Attack on the Redan

by Garry Douglas Kilworth

  The landscape was bleak at this time of the morning. It had rained during the night and as the light began to reveal the world in all its lack of glory Crossman could see how damp and depressing it all was. Animals were standing, shivering, foursquare on their limbs: a cluster of horses in a corral, a solitary mule in a paddock, one or two camels wandering around mindlessly. Flapping tents dripped on a dull muddy earth. A tattered flag flapped in a desultory fashion from a home-made flag pole outside a colonel’s residence. The sentry by his door was fast asleep on his feet, his rifle-musket used as a prop to keep him from falling flat on his face. A drunk, possibly a sailor, was curled up on a wooden step, the door closed firmly against him. Near to him a dog was labouring, chewing at the grey bone of some unidentifiable animal.

  A troop of dragoons passed under the window, going out for some early morning exercise, their bridle rings and stirrups clinking. Some of the troopers appeared to be half asleep, though they were sitting tall in the saddle, looking quite smart in their tight uniforms. Here was another point of envy: irregulars all seemed to have loose, easy clothing, while regular soldiers were constricted by theirs.

  ‘Come the revolution,’ muttered Crossman, ‘it will all change.’

  Then he remembered, the French had had their revolution, and bloody and horrible it had been. Yet here they were, still in their shiny, tight uniforms, and their uncomfortable helmets, much the same as the British, whose kings and queens still slept safe in their beds.

  It was a Wynter in a very different mood who came running back to the hovel with a message which he delivered with breathless speed. Crossman could hear everything from the room above.

  ‘They’ve attacked – the Russians. Down by the Chernaya. We’ve to get Betsy and go off to drive ’em back.’

  Peterson’s sarcasm came naturally. ‘Oh, right, the six of us will just march down there. Just the sight of us will be enough for the Russian army to take to their heels.’

  ‘No, you nanny goat. Us, the Frogs and the Sardines.’

  He seemed pleased at being clever enough to keep his references within the natural world.

  Crossman came down the stairs, just as Peterson’s incredulous question was being asked. He was aware that the French force on the Fedioukine Hills was around 18,000 men and nearly fifty guns. The Sardinians were on Mount Hasfort, 10,000 of them, with thirty-five guns, or thereabouts. There was also cavalry and horse artillery to support them. The British presence in that area was a single cavalry division under General Scarlett, the hero of the Heavy Brigade charge at Balaclava. No, he was wrong, there were other British soldiers in the area, or could be. The Reserve Artillery could be on the scene quite quickly.

  ‘Who sent you, Wynter?’

  ‘One of Colonel Hawke’s men, sergeant. Told me to come and get you, and the rest of us. Said Lieutenant Percy-Smudge will meet us at the front.’ Wynter looked keenly at Crossman, wondering if he would bite on the insolence. Crossman however was not going to play games at such a time. Pirce-Smith was old enough to be able to protect his own name. Wynter continued with, ‘I’ve already sent for Stik and Betsy. They’re comin’ soon as the old girl’s saddled and gunned. Stik’s got a couple of his chums workin’ with him. She’s in a bad temper this morning, but Stik’s takin’ no nonsense.’

  Crossman was as duly impressed by this forethought on the part of Wynter as he was expected to be.

  ‘Well done, Wynter. You did the right thing. We’ll get that stripe back for you one day.’

  ‘Thanks, sergeant.’

  ‘Did the colonel’s man give you any idea of the size of the attack?’

  ‘Said there was two divisions comin’ against the Frogs and two against the Sardines. There may be more waitin’ in the wings, he said. It’s our chance to try out our secret weapon, he said, to drive the Ruskies back. He reckons Betsy will scare the pickled cabbage out of them.’

  ‘You’d better go upstairs and tell the major what’s happening. Did you get a reply to his message?’

  ‘Couldn’t, sergeant. The colonel weren’t there. He was gone somewhere. His man wouldn’t say.’

  ‘All right then, up you go.’

  Wynter rushed up the stone stairs, all his bad feelings for the major having evaporated with the excitement of the attack.

  Crossman said to the others. ‘Well, are you ready? Gwilliams?’

