sort of sense. ‘It was a joke?’

  ‘Of course,’ laughed Crossman. ‘There was no malice in the major. We British soldiers, we have strange ways.’

  Now this was something Ali could understand. At least, it was within his experience of the British. He had seen meetings between two Englishmen, or other British nationalities, who had not seen each other for some time. They seemed to insult one another with harsh language and ugly expressions for ten minutes, before breaking into a roaring laughter and then going off arm in arm together to a drinking tent.

  Only a week ago he had witnessed two British sailors disembarking
from different vessels and, on seeing each other, one yelled out in a nasty tone, ‘Joe, you old bastard, where’ve you bin hiding that bald head of yourn? I an’t seen that ugly fish-face for more’n two years now, give or take a long week.’

  Whereupon the other replied in the most aggressive way, ‘You dirty old walrus, Dan Spake, is that you under them greasy whiskers? What are you doin’ in that rotten tub? Last time I saw you, you was crawlin’ out of some tavern in Liverpool.’

  Then, as they got closer, a wave of the hand in front of the nose and the words, ‘By God, you stink worse’n a penguin’s arse.’

  ‘You an’t no perfumed goddess, yourself.’

  ‘Come and have an ale,’ said the first sailor.

  ‘Don’t care if I do,’ replied the other.

  And off they had gone, after first punching each other on the chest once or twice, chuckling, and informing one another they were miserable old farts.

  Ali said to Crossman. ‘Yes, your ways are strange, but still I will watch the Lovelace. If I think he has treachery in his heart, I will cut it out. You and me, sergeant, we are men of honour.’

  ‘Believe me, Ali, the major is of the same honour.’

  Crossman parted from his Turkish comrade with some misgivings. It was going to be a while before Ali trusted Lovelace again, unless something happened to confirm what Crossman had told him. If Ali believed that Crossman was merely protecting his superior officer, which was indeed the case, then anything could happen.

  Happily Lovelace came to Crossman the very next day and said, ‘It’s time you and I went out into the field together, sergeant. Get ready for a fox hunt tonight. Just you. I had intended to take Lieutenant Pirce-Smith, but he is otherwise engaged.’

  It was the first time that Lovelace had asked Crossman out on a mission. Since Crossman had just been speaking with Pirce-Smith, unknown to the major, and that young lieutenant had bemoaned the fact that he was wallowing in idleness at that present time, Crossman could only deduce from this change of heart that the major was repenting his earlier anger. Crossman guessed that now Lovelace had taken time to cool a little and gather his thoughts he was regretting having given the dressing-down. He could not of course say so. His character as an officer and English gentleman forbade any intimacy of that sort. This gesture was much the same apology but without the words. Both men would understand what was behind it.

  ‘I shall be ready, sir. Thank you.’

  ‘Oh, don’t thank me, sergeant,’ replied the major, airily, ‘I might be leading you to your death.’

  Crossman went straight to Ali and told him the major had apologized.

  Ali looked sceptical. ‘He said sorry?’

  ‘No, he invited me on a mission with him.’

  ‘Ah, that is indeed an honour,’ said Ali, his chest rising. ‘When must we leave?’

  ‘No – Ali – no, just me alone, I’m afraid. No one else.’

  Ali looked taken aback. ‘Just you?’

  ‘Yes, but there is nothing sinister in this. He’s not going to do away with me when we’re out of sight of the army. I told you, the major and I are friends. He wishes to make it up to me.’

  Ali stared at Crossman through narrow eyes, then gripped the sergeant by the shoulders with those thick, broad, strong hands. Having seen how the major operated in the field – if he took someone with him it was always a subaltern – this could mean only one thing to the Turk.

  Crossman was startled to see tears welling in the corners of Ali’s brown eyes. ‘He is going to make you an officer,’ said the Turk in a husky voice full of emotion. ‘My sergeant is going to be an officer.’

  Crossman did not want to crush his friend and guide by telling him that the major was going to do no such thing. He made up one of his white lies, to keep Ali happy.

  ‘Perhaps – but after the war – it would – spoil the way we do things at the moment to make me an officer now.’

  ‘Ah, yes, I understand.’ Ali turned away, his voice still thick. ‘I go to tell my wife. She will weep, I know. You are like a son to her.’

  Since Crossman was probably only about five years her junior, this was another startling piece of news, but the sergeant felt things had been settled nicely and he let Ali go on his way.

  6

  Lovelace and Crossman slipped through a gully at the end of which they knew they would find a large drain. The drain, clogged in parts with debris, but passable, would lead them into a part of Sebastopol which had a stretch of wasteland fronting some gutted buildings. This part of the city had been heavily bombarded by the allies and consequently the tide of humanity had moved back from this beach of rubble.

