Crossman himself had his own grief to contend with. It was not as devastating or destructive as that which Peterson had to bear, but it gnawed at his spirit none the less. He felt hopeless. How was he ever going to get back to his old self? Had he still been part of the line regiment, the 88th, he would not have felt the removal of his stripes so keenly. But in this new work of espionage and sabotage, an NCO had many privileges and a great deal more status. He had been able to converse with colonels, hobnob with majors, cock a snoot at lieutenants. Now he was a common soldier they turned their shoulder to him, were not interested in his opinions on how to go about a difficult task in the field. He had never felt quite so rejected since he had been a child in his father’s house. It was difficult to keep the bile from rising, the bitterness from eating into his soul like self-generated acid.
The following morning Ali shook Crossman gently awake and the pair of them prepared the fire and a cooked breakfast. Once they were out on patrol there would be little opportunity to make hot food. Others rose afterwards, drawn awake by the pleasant smell of cooking, and stumbled out with metal plate in hand. Wynter was one of the first. He gobbled his breakfast down without a thank you and then went back to his cot until Lieutenant Pirce-Smith descended upon the fold.
‘What’s this? Breakfast? How jolly,’ said the officer, clearly pleased. ‘You men know how to look after your stomachs, I’ll give you that.’
He ate with them, chatting the whole while, quite at ease now amongst the ranks. It had not always been so and Crossman had had a difficult time with him in the beginning. But the officer had learned to bend, unlike his predecessor, who had always remained aloof. That particular lieutenant had died gallantly on the battlefield, clad not in a uniform but in a civilian suit, at Inkerman. They did not miss him, though they acknowledged he was a soldier. Pirce-Smith was preferable, most of the time, and had learned more in a shorter space.
‘Up and on our way, men,’ said Pirce-Smith, pulling on a bulging haversack. ‘The war beckons.’
They did not so much march out of camp as sort of amble out, dragging their tails behind them. On the way they had to passed the 93rd, who were rising with the dawn. Crossman saw Jock McIntyre and tried to hide his face, but the bluff Scot would have none of it.
‘Jack, ye scoundrel. Ah heard. Dinna fash yersel’ laddie, ye’ll get right back there soon enough.’
Crossman waved an acknowledgement, managing a grin, though how he forced it on to his face he knew not. He did not see Campbell anywhere around, for which he was grateful. Whether the captain would have smirked, or scoffed, or simply remained silently aloof, Crossman would have withered in his skin had the man been there. He hoped he would never see Captain Sterling Campbell ever again. In fact if the said captain had been blown away by a Russian cannon, Crossman would have kissed the gunner, not his daughter, his feelings were so intense.
They passed too, a mournful-looking Betsy, with her gun-saddle somewhere else, probably in Hawke’s office. She was tethered to a stake in the ground and was chewing thoughtfully and watchfully as her former companions trudged by her. Stik came out, from behind a wall. He too stared at the group, then called, ‘Sergeant?’ Crossman looked up, instinctively. Then seeing Wynter’s scornful eyes on him, he turned away again, feeling bereft. They left the pair still staring after them as they climbed the slopes, bound for an encounter with the enemy.
‘I’ll wager your arms feel lighter, Crossman,’ murmured Wynter. ‘You can swing ’em freely now, without all that weight.’
Wynter was enjoying himself. Crossman did not flinch or blink an eye under this jeering. In fact he ignored Wynter completely and began talking to Peterson about the Enfield.
‘Still rather have your Minnie back?’
‘No,’ smiled Peterson, ‘but there’s not much between them.’
Wynter shut up after a while, when he realized that his taunts were falling on deaf ears.
The day opened up pleasantly, with small finches flocking from bush to bush, and hidden songbirds heralding the morning. There were butterflies too, clustered around a small group of shrubs. They flew out of the shade into the sunlight, flashing their bright colours, then back again quickly as if the sun would singe their wings. It was not a world of black powder and sharp steel, this hinterland. It was a quiet place, a place of stony tracks leading to grassy uplands. The war was nestling down below somewhere, as a town nestles in the crook of a valley. Most of the men, and the woman, were happy to leave its squalor behind them. Wynter was perhaps the only one who saw little difference between what they had left and where they were now. All foreign terrain was alike to him.