  ‘Yes, sergeant. Ready and willin’, if a mite unsure about being able. I’ve got this notion that Betsy will make a clear target on a hilltop, and they’ll shoot her off it in a second. I can see them licking their fingers and wetting the sights on their weapons, soon as Betsy steps up. Unmissable, I reckon. I don’t figure we’ll last long.’

  ‘Me neither,’ Peterson chipped in. ‘I don’t think Yorwarth’s going to need to worry about his bad skin much longer. He won’t have a skin by eight o’clock. None of us will.’

  ‘Well, there’s a cheery bunch for you,’ chirped Major Lovelace, coming down the stairs ahead of Wynter. ‘Just do your best. No one says you’ve got to be amongst the Forlorn Hope. In fact I would stay away from the bulk of the army. Work around the fringes. I’d like to come with you, but I’m ragged with lack of sleep. If I were you I’d make for the Traktir Bridge, over the Chernaya. That’ll be the Russian objective, if I’m not mistaken. Well, good luck.’

  Stik and Betsy arrived just a short while later. They set off at a fast pace for the bridge over the River Chernaya. The closer they got the louder were the sounds of battle. Betsy seemed to have got over her early morning grumps, but the noise of the guns began to make her edgy. Twice she stopped, like a mule, and refused to go on until Stik fed her with sugar lumps and whispered into her ear. Yorwarth sat behind the hump, looking awkward and vulnerable on the swaying beast. One could tell by his expression that he was not the happiest of men.

  By the time they reached the battleground there had been a rather rash and impetuous attack by the Russians on the French breastworks. Some of the Russian infantry had crossed the river but an aqueduct impeded their further advance. Such were the vagaries of war that a structure possibly built by some ancient civilization should turn a contemporary battle. If it did not save the French from being overrun, it certainly assisted in their counterattack. There was a Tartar goatboy, sitting on top of the aqueduct, his legs dangling over the edge as if he were idly contemplating nature, rather than witnessing a battle on which the fate of nations depended. Certainly he had a marvellous view of the death and destruction, the mayhem and smoke of war, going on around him. He seemed rather indifferent to the fact that the French began to push the Russians back from whence they came. It was as if the fighting were somehow quite unconnected with him. He was a disinterested spectator.

  Crossman and his peloton were just in time to see the French make a bayonet charge to drive the Russians back across the river in great confusion. The light was coming down sharply now, flashing on the forest of bayonets wielded by blue soldiers. Everywhere was the glint and glitter of shiny metal, like evanescent stars upon the ground. There was a dull boom following in the wake of a shrill whistling, as a missile went over the heads of the peloton. Crossman looked keenly through his glass and found a Russian light battery to the east. However, after that one shot at the zumbooruck, the light battery was attacked by some allied thirty-two-pounders and forced to retire. The Russian heavy artillery seemed to be outside the range of the allied guns however, for it continued to throw its weight around.

  ‘Pity we haven’t got a long-barrelled eighteen-pounder, instead of this small swivel,’ said Crossman to Ali, who had been sent to join them by Major Lovelace. ‘An eighteen would reach those Russian guns.’

  ‘I think Betsy would make the complaint,’ said Ali. ‘The recoil would throw her on her back.’

  ‘Of course it would, but I can wish.’

  The air was full of the shrieks of wounded men, as desperate struggles took place on the water’s edge. Musket and cannon were blasting out into the mild morni
ng. Balls, large and small, were flying everywhere. Mortar and howitzer shells burst in the sky as rockets fizzed through the flying shrapnel. Yells and shouts added to the cacophony. Urgent bugles sounded, drummers drummed out advances and retreats. The heaving waves of men, flowing back and forth, the sweet smell of blood in the breeze, the harsh odour of spent and burning gunpowder, the clashing of metal on metal, the grunts, the groans, the moans, the screams of wounded and dying horses.

  All this served to make Betsy less than happy with her first real action, her first proper battle. It happened then that a battalion of Piedmontese advanced on the Russians in good order. The Sardinans appeared to march as if on parade, supported by a company of Sardinian Bersaglieri. This assault was making inroads into the Russians, though the soldiers were tripping over scaling ladders left by the enemy.

  Then one of several Russian ammunition wagons exploded.

