Attack on the Redan

by Garry Douglas Kilworth

  Sulkily, Gregory said, ‘As you wish, but the other one, he was such a pretty young man, with skin so smooth and white. Beardless. Almost a woman, but not one, thank the stars. You are so lucky, sir, to have such men about you. A virtual harem. And you, Victor, a man with the power to order them to do as you wish, while I have to buy such favours.’

  ‘To business, if you please.’

  Gregory’s expression changed, becoming very serious and businesslike. Lovelace had chosen a table apart from the others, near the window through which he could see people coming from the outside. Gregory spoke in a low voice, under the general hubbub in the room, pausing only to accept the drinks from the serving woman, a blowsy, dispirited, fair-haired female of no particular age. Once she had gone, Gregory nodded towards the window and the harbour beyond it.

  ‘They are collecting boats,’ he said, ‘and plankings from the floors of warehouses. I think they mean to make a bridge, over the water, for the citizens and the army to run away quickly.’

  Lovelace frowned. ‘You mean an escape route?’

  ‘That’s what I mean, Victor.’

  ‘We must not let that happen,’ said Lovelace, coldly. ‘If you see such a bridge under construction, you must destroy it, do you understand, Gregory? Or inform me swiftly, so that I can do it. You will be paid well for any sabotage, you know that.’

  ‘I understand, Victor. Now, something else. The army is going to do something, I don’t know what. I think maybe a new attack? General Gortchakoff is doing this. I hear it from one of his house servants, a very close and amiable friend of mine. Big attack.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I don’t know, this is the truth as it was confided to me. No one knows but Gortchakoff, and I do not sleep with him.’ Gregory grinned into Crossman’s face then he turned to Lovelace again. ‘Victor, I think it might be Inkerman again. The British are weaker than the French, in numbers, so I think Inkerman. What do you think, Victor?’

  ‘I think we must find out where the attack is coming, not guess.’

  Gregory shrugged. ‘Maybe Gortchakoff keep it in his head until the last minute? Maybe we never find out until it happens?’

  ‘We must do our best, Gregory.’

  ‘Of course. I always do my best.’ He downed his drink with one sweep and swallow, then grimaced like someone taking a draught of nasty medicine. ‘This vodka is the best I have ever tasted,’ he said. ‘Come, you, shiny-eyes. You drink this excellent vodka with your friend, Gregory.’

  Lovelace nodded at Crossman. Crossman took the cracked glass of colourless alcohol and threw it back into his throat. It burned like blazes and his eyes watered. It was foul. He began coughing, violently, until Gregory got up and slapped him on the back several times with a hand like a meat platter, before turning to the rest of the tavern and saying, ‘A young sailor boy with a throat like a baby finch. He thinks because he has grown this big rough beard that he can drink like a man.’ There was laughter from the other tables and Gregory grinned, before ruffling Crossman’s hair.

  ‘We must leave now,’ ordered Lovelace. ‘Gregory. The purse is on my seat.’

  The two British men stood up and began to leave. Gregory went back to his seat and reached under the table, to take the purse from Lovelace’s chair. As Crossman passed the man, he bent down and yanked hard on the nose hair sprouting from Gregory’s left nostil. Gregory yelled and jumped up, falling backwards off his chair. But before he could retaliate, Crossman was out on the street. Crossman felt enormous satisfaction, though he could see by Lovelace’s expression that he was in for another ticking off.

  ‘He humiliated me,’ said Crossman, before the major could speak. ‘I could not let that go without some return in kind.’

  ‘This is not a game of tit-for-tat,’ growled Lovelace. ‘Gregory is a very good man, when it comes to our business. I have to cultivate my spies as I find them. They do not grow in flowerbeds. What men like Gregory do out of my sight is neither here nor there, nor of any interest to me.’

  ‘He’s a rafter rat. His preferences and practices are his own – I have a cousin in the same mould – a very witty and erudite cousin, whose company is a great delight to my mother – but this Gregory is a sewer rodent. You are my senior officer, but I will not tolerate being treated like a gamin. Even you can’t expect that of me. Where did you find such a verminous creature?’

