‘It still seems cowardly. How is Peterson, by the by? Is the corporal getting any better?’
Pirce-Smith somehow managed to speak about Peterson without bringing gender into the sentence.
‘See for yourself, sir. She’s pale, but recovering. I think she’ll be all right. How about you? You were stung several times too.’
‘Once I’d emptied the contents of my stomach, quietly behind a boulder, I felt much revived.’ He touched one of his swellings. ‘I was fortunate enough not to get stung on the throat or mouth, which was the method by which they killed Yorwarth so swiftly. Would that we pursued our ends in this war with as much skill and determination.’
Crossman did not like to point out that bees had no real method. They were not a thinking enemy, but an instinctive one. Pirce-Smith spoke as if the insects deliberately set out to kill Yorwarth and the schemes their generals had devised had met with planned success. Surely they had no strategy or tactics? They simply descended like barbarian hordes on those who dared to invade the regions under their protection.
‘I think you did all you could, sir. I would have no further thoughts on the subject.’
Pirce-Smith was silent for a while, looking out over the arid landscape, with its dry grasses and brittle shrubs. It seemed he wanted more from the private, but was reluctant to pursue it. Finally, when the silence had gone on so long that Crossman felt he should either be dismissed or given further instructions, the lieutenant turned to him again. Pirce-Smith spoke in a choked voice, emotion buried deeply within it.
‘I came to the Crimea to prove something,’ he said. ‘I have a feeling you did too. My father spent some time in India and he told me stories – you must have heard them too,’ he seemed determined to pull Crossman into the boat with him in this soul-searching exercise, ‘of Henry Lawrence’s “young men”. John Nicholson, Edwardes, Neville Chamberlain, Harry Lumsden, Hodson, Taylor, Abbott and Henry Daly. I know all the names by heart. They went to India barely out of the schoolroom and forged a place in history for themselves on the North-West Frontier. The Punjab, Afghanistan and Kashmir. They did it – are still doing it – with their intellect, their courage and with force of arms. Forming armies from native troops, conquering the Sikh empire, taming the wildest of the Afghan tribes and enriching the East India Company.
‘I joined the army to be like them. Theirs was – and probably still is – a powerful experience. They are legends amongst those whom they lead and rule, let alone back in their homeland. I yearn to follow in their wake, to prove my metal in the way that they have proved theirs. They are living gods. Some say John Nicholson cannot be killed. He has walked into fire and lightning storm a number of times and has come out unscathed. He has killed more men than I have shaken hands with.’ He paused and gave a wry smile. ‘Now, I know that histories are exaggerated, coming out of the Indian subcontinent, a place of mystical happenings, of phantastical occurrences, but a great deal is true. My father as a missionary bore witness to many of the deeds performed out there.’
Crossman said mildly, ‘If you wished to follow in the footsteps of Nicholson and his band of brothers, why did you not go to India?’
A cloud crossed the lieutenant’s face. ‘Because they are there, they have done it. I need to whet my blade in some new untrammelled territory.’ It was almost as if he resented the fact that Lawrence’s young men had got there before him, leaving him no new territories to open up and stamp his name in their dust. He sighed, looking about it. ‘Sadly this is not the place. Somewhere like Africa, perhaps? Or China? But, enough talk, we had better get back to the rest of the men.’
He stood up then, abruptly, and strutted back to where the others were resting, leaving Crossman to follow on behind. When he had first drawn Crossman away, it was as if he wanted his opinion on his career as a warrior so far, but had then realized, halfway through the revelations on his desires, that he was not speaking to an equal. In losing his sergeantcy Fancy Jack Crossman had lost some of his flair, and with it his force of personality. He did not feel this in himself, but others felt it for him, and acted accordingly. The lieutenant had wanted the approbation and approval of the old Crossman, not the new one.