  Betsy immediately defecated to illustrate the fact that she was concerned by the situation. It seemed that she was aware she was going to make a clear target for the enemy, for she went down on all fours and refused to get off her knees, remaining hunched into the landscape. They did their best to get her to her feet, Stik helping them against his better judgement. She was adamant. Now she was down, she was going to stay down, and let those whizz-bangs go over her head, not through it. To emphasize her stand she bit Gwilliams on the shoulder and spat a wad into Ali’s face. When Peterson tried to lift her by her tail she rewarded the soldier with an enormous fart that would have lifted an oak from its roots.

  Finally, they gave up, and let her be.

  ‘Sergeant!’ cried Yorwarth. ‘Can I get off?’

  Crossman shook his head. ‘No, if we can’t get her to stand up again, then you’ll have to fire the swivel from there. Stik? Will she not rise? What’s the matter with her? Is she afraid?’

  ‘Camel is afraid, Stik is afraid,’ said the boy. ‘Can we go back now, sergeant?’

  ‘No, we must do what we came to do,’ said Crossman, firmly. ‘We are soldiers and this is what soldiers do.’

  ‘I am no soldier,’ said Stik, stubbornly. ‘My camel is no soldier.’

  ‘You are being paid by the army and you will do the army’s work.’

  ‘Not very much,’ argued Peterson for the boy. ‘A pittance really.’

  ‘We’re all being paid a pittance,’ Gwilliams argued. ‘A few English pence.’

  ‘Peterson, Gwilliams,’ said the frustrated Crossman, ‘I could do without your intervention.’

  While they were thus talking a small boy came running up the slope dragging a drum behind him. He was in a French uniform. His eyes were like coins and there was clearly terror in his head and heart. He tried to rush by Crossman who reached out and grasped his collar. The boy struggled, kicking and scratching, until Crossman lifted him off his feet, drum and all. He stared into the child’s face.

  ‘Where are you off to?’ Crossman asked him in French.

  The child wriggled some more, then gave up, hanging limply from the sergeant’s grip. He burst into a fit of sobbing, wiping his eyes on his left sleeve.

  ‘I don’t want to fight,’ he said. ‘My drum major is – is . . .’

  ‘Has he been killed?’

  ‘Yes.’ The boy turned his head, awkwardly, looking back down the slope. ‘He – he fell. I looked and there was blood on his chest. I must go now, back to the camp.’

  He seemed calmer and Crossman set him on his feet. The boy immediately reached up and grasped Crossman by his beard, not so that it hurt, but firmly. It was obviously a gesture of affection, for the boy continued to hold on to it, even when Crossman gently pulled back with his head.

  ‘Why are you doing that, boy?’ he asked.

  ‘I – I do this with my grandfather.’

  ‘I am not your grandfather.’ But he could see that it gave the child some sort of comfort, so he stood there and allowed it. The peloton chuckled, not knowing what was being said, but clearly enjoying the sergeant’s embarrassment.

  Crossman went down to the boy’s level, still being held by his beard, and looked into the child’s eyes.

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Eleven, sir.’

  ‘Where are your from?’

  ‘From my parents’ village.’

  Crossman nodded. ‘And where is that?’

  ‘Near the great port of Calais,’ said the boy with some pride in his voice.

  ‘Then we are practically neighbours, for I live just across the water, on the other side of La Manche. Listen, child – what is your name?’

  ‘Emile, sir.’

  ‘Listen, Emile, if you run from the battle it is called “deserting” and they might shoot you for it. Do you understand? You must go back down there . . .’ Panic showed in the child’s face, but Crossman, despite the agony of feeling he had in his chest, knew that the drummer boy had to do his duty or face punishment. There was no other way but the army way. Some kind colonel might understand, but there were plenty who would not. ‘You must go back down there and help with the wounded. Take off your drum and if the Russians come, then you can run, but if your soldiers are forcing them back you must tend to those who have fallen. Stay at the back, no one will fault you for that, but you must not run away.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The child made no attempt to let go of Crossman’s beard.

  ‘Emile, I can see great courage in your eyes. You are a soldier, aren’t you? One of the brave French army?’

  ‘Oh, yes sir!’

