Attack on the Redan

by Garry Douglas Kilworth

‘This General Gortchakoff . . .’

  ‘Who just happens to be another Russian Prince. Yes, what of him?’

  ‘Is he a brilliant stategist or tactician?’

  Lovelace let out an ironic laugh. ‘There’s only one man of any real brilliance in Sebastopol and that’s Todleben. It would be a wonderful thing if princes were born genius generals but in fact very few of them are. Men like Wellington and Napoleon come from all walks of life, yet the governments of today still cling to the idea that nobility brings with it a kind of intrinsic knowledge of warfare. Alexander the Great was a prince, thus all princes, dukes, earls, barons, and so on must inherit his skills. These nobles keep making huge mistakes, but that doesn’t prevent governments from appointing them to the very highest ranks in the world’s armies.’

  ‘It’s an easy route, I suppose,’ said Crossman. ‘You don’t know if a general is any good until you’ve tried him in the field. There’s no other way. So do you try Tom, the blacksmith’s son, or do you try Lord Fotheringale?’

  ‘Exactly. But Lord Fotheringale having once failed, they try him again, and again, and again, hoping that breeding will out and the best has been trapped inside the noble head, just waiting for the right opportunity to burst forth in a blaze of glory . . . Ah, here we are, almost home.’

  They had reached Kadikoi and both men were exhausted. Crossman could see in the day’s light that Lovelace had bruises and scrapes down the right side of his face. He was indeed very ‘banged about’ and needed attention from a surgeon.

  ‘There is one man I know very little about over there,’ said Lovelace, as they approached the hovel. ‘Gortchakoff will undoubtedly use General Liprandi – well, he is neither here nor there – but I’m supposing General Read is still around too. Read is something of an enigma to us. He could turn out to be a genius in battle, which wouldn’t suit us at all. I prefer they should have old incompetent generals, like the ones we have.’

  ‘Read? That doesn’t sound like a Russian name.’

  ‘It isn’t. General Read has Scottish ancestory.’

  Crossman stopped in his tracks. ‘As I have,’ he said, quietly.

  ‘That doesn’t automatically make the pair of you brothers,’ said Lovelace, smiling. ‘We’re all a great mix you know. I have, among other ancestors, Norwegians and Orkney Island fisherfolk.’

  ‘Yes, but it seems most peculiar – a Russian general with a name like that.’

  ‘A rose by any other,’ Lovelace replied, cheerily, limping ahead of Crossman. ‘Here, see if you can rustle up a couple of hot baths, sergeant . . .’ They were back to their respective ranks again. ‘I’ll pay for ’em. That Albanian fellow in the hut where steam issues forth at all times of day? I’m sure he’ll oblige. You know the man I mean? And get that wound dressed. I’m going to see a surgeon friend of mine who’s expert with balms as well as a saw.’

  Crossman did know the Albanian and went to make the arrangements after having his cut rebandaged. Major Lovelace joined him, his arm in a sling after having been set and splinted. He had indeed broken it, the bone having pierced the skin. Crossman felt guilty for not insisting that it be inspected while they were behind the standing stone. But the major was a law unto himself. If he had wanted it looked at, he would have asked. There was something of the martyr in Lovelace. It suited his image of himself to bear the pain of the injury without complaint, until it could be set and put in splints.

  After his luxury bath, which must have cost Lovelace several days’ pay, Crossman was visited by Rupert Jarrard. The pair of them sat in some chairs outside a sutler’s hut and contemplated the siege railway. A sturdy set of mules were pulling a truck up the slope with apparent ease.

  The American asked Crossman for the inside story on the ‘raid’ he had just carried out, hinting (untruthfully) that he already knew a great deal. Crossman normally gave his friend some sketchy details, which the correspondent would fill out in his own way. No real names would be used in any case and Jarrard had the knack of the novelist, in being able to dramatize a situation well for his readers.

  But this time the sergeant had to say no to his friend, since he had not been the senior officer on the expedition.

  ‘In any case there’s no great excitement in the content,’ Crossman said. ‘Leastways, not in the actual fox hunt. Getting back, the last few yards, was a trouble, but there are such skirmishes amongst the picquets every day.’