  ‘Traitors and spies are found where you expect them to be found.’ Lovelace sighed and his anger suddenly dissipated. ‘I’m sorry, I should have warned you. You took it better than Pirce-Smith, I have to tell you. The lieutenant almost swooned when that hand clamped itself on his knee. It’s a price we pay. Come on, we have another one to meet. Don’t worry, this one is a woman. She won’t grab.’

  ‘And is your name really Victor?’

  ‘Of course not,’ replied Lovelace, ‘but I hope to be one, at the end of this war.’

  As they made their way through the drab streets, with its dreary-looking citizens and soldiery dragging their feet here and there, Crossman could not help but be aware of the low spirits of the inhabitants. They seemed to breathe defeat from every pore. Crossman felt a great empathy with the men and women of Sebastopol. Walking amongst them like this, he could sense their despair, see it in their eyes, feel it in their tread. They knew something dreadful was going to happen to them and their city of rubble and ruins, it was just a matter of when. Even should they be fortunate enough to escape the onslaught of that terrible foreign army which had ringed their walls for so long, raining death on them, they would become refugees, without homes and hope, their possessions in a handcart, their houses left to the conquerers. Rape and pillage was what they expected, if they remained. That’s what conquering armies did. They became a barbarian horde for a short while, no matter they began as a civilized army. They took revenge on you for the audacity of defending yourself and your homeland.

  ‘Why do you wish to blow up the bridge, if they build it?’ asked Crossman, as they walked down a deserted alley.

  ‘Why? Because they must be seen to be physically defeated,’ answered Lovelace, firmly. ‘We cannot walk into an empty city. There has to be some reward, some satisfaction for the British government and glory for the army. Otherwise it will all be a great waste of time. A sense of elation is necessary. Imagine a prize fight where one of the fighters simply fails to come back after excusing himself in the middle of the milling. The whole event would fall flat.’ His voice hardened. ‘There must be no escape, no compromise of that sort. We have been fighting too long not to be given our just rewards for our tenacity and stamina.’

  ‘But if lives are saved?’

  ‘It’s not about saving lives, it’s about a satisfactory conclusion.’

  Once again Crossman had been given an insight into the diamond-hard heart of his superior officer. Lovelace wanted not just an end, but a spectacular end to the war. He wanted not just to win, but to triumph. These were not goals which Crossman himself believed important. The object of the war, so far as he understood it, was to prevent Russia from expanding its influence and power. This object being achieved, what did it matter that the war ended with a fizz, rather than a bang? The regiments could go home having done their job without losing any more men.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ said Lovelace, ‘but it really is necessary to prevent any other ambitious rulers trying to do the same. You stamp the fire out, thoroughly and with great show, in order to make a point.’

  They were now again in a street with people, so the major stopped speaking English and went back to Russian.

  Following Lovelace’s eyes, Crossman stared down the street. It being a fine day there were one or two women in black garb sitting outside their houses, close to their front step, doing things with their hands – crochet, embroidery – in the manner of Mediterraneans. It seemed that those from the Black Sea had a similar culture. Lovelace was looking at one of these women. She was firmly-built, with a strong face and a heavy n
ose which age had not turned frail. Sitting on a wooden chair, she was plying thread through a piece of red cloth stretched over a circular frame, looking up occasionally to smile at passers-by. Some gave her a greeting, others did not.

  Lovelace took Crossman by the arm and steered him back into the alley. They hurried along, away from the place.

  ‘Was that not her?’ asked Crossman.

  ‘Yes it was, but the signal told me she was being watched.’

  ‘Signal?’

  ‘The red cloth. If all had been well, it would have been white.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘If we cannot meet with the woman our business here is done. It’ll be nightfall in a couple of hours. Like Thomas Gray’s ploughman, we must homeward plod our weary way.’

  After darkness had fallen the pair made their retreat from Sebastopol the way they had come. On entering the drain they lit the dark lamp they had hidden there and in its single narrow beam found several of their traps had been sprung. Someone would be waiting for them on the other side of the gulley.