  Just before entering the drain, they passed a spot where Crossman paused to stare at the remains of a decomposed body jammed almost out of view between three standing stones. There must have been several such corpses littering the landscape, caught in crevices or holes, out of sight and mind. This was not a place frequented by either the Russians or the allies, the topography being too jagged and rugged for a group of any size to launch an attack. Incised by deep, narrow, winding natural passageways, between sharp-edged lips of rock, even a force the size of Goodlake’s sharpshooters, a company, would have trouble scrambling around. The Russians themselves would be content with surveying the area from a distance, knowing of the difficulties it would present to any large attacking column.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Lovelace.

  ‘Diodotus.’

  Crossman was speaking of a young Greek spy they had used a short while back. The young man had been shot through the neck and spine, right here, in front of Crossman. According to a Russian officer called Tolstoy, to whom Crossman had been introduced by the Greek, Diodotus had been a promising poet. His talents had obviously gone with him now, to the afterlife. It raised the unavoidable question in Crossman’s mind at the time, as to how many talented young lives had been lost, how many great works of art, books, statues, inventions, discoveries, would not now amaze the world of the living. Some Shakespeare, or Michelangelo, or Brunel may have had his legs shot from under him in this pointless war, robbing future generations of what should have been a priceless heritage.

  ‘This is where he was killed?’

  Crossman nodded. ‘He dropped a dark lamp and we were caught in its bright flare.’

  ‘You’re lucky that isn’t you then.’

  ‘Just what I was thinking.’

  They continued on their journey, leaving the rags on the bones of Diodotus to blow in the wind and the rain. Crossman and Lovelace set some small traps in the drain before leaving it. Not man-traps, but devices of twigs and thread. When they returned by the same route, something they usually tried to avoid, they would be warned if their entrance had been discovered. Unfortunately as the war progressed the holes in the enemy defences – be they ever so small – had mostly been closed. The spies and saboteurs were now down to a quarter of a dozen, which were jealously used.

  They also left a dark lamp just inside the drain on the Sebastopol side, to use on their return.

  Once in the streets of Sebastopol they made their way down to the harbour. It was Lovelace’s contention that any signs of change would be found down there. The defences of the city were daily blasted, rebuilt, blasted again, but very little altered on the perimeter. In the town itself people just went about their normal daily chores, living their lives while war raged all around them (and occasionally fell on their heads). The waterfront was where the hustle and bustle of change took place.

  The two men were dressed as sailors, a disguise Crossman usually sought to avoid left to his own devices. He always felt his soft hands would give him away. However, Lovelace had pointed out to him that his hands were not what they used to be, having been hardened by almost two years of hard labour since leaving Britain. Crossman, inspecting the callused palms, agreed that he was not now the effete nobleman’s son who had left the shores of his homeland to journey out into a cruel hard environment.

 
; The pair entered a tavern fronting one of the main quays and Lovelace immediately caught the eye of a man who sat in a dark corner. Their contact was with some waterfront workers. He excused himself after a few minutes, ordered some drinks from a serving woman while threading his way between rickety tables, and sat down with Lovelace and Crossman. He was a large man, in his late forties or early fifties, with a thick grizzled beard and a wicked scar under his right eye. His nostrils were like caverns and had their own forests sprouting through the openings. Crossman had to sit back in his chair to avoid a very strong halitosis problem.

  For a moment the contact stared at Crossman, before raising his eyebrows at Lovelace.

  ‘One of my men,’ said Lovelace in Russian.

  ‘Are they all so young?’ growled the man in amusement. ‘And so beautiful?’

  He put his hand on Crossman’s knee under the table and then smiled when Crossman jerked his leg out of reach.

  ‘And so sensitive to the touch!’

  His hand came down again, near the thigh, and clamped there like a steel vice. This time Crossman did not squirm away, knowing he might attract attention to himself and his companions. He bore the indignity by staring into the man’s eyes with a steely glare, until the hand removed itself and was then on the tabletop, rolling tobacco for a foul-smelling pipe.

  ‘Gregory, no games, please,’ ordered Lovelace. ‘We are here on serious business. What’s happening at the moment?’

  ‘Pah!’ said Gregory, exhaling a stink into Lovelace’s face.

  Lovelace grimaced and hardened his words. ‘If you continue this very dangerous exercise I shall not only stop your payments . . .’

  ‘Yes?’ came the amused tone again.

  ‘I will shoot you in the belly with this pistol I have under the table. I warned you when you started on my other man,’ Crossman guessed this was Lieutenant Pirce-Smith, ‘and it has to stop. You understand me, Gregory. It has to stop, now.’