  ‘I appreciate your problem,’ replied Jarrard. ‘I understand you went with Major Lovelace? This time I shan’t press you, Jack. Say, have you asked that lovely lady to marry you yet? Now that you’re off the hook with the earlier one, the French farm girl.’

  ‘You make me sound like some evil lecher, Rupert, grabbing at every woman who comes my way. And “off the hook” is not a phrase I would use myself in the circumstances. I do not believe fisherman’s parlance appropriate. However, I take it you mean Jane? No, I have not declared my interest. How can I? I’m a sergeant in the infantry.’

  ‘People still worry about such things in England?’ said Jarrard, sounding genuinely surprised. ‘I know cavalrymen are dashing and all that, but a good marching regiment, fifes and drums going, has its glorious side too. Listen, you’ve got that wound at the moment. Women love men with wounds. It brings out the sentimental side in them. They often say yes to a pale soldier draped over a chair or bed, when that same man wouldn’t hold any interest for them if he was robust and hearty.’

  Crossman smiled, amused as usual by the American’s banter. ‘It’s not the regiment, it’s the rank, and well you know it.’

  Jarrard sighed. ‘Well, I have to say I’m still disappointed. We don’t have a classless society back home either, but at least it’s based on money and not some fanciful notion of bloodline and breeding. There’s some reason for a girl with money not marrying a dirt farmer or drifter. But to worry about breeding! Hell, she’s not going to produce street urchins just because her father’s a lord and yours is only a baronet.’

  ‘Her father’s not a lord – but I take your point, Rupert.’

  ‘I take it you’d be poor whether you were a sergeant in the infantry or a captain of dragoons, Jack.’

  ‘Probably worse off as the captain, having to maintain all the accoutrements associated with being a cavalry officer. Being the younger son of an aristocrat is much the same as being the younger son of a blacksmith. I inherit nothing. The army or the church, that’s the choice of the later sibling. Scratch out a living from miserly parishioners, or claw in pennies from the paymaster.’

  ‘Your father doesn’t give you an allowance?’

  ‘The estates are in a bad way and I doubt he could afford to, even if we were on better terms. As it is, he’d rather see me starve.’

  ‘So,’ said Jarrard, as Crossman lit up his chibouque and took a long pull on a Turkish blend, ‘what’s to stop you and Jane?’

  ‘Oh, God, Rupert. Do you think she could share a space six feet by three in the barracks, with merely a blanket to separate our end of the room from that of the men? It’s unthinkable – a different life entirely. No, no. Jane is a lady . . .’

  Jane Mulinder was indeed a lady, whose father owned practically the whole of Derbyshire, give or take a few worthless pockets of bottom land belonging to the queen. Her looks were not unprepossessing – at least, Crossman was possessed by them. And Jarrard himself had been captivated enough to go out riding with Jane as often as time would allow. If her looks were unfashionable, no one could deny her dark beauty. The times demanded golden-haired wives with skins of ivory, but Crossman was not a great man for following fashion to the extent that it could rule over the preferences of his heart. With some aristocrats, this could well be the case, and they would suffer for it eventually. He found her looks exquisite, even if her hair was jet black and her skin less than pale. He found her spirit indomitable. She had been jilted yet she faced the music back in England and only later had taken a dangerous voyage to a dangerous land to find herse
lf again. He found her personality extraordinary! Why only the other day . . .

  ‘Jack, are you listening to me? You’ve gone off into one of your reveries again. What is it this time? Steam engines again?’

  ‘Good God, no,’ said Crossman, pulling himself back to the real time and place. ‘No, no, I was actually thinking of Jane.’

  ‘Good thing too. Damn it man, she turned me down you know.’

  This was enough to jolt Crossman upright in his chair. The long-stemmed pipe fell from his mouth to the ground. He picked it up quickly, ascertained that the stem was still intact, then rounded on his friend.

  ‘You asked Jane to marry you?’

  ‘Damn right. She’s a lovely woman. Why wouldn’t I?’

  ‘Even though you knew – you knew – about my attachment – my strong attachment to her?’

  ‘Hell, Jack, this is love you’re talking about, not some horse we both want to buy. I wasn’t going to regret something my whole life simply because you saw her first. No, no, Jack – love and war, love and war, fellah. Had you been married, or engaged, I might have thought twice. But you haven’t even told her you love her yet, Jack.’