They walked all morning, pausing only to drink and eat. The fare on the march was salt beef, pork and apples. The officer had the largest load to carry on his back, something which had Crossman wondering. Pirce-Smith and Ali took turns at carrying it. It was clearly quite heavy and Crossman guessed there were probably explosives in there. He cursed at the bulkiness of his own pack at times, which was a great deal smaller. Besides food and water, each man was carrying two hundred rounds of ammunition in their belts, the weight of which caused chafing and consequent soreness at the hips. That, and the weapons beside, brought the pace down. Crossman was just glad it was summer and they were not clothed as they had been in the winter. As it was, they sweated as they toiled up the slopes, their thirst raging in their throats at times.
At noon they stopped in the shade of an overhang. Lieutenant Pirce-Smith ordered them to check their weapons while they were resting, to ensure no dust or grit had entered the barrels while on the march. If anyone thought this a fussy command, they did not say so, not even Gwilliams or Ali. The lieutenant himself took the sentry duty while this order was being carried out, after which Peterson took over from the officer on a high place with a good vista.
Pirce-Smith made a point of checking his own weapon, then asked Crossman to accompany him down to the shade of a fig tree.
‘Private Crossman,’ said the lieutenant, when they were out of earshot of the others, ‘I should like to ask you your opinion on this ambush. What concerns me is that the Russians may create an uncommon situation. I would be grateful for the knowledge of whether this has happened to you in the past.’
Crossman gritted his teeth on hearing his present rank used so clearly and definitely. It seemed to him that Pirce-Smith was milking his experience, which had been hard-learned. This irked him and he snapped out a rather irritated, ‘What do you mean, uncommon?’
Pirce-Smith’s expression hardened. ‘I would change that tone if we are to flourish together in the same environment, private.’
‘I’m sorry, sir. Could you please elucidate?’
‘I mean in your experience have they ever set traps? I don’t mean specifically for you and your men. I mean, have they ever been wise enough to split their numbers?’
Crossman was still annoyed, but he hid it successfully. ‘I see. You mean do they follow main force with a secondary force, or forces, within hailing distance. So that if the supply column is attacked they can call for assistance and thus trap the would-be trappers.’
‘Something like that. Along those lines of thought.’
‘It’s only happened once and I’m inclined to think that it was more by accident than design.’
‘Would you care to describe the event to me, so that I can form my own opinion?’
‘Certainly, sir. We were part of a larger sortie out on the Woronzoff Road and once we had opened fire on the enemy we were attacked on our flanks by two more parties of Russians.’
‘Was it a disaster?’
‘We lost a sergeant and five privates from the 88th. On our retreat they fell into a disused sap of which we had no prior knowledge, even though it was one of ours. The Russian cavalry made great sport with their lances and swords. I saw the sergeant cleaved in two, down to the waist, by a single stroke from a heavy cavalryman. He had fought bravely to that point. There was little we could do to hel
p the men, except fire on the cavalry from a distance. Three, I think, of those who had fallen into the trench recovered their muskets and gave fire, but were attacked in force before they had time to reload. Oh, yes, I recall a private was beheaded. After he had been stuck several times with lances he crawled out of the sap and ran in a hapless fashion, unfortunately away from our position. The final stroke was actually a mercy for you could see the man was out of his mind with fear and pain.’
‘But you are inclined to think this counter-ambuscade was not planned but was simply happenchance.’
‘That is my opinion, sir.’
Pirce-Smith looked satisfied and nodded. ‘Good, we are too small a group to split into anything smaller.’ He paused for a moment before adding, ‘You looked disturbed during the retelling of that account. Was it regrettable?’