  ‘I can see that. Well then, Emile, off you go, back down to that place over there – see – where your bandsmen are taking the wounded. Go down there and give some water to the men sitting on the ground. That would be a very brave thing to do, wouldn’t it?’

  The beard was relinquished at last. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Go then. Take your drum.’

  The boy trotted off, down the slope, the trailing drum banging on the ground behind him. Crossman saw Emile reach the spot where the wounded were being gathered and the surgeons were striding about. He unhitched his drum and ran to where a bugler was handing out water bottles. Taking one he hastened to a man whose right arm was missing. The wounded man drank the water, apparently grateful. Emile looked up and waved. Crossman waved back, gravely, his amused men smiling at him the whole while.

  At that moment Mrs Durham rode up, her face alight. The contrast between the expression on her face and the one that had been on the French boy’s face was remarkable. Hers was full of joy, while his had been an overwhelming fear. One would have thought Mrs Lavinia Durham had been informed that a flock of pink flamingos had descended on the River Chernaya bearing humming birds on their backs and that she was a great ornithologist, amazed at the sight. What was amazing her, exciting her, bringing her lovely features alive, was the sight of hostile conflict between two colourful European armies. The lady revelled in it. Her normally cream complexion was bright with heightened hues and her eyes shone. In an unnatural voice she asked who was winning, where were the British cavalry, the darlings of her heart, and had they charged the enemy yet?

  At that precise moment however Crossman’s attention was taken by a movement below. Several Russian columns, a whole division by the look of it, detached itself from the attack on Mount Hasfort and the Sardinians and turned towards the French. A brigade of Russian infantry then managed to ford the river and assaulted the right flank of the French position, beating them back and this time the aqueduct presented no barrier to them. The French began to suffer badly, much to the chagrin of the British lady watching from the top of the slope above them. Crossman was pleased to see that Emile had sensibly stayed with the bandsmen, who were off to the rear left and not in any great danger at that moment, the attack coming from the right of the line.

  ‘Oh, oh,’ cried Lavinia Durham. ‘Are you to do something to help them, sergeant? Fire on the enemy. Help our brave comrades in arms.’

  ‘Yes general,’ replied Crossman through gritted te
eth. ‘Yorwarth, you heard the commander in chief. Fire at the enemy.’

  With Betsy still determined to remain on her knees, Yorwarth fired a ball down amongst the Russians. No one saw it strike. Betsy remained remarkably calm. Ali reloaded and Yorwarth fired another. This time it struck a body of infantry and a space appeared in a Russian column. A cheer went up from the peloton. Crossman nodded, approvingly.

  ‘That’s the stuff, Yorwarth. Give them another one.’

  ‘I think we’re making an impact on the battle,’ said Yorwarth, after a few more like it. ‘See, they’re retreating, sergeant.’

  The Russians were going back, but it was not Betsy’s artillery that was responsible of course. The Sardinians were now descending from Mount Hasfort and were attacking the Russians with fierce courage and great vigour, driving into the enemy flank and forcing the broken column back across the river again. This action by the Sardinians seemed to infuriate the Russian generals, and they renewed their attacks on the Fedioukine Hills, where a terrible slaughter began in earnest.

  ‘Help them, help them!’ cried Lavinia Durham.

  ‘Madam,’ said Crossman, taking the reins of her horse, ‘if you do not retire immediately and ride off from here, out of danger, I shall be forced to order one of my men to drag you away.’

  ‘Oh – you would not. You could not, Alex. You owe me much, you know, and I’m sure you would not insist on my going if you knew how I feel about supporting our troops.’

  ‘I certainly would and shall, if you do not gallop out of range of those musket balls immediately.’

  Indeed, there were shots almost reaching them now, dropping amongst the grasses just in front. Most of them were spent by the time they fell to earth, but just the same Crossman had a horror of Lavinia being hit. It would do his career no good at all to have to tell Captain Bertie Durham that his wife had been wounded or killed within an arm’s reach of an infantry sergeant. Bertie would not understand at all when told that Lavinia Durham was not in the habit of taking notice of ex-lovers, gentlemen such as Alexander Kirk, alias Sergeant Jack Crossman, and in fact used her hold over them to get what she wanted at times like these.