  ‘How do you know I haven’t?’ said Crossman with an accusing look.

  ‘She told me. I was her confidant. Her friend. She talked to me about everything, especially you. She said she couldn’t talk with Lavinia Durham about you, because it would all get back to you. So, she talked with me, and we grew fond of each other in the process. Not fond enough for me, obviously, because I wanted to make her my wife, and she declined, very nicely thank you, but she declined. Hell and damnation, Jack, I certainly wouldn’t have let the fact that I’m no wealthy aristocrat hold me back, either. I just piled in there with my proposal and got my butt kicked for it. You should do the same. I hope you get yours kicked too. It would give me infinite satisfaction to have you suffer as I did. It damn well hurts, friend – it hurts just about everywhere – pride, spirit, heart, guts, head – yep, just about everywhere you can think of, it’s damn-well painful. I would like you to join me in my little hell, just for the company. It would make me feel better. Wasn’t it one of the Greek philosophers who said miserable people liked to see others more miserable than they were themselves?’

  Crossman stared at his good companion. ‘You certainly believe in honesty, I’ll give you that, Jarrard. What about Monique? Are you not in love with her then?’

  ‘Oh, yes now. But give me the choice again, and well, I just don’t know, Jack. If I had detected just a little wavering in Jane, well – it’s all water under the bridge now. Monique is delightful and she adores me. Thinks I’m king of the wild frontier. That’s hard to resist. And you’ve known Jane, for how long? Six hundred years? How could I even think I stood a chance against that sort of history? You British genteel types, you meet in the cradle. An outsider doesn’t get a look in.’

  ‘You leave me breathless, Rupert. I don’t know what to say. I suppose I should start by saying, hard luck old chap. I won’t say better luck next time. I’m astonished though. Going behind my back like that. You could have come to me like a gentleman and said, “Jack, I’m going to ask Jane to be my wife. I thought it best to inform you first, since you have a personal interest.” That’s what a British officer and a gentleman would have done.’

  ‘Well, good luck to British officers and gentlemen. I’ll be damned if I’ll ask anyone’s permission to marry the woman of my choice, even if he does think he’s my best friend. What would you have said? You’d have made up some cock-and-bull story about how you and Jane had pledged a lifetime’s devotion to each other in the nursery. Or more likely have called me out. Yep, that’s what you would have done. Challenged me. Nope, that’s not the way Rupert Jarrard does things. He goes out and gets, then tells his best friend.’

  ‘Typical.’

  ‘You would have been the first to know – afterwards.’

  ‘How thoughtful.’

  ‘That’s me – heart of gold.’

  Jarrard lit a cigar and they sat there, side by side, not looking at one another for about ten minutes, puffing away.

  Finally, Crossman broke the silence by pointing at the railway with his chibouque and asking, ‘When do you think the first locomotive will get here? I’ve heard they’re considering a Wilson tank locomotive 0-6-0. They use them in the collieries up in the North of England, you know. Supposed to be very reliable. We will get new models, of course.’

  ‘My information, which comes reliably from Russell, is that you’re going to get a second-hand engine from a company called St Helens Railway. Built by Jones, Turner and Evans. A tender locomotive with an 0-4-0 wheel arrangement.’

  ‘Really? Well, Billy knows best, I suppose. Shame, it would have been splendid to see a shiny new engine here. I’m hoping they’ll ask for volunteers to maintain them. Do you suppose they will bring their own engineers out from Britain?’

  ‘Without a doubt. You might try asking though.’

  Colonel Hawke sent for Crossman shortly after the sergeant’s meeting with his friend. Crossman entered the room and found Hawke talking with none other than Captain Sterling Campbell. Crossman could have sunk into the floor. Instead he saluted and stood to attention, waiting to be addressed by his superior officer. In fact Campbell merely glanced at him, told the colonel he would see him later, and then left. Crossman thanked God that Wellington had stated the common soldier was scum, thus giving men like Campbell a good reason not to pay any attention to men like him. Crossman was sure that some officers did not even look into the faces of their men, regarding them as automatons, there for the sole purpose of drilling and parading for show, and leading into battle for glory.