He had taken Crossman aside because like certain inexperienced commanders he need reassurance when something had gone wrong – an unnecessary death of one of his men – and sought it from his next in command. He needed to know he had done the right thing and would not face criticism on return to headquarters. Peterson was actually the next in line for the throne out here in the wilderness, but had so little charisma the lieutenant would have died rather than open himself to her. Besides, she was a woman, and women approved of many things which Pirce-Smith found horrifying: things like humility and turning the other cheek. Crossman, at least, was from a genteel family, had a major for a father and a lieutenant for a brother, even if he was not an officer himself.
But actually Crossman was still too steeped in his own troubles to want to lift the lieutenant and reassure him of his worth.
‘Men,’ said Pirce-Smith, having shed his revelations and was now the hard-shelled, confident lieutenant again, ‘gather round.’
They gathered to hear the wisdom.
‘The day after tomorrow we need to be in position to attack. It will mean a forced march. Peterson, are you still fatigued?’
‘No, sir. Fit.’
‘Good. We have lost some time, but we shall make it up. On your feet now. Do not halt until I halt. Keep up with my pace. Do not ask me to slow. Do not request rest stops, for there will be none. You will eat on the march, drink on the march, and save your breath for the coming fight. I want no stragglers. Keep the line tight. Any questions?’
There were none.
‘Right, follow me.’
The officer strode out and the soldiers followed, Ali taking up the rear as usual, to prod any slow tops. The ground was rough and covered in stones. It was hard going. True to his spirit, Pirce-Smith forced a very fast pace, his eyes fixed on a point three feet in front of him. Boots trod the trail, making the only sounds. Occasionally they crushed herbs, sending up a refreshing aroma to the nostrils of the soldiers. Startled birds flew out of rocky crops. Hares came out of forms and dashed across their path. On they tramped, following the young officer who was desperate to make his mark on the world.
By noon they had been walking for five hours. The big pack had been passed around. Even Peterson had taken a turn. Most of them were beginning to shake at the legs, for the pace had indeed been fast, though it had slowed a little in the last hour. Still Pirce-Smith showed no signs of halting for a rest. No one asked him to. It was not that the likes of Wynter were afraid to ask. It was that no one wanted to show himself to be weak. If the lace-collared son of a clergyman could march forever, so could they! To give him the satisfaction of knowing he was tougher than his own soldiers would be monstrous. Each one of them was going to march until their blisters burst and their boots were full of blood. If the man kept going for another five hours, they would be with him.
‘I need a bush,’ said Gwilliams, after another hour. ‘I have a flock of finches up my ass.’
‘You need to rest?’ enquired the officer, without pausing in his stride. ‘I told you, no requests.’
‘I need a shit, is what I need. Fuck your rest, sir! I can piss on the march, but I sure as hell ain’t gonna drop my pants and crap down my legs.’
The request was reasonable and Pirce-Smith knew it. He had been defeated by bodily functions. He had wanted to report to Hawke that they had marched from dawn to dusk without a break. When he thought about it, it was a miracle the men had come so far without a toilet stop, for most of them were verging on dysentery.
‘Fall out,’ he ordered. ‘Ten minutes, only.’
‘As long as it takes,’ corrected Gwilliams, who was as mad as anyone that the stop had to be made. ‘Two minutes or half an hour. You can’t slam your asshole shut, much as you want to.’
Most of them
went off into the bushes. Pirce-Smith included. Once the subject had been mentioned, it triggered responses in all of them. Only Ali remained. He had the retention powers of a saint. He would burst before admitting he was as frail as other men.
The air was heavy with odour and at first the men were glad to be back on the march. As with all stops though, this one had caused muscles to stiffen and joints to lock. Crossman knew that he was not alone in finding it hard to get his legs moving again. It was as if there were sand in every socket, grinding his bones. While he had not been well-oiled before, he had at least had the benefit of perpetual motion and a mind which had been elsewhere. Now he was aware of his pain. The hypnotic state of a rhythmic march had