‘Yes – yes it was. I was not proud to be part of it. Our retreat was more of a rout than an ordered withdrawal. We should have been close enough to save those men. In fact if we had all leapt into the trench, we would have had a good defensive position. Instead we rushed on, not realizing that we had lost them.’
‘Were you in command of the sortie?’
‘No, sir, I was not. My peloton was simply attached to the larger group for the purposes of the raid.’
‘Then the fault was not yours. I know, I know, it is still galling to be a member of a bungled operation, but the greater blame lay elsewhere. Thank you for being so frank with me, Private Crossman. Please rejoin the rest of the men now.’
How that rankled! Private. He could not get used to it. It was like a sharp pointed tool of torture, probing him. The lieutenant, in using it, was simply following protocol, but still Pirce-Smith used it with too much satisfaction in his voice. The two had had their differences in the past. At one time Pirce-Smith had sought some kind of punishment for Crossman, when as a sergeant he had assumed command of a patrol sent out to bring deserters to justice, with no deference to the lieutenant’s rank. However, Crossman hoped that would all be in the past.
Crossman had a relatively undisturbed night, apart from the interference of a persistent owl. He had never quite understood why owls hooted – or screeched – when they were supposed to be silent hunters. If it was to attract female owls, why not do that out of hunting hours? If it was to warn other owls away from their territory, surely they would warn every living creature – mouse, vole, rat, whatever – within the range of the hoot. The vagaries of the natural world were beyond him. Engines were reliable and understood, but animals were unpredictable.
He woke to find that Yorwarth, because the scratching of his eczema had disturbed the lieutenant, had been sent for water. It got him out of sight and mind while the rest of them struck camp. They were about ready to march when they heard the sound of Yorwarth yelling to the accompaniment of empty canteens drumming together. Yorwarth was obviously running back without having filled them. The scenery around the peloton was of sloping broken rocky ground studded with bushes, some of them thorny, and everyone peered down to see where Yorwarth would emerge. He came from behind a bush down to the left of their position. It appeared to Crossman that the air was full of a black cloud of canister or grapeshot. He went down on one knee, rifle-musket at the ready, wondering why they had not heard the sound of guns.
It took but a half-second to realize how foolish had been his first observation. From that point on the whole episode took on a kind of unnatural motion. The sound of a swarm of angry bees could now be plainly heard by everyone. There were tens of thousands of them. Yorwarth was waving his arms, slapping at the black flecks which kept pace with him, surrounding his head. The vanguard of the bees, ahead of Yorwarth, then began stinging the dumbfounded watchers. Without waiting any longer everyone turned and began running blindly away from the oncoming swarm, Yorwarth’s alarming screams in their ears.
Crossman had been brought up on estates where he had been left in the care of gardeners, while his stepmother cut flowers for her tables. He had chatted with them for hours, gardeners having funds of folklore with which to entertain young gentlemen. He now recalled, as the rushed desperately away from the attacking bees, that in the absence of a building to hide in, one should run through bushes and foliage, to impede and break up the flight of the swarm. This he did now, with remarkable alacrity. He stopped only when he was about 250 yards from the original camp site with the vague recollection that bees, however angry, will only chase their victims for around fifty or so yards. These bees had pursued him for a lot further than that and seeing several still clinging to his shirt he realized they were not ordinary bees. They were much larger, seemingly much fiercer, and left an enormous sting behind.
First he swatted and brushed away those bees still on his person. Then he plucked two or three stingers from the backs of his hands, the extremities which had suffered the most. Looking back up the slope, he could see none of his companions. He would not blame them if he they were still running, halfway back to Balaclava! After a while he felt he ought to go back up the slope, though the stings were extremely painful and swellings had appeared. One was on his neck and was agony. He felt that a second Adam’s apple had appeared alongside the real one.
It took great strength of will to return to the spot where they had left some of the equipment.