  Hawke was of a different mould. He saw the creatures behind the uniforms and knew their worth. Crossman had been told by Lovelace that Hawke had a high regard for him, which naturally raised the colonel very high in the sergeant’s eyes. Hawke actually asked for Crossman’s opinion at times: something staff officers did not even do of regiment officers. Had Crossman been an officer himself he had no doubt Colonel Hawke would have acted as his mentor and patron. One only had a glittering career in the army through preferment. Talent was needed, of course, but you could have all the talent in the world and still wither in some dusty corner of the organization. To become a high flier, someone who was swiftly moved into the best jobs, someone promoted rapidly up the ladder, someone in the right place at the right time, one needed a help from someone in power.

  ‘Ah, Mr Fancy Jack,’ said the colonel, shuffling some papers on his makeshift desk. ‘Well done on the Sebastopol thing. How’s your arm?’

  ‘Healing quite quickly, thank you, sir.’

  ‘And the major’s arm?’

  ‘I haven’t seen the major for a while, but it looked well enough in its sling the last time we were together.’

  Hawke chuckled. ‘How is it that you copy his fashion, sergeant? If the major had broken his leg I suppose you would have limped in here this morning, eh? Never mind. To business. We have to discuss this impending attack by the Russians. I want my falconet, my zumbooruck right there in the middle of it all. A good chance for you to assess the camel in a real action.’

  ‘We have already . . .’

  ‘Oh, I know, I know, but that was just a skirmish. This looks like being another Alma or Inkerman. What say? You don’t have to charge the enemy of course. You can stay on the fringes, shoot at ’em from the edge, but keep moving about. A camel is a large target.’

  ‘I was about to say that, sir. A very large target, sticking up out of the mass. We’ll be very tempting for the Russian gunners.’

  ‘That’s why I say you’ve got to be nippy, keep running around. Fire and run, fire and run. That’s the idea. How are your men? All holding up well? What about that Canadian? Useful to you?’

  Crossman was certain that Gwilliams was an American, but the colonel had got it into his head that the British connection was strong.

  ‘He works
well. He’s not an unintelligent man, either. Self-educated I believe, having access to worthy books at one time.’

  The colonel nodded. ‘Ah, worthy books! Not that they have ever interested me. Can’t seem to sit still long enough to read. Rather be in the saddle, or out walking with a dog and a sporting gun . . .’ Crossman felt this was the colonel’s image of how he would like to be, not how he was. In fact Crossman had often seen Hawke with that formidable nose between the pages of some tome or document. ‘So, Gwilliams settled. Yorwarth? Has he had that horrible jaw fixed yet?’

  ‘The jaw is as fixed as it’ll ever be, sir, but now it’s a skin complaint.’

  ‘Never up to the mark, is he? Peterson? Recovered from that ordeal? Not pleasant, to be tortured.’

  ‘Fine, sir.’ They both avoided the use of gender. ‘Still scars there, inside of course, but otherwise . . .’

  ‘And the damnable Wynter? I understand Yusuf Ali keeps him in check while you’re not around. Nasty, that business over his wife. I would have it thoroughly looked into, but I’m told that the perpetrator is known to you and that you have put the word about. You shouldn’t have gone off on that goose chase, of course, but you already know that. I want no precursory justice, mark you. If you find the man, hand him over to the proper authorities for them to deal with. That’s the right thing to do. A firing squad or an official piece of hemp, not a peremptory hanging.’

  ‘Of course, sir. I hope you know me better.’

  ‘Indeed, but one likes to hear it from the horse’s mouth. Well, I think that’s all, sergeant. Get out there and practise a little more with the camel. She’s a fine beast, isn’t she? What do you call her?’

  ‘Betsy.’

  Hawke’s face clouded a little. ‘Hummph. Not quite a warrior’s name. You might have given her something stronger.’

  ‘We did think of Boadicea but found it a bit of a mouthful.’

  ‘Yes, well – what about Diana?’ said the colonel, brightly. ‘No, huntress, ain’t she, not a warrior? I know, Athena. Athena the Greek goddess of war.’ He slammed his right fist into his left palm. ‘By Jove, there’s a name to conjure with, sir! Athena.’