  ‘Were we seen going in?’ asked Crossman. ‘Why not arrest us in the city?’

  Lovelace murmured, ‘Gregory, perhaps?’

  ‘But did he know our route?’

  ‘No, of course he didn’t, did he? We must have been seen by some civilian or other and reported. They’ll be waiting for us on the other side of the drain.’

  Crossman said, ‘Should we go back and try another exit?’

  The sergeant, albeit only an NCO, was not used to deferring to another man. It had been a long time since he had asked for orders from a superior out on one of these fox hunts. He was used to leading and making the decisions himself. He waited as Lovelace deliberated. He knew that the major was running over the options in his mind, weighing up the possible consquences of turning back. There was an obvious one which occurred to Crossman and happily it was also in Lovelace’s mind.

  ‘They may have closed off our retreat by now. The door behind us is probably locked too. We have to go on.’

  ‘They’ll just blaze at us as we go out of the drain. We won’t stand a chance.’

  ‘My guess is that they will be curious,’ said Lovelace. ‘The human being is a curious beast, thank God. They may want at least one of us alive, to question us, find out what we were doing, hoping to discover our contacts. I think they’ll hold back at first, hoping we’ll walk unsuspectingly into their arms.’ He checked his pistol grimly in the light of the dark lamp. ‘Well, they won’t take me alive. I – well – we’ve both undergone torture in their hands when they’ve been trying to extract information.’

  Crossman certainly had: by a certain Major Zinski. The Russian had been repaid in full by the sergeant and was now hopefully undergoing the tortures of the fires and demons of hell. However, Crossman had not been aware that Lovelace had also been through such an ordeal. When was that? He did not recall the officer ever having been missing for more than a week.

  ‘What do you suggest, sir?’

  ‘That we crawl out of the end of the drain as if we do not suspect anything, perhaps chattering quietly to one another, then make a quick dash for cover. It’s fairly dark out there, but it’s not long beyond twilight. We can still be seen enough to be targets. Can you picture the topography outside? There’s a large standing stone to the left, about twenty yards from the end of the drain. I suggest we both run for it. You will go first . . .’

  ‘You’re the leader, sir.’

  ‘Don’t argue. You know better than that from your own experiences. You will go first. You have your pistol?’

  Crossman’s Tranter was already in his hand. He cocked it with the cocking trigger.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They may have stationed someone – perhaps more than one – behind that stone. You will shoot them before they shoot you. The stone is backed by a sheer face – the side of the gully. They can’t get anyone beyond that, so if we make it, we’ll have good cover and can’t be overlooked. I am ready, sergeant. How about you?’

  Crossman’s heart was beating fast. ‘Ready.’

  ‘They believe they hold the winning cards. Let’s trump them.’

  The pair carried out their plan, whispering nonsense to each other as they crawled out of the drain, laughing quietly as if amused and greatly relieved to be beyond the confines of Sebastopol’s defences. They then jumped to their feet and were off like gypsy lurchers, scrambling over the rough ground towards the standing stone. Flames flashed from muzzles and the thunder of small arms was loud around their ears in the confined space. Bullets whined and zipped, zinging from rocks and the odd stunted dwarf tree. Crossman ran full into a man who stepped from behind a boulder. Instinctively he pulled the trigger of his revolver and the unfortunate fellow took the shot full in the chest at point blank range. The man groaned and fell away, Crossman trampling over his body. Lovelace actually tripped on him, but managed somehow to keep his feet. Then the pair of them, only seconds after leaving the drain, were behind the tall stone, panting. Crossman fired two wild shots into the dark lanes and shadows of that stretch of evening between him and the drain, to deter anyone close by.

  ‘Are you hit at all, sir?’ he asked Lovelace.

  He had to wait for the answer, for a fusillade of shots came out of various corners of the gully, smacking into the standing stone and the natural walls behind them.

  ‘No, not hit. I’m a bit banged about, having run into a rather solid boulder. Fortunately I bounced. I may have broken my arm, but that is neither here nor there. What about you, sergeant?’

  Crossman was now aware of a trickle of blood going down his arm and dripping out of the sleeve cuff.

  ‘I think that man I killed had a knife or bayonet in his hand.’

  ‘Are you badly hurt?’

  ‘I – I don’t think so. Blade went through my lower arm, I think. Yes, it’s definitely tender. Lower left arm. But the flow isn’t bad. I don’t think it’s an artery. I can dress it myself, if you’ll keep the watch, sir.’

  ‘I can certainly do that.’

  There was another exchange of gunfire while Crossman dealt with his wound. It was not much more than a shallow cut, his shirt and coat protecting the area. Crossman took a strip of cloth he carried for the purpose out of his pocket and bound himself with it.

  ‘What about your arm, sir?’

  ‘That can wait.’

  By this time the gunfire had died down to the occasional bark of a musket, or Lovelace’s pistol cracking by his ear. This was pretty much the pattern of the whole night. When an early grey dawn came the Russians, a score of them by Crossman’s reckoning, began to intensify their attacks again. The two Britons exchanged the odd shot or two with their enemy, wondering when the main assault would come and conserving their ammunition in order to deal with it as effectively as they could.

  However, help was at hand. The fracas had been heard from the cemetery close to the Picket House Ravine. Some Rifle Brigade skirmishers had been despatched to investigate. These now engaged with the Russians scattered amongst the rocks. After a brief fight the Russians melted away towards their Strand Battery. The British riflemen themselves then drew back, being close enough to the Russian defences to be picked off by sharpshooters. Lovelace and Crossman now felt it safe enough to make their escape along a small ravine which would lead them back to the British Left Attack lines. On stepping back over the body of the Russian he had shot with his pistol, Crossman realized it was an officer. He paused for a moment to cut the soldier’s scabbard from his belt and take the sword from his hand. Crossman’s blood was on the blade. He wiped the length of steel on the corpse before returning the sword to its sheath.

  ‘Trophy?’ murmured Lovelace. His arm was now slung in his unbuttoned coat.

  ‘It’s for my brother,’ replied Crossman. ‘I wouldn’t normally do this.’

  ‘You don’t need to apologize to me.’

  ‘No, I know, but I feel foolish. It’s a particularly handsome wea
pon, don’t you think? James was sent home ill. It’s just something . . .’

  ‘Of course. I have brothers – and sisters.’ The major seemed to reflect for a moment. ‘A good too many of them.’

  Crossman thought that a strange remark, but let it pass. Once they had reached a safe zone, Crossman inspected the blade. It was a magnificent weapon indeed.

  ‘Seeing the light glinting on that edge,’ said Lovelace, as they walked side by side, ‘reminds me of the story of one of my brothers. Have you ever heard of Matthew Lovelace? No? Well, he’s quite famous. He was in India with John Company, naturally. An Acting DC on the North-West Frontier, the Punjab. Not one of Henry Lawrence’s “Young Men” exactly, although he knew most of them and was known by them. One day he rode out alone from his district to look for a rather incorrigible bandit chief who was reported to be in one of the hill villages. By chance the first person he saw when he entered the village was the bandit chief himself. Matthew immediately ran him through and cut off his head. When he got back to his office he placed the head on a stool in the corner of the room, then invited all the chiefs of the area to come and see him, one by one. No one mentioned the head, but all saw, and knew the kind of man they were dealing with.’

  ‘I heard that story,’ said Crossman, ‘from my father, but he said the man was Reynell Taylor – not your brother Matthew.’

  Lovelace’s jaw stiffened. ‘Oh, he did, did he?’

  ‘But he could be wrong of course – my father has been wrong about a lot of things.’

  ‘The story comes second- or third-hand to me, too, so I will not stand upon my oath, but I feel sure it sounds like Matthew.’

  Crossmen realized the major was irritated, so he changed the subject to more pressing matters.

  ‘Will we warn the French that there may be an attack?’

  ‘Of course. My compatriot on the French side is a Captain Lefontaine – we exchange most information. Some, of course, I retain – and doubtless he does the same. Our interests do not always coincide.’