It was deserted. Crossman stared about him. After a while he heard a low groan and on investigating found Yorwarth collapsed under a bush. The soldier was in an appalling state. It was difficult to recognize him as a human being, let alone as Yorwarth. From somewhere beneath the lumps and bumps a voice moaned incessantly. Yorwarth seemed to have difficulty in breathing: under the moaning was a rattling sound. His throat and neck were so swollen they were of a hideous size.
The others were drifting back now, all showing injuries from the bees, some of which were still in the district. Wynter made it his duty to kill as many of the insects as possible, while the rest crowded around the unfortunate Yorwarth. Ali made a tube out of some stiff leather and forced it into the mouth and partly down the throat of Yorwarth to try to assist his breathing. It was not very successful. Within a very short time Yorwarth had ceased to take in air and was dead.
‘He can’t be gone!’ cried a distressed Peterson, the most ailing of those who remained. ‘Not just from bees.’
It did indeed seem incongruous, that someone who had survived months in a war where terminal disease was rife and death from the enemy ever-present, should succumb to the stings of an insect. It did not seem right to any of them. They stood over the corpse and shook their heads, more upset at that moment by the manner of the death, by the trivial nature of the killers, than the loss of their comrade. A pack of starving wolves, yes. A crazed bear, acceptable. But a bunch of bees? No, that did not seem fair at all. God was being absurd. Yorwarth was only seventeen. An awkward boy in a war far from his homeland. It did not seem right.
‘We must move on,’ said Pirce-Smith. ‘Cover the body with stones. We shall have to collect it on our return journey.’
They did as they were ordered in a kind of dream. Some of them were now beginning to feel the effects of the stings themselves. Worst among them was Peterson, who had begun shivering and shaking in a most alarming manner. When the shaking turned to full convulsions, Pirce-Smith made camp again. The group remained there the rest of the day and the next night. Ali did what he could to relieve the symptoms suffered by Peterson, with compresses and herbal remedies. Some of the others felt ill too, but not to the same extent as Peterson. By morning she had recovered somewhat. She was able, shakily, to take food and water.
Pirce-Smith wanted to press on, but realized with the loss of one man, and their prime sharpshooter temporarily out of action, it was best to gather strength before attempting a hard march. There was a time factor, but they had set out with plenty of leeway, wanting to be in the area of the ambush well before the Russian supply caravan arrived. However they were using up that leeway rapidly.
At noon he had t
hem on their feet and back on the trail. Thereafter they had frequent stops, but at least they were heading in the right direction.
That night they camped in a grove of olives. There was little talk amongst them. In the morning Crossman went for the water. His officer woke and followed him down to the beck. There the two men had a private conversation, out of earshot of the rest of the men.
Pirce-Smith said, ‘That was a bad business, back there with the bees. You had told me a little story, just prior to that incident, in which I fondly imagined myself doing the right thing, instinctively. You said your retreat from your sortie was more of a rout. I felt rather superior when you told me that. I told myself at the time that I would never panic and run, no matter what my commander did. Well, I was wrong. I just panicked and ran.’
‘It was a very uncommon situation, sir. One probably only gets attacked by deadly bees once in a lifetime.’
‘Still, I should be prepared for the unusual. I was not. I did what I said I would never do. It was unforgivable. Now a man is dead . . .’
‘We could not have saved him, had we stayed to face the bees.’
‘Perhaps not. I don’t know.’ The officer was quite remorseful. ‘Nothing to be done now, of course. It’s over. I don’t know what the colonel will say.’
‘Sir, he will tell you that he would have done the same thing in the same circumstances. The greatest hero in the world cannot stand and face an unstoppable force. I too am horrified that I ran. But when I stop to think about it, what else was there to do? We have no protection against a swarm of bees, no weapons to destroy them with before they kill us, nowhere to hide. I was told by my gardeners as a child that even if one jumps into a pond and submerses oneself, the bees will still be there waiting when one surfaces. Their advice – and they are country people who know country ways – was to run. The only way to avoid being stung is to get out of the bees’ territory. Run. That’s what we did.’
Attack on the Redan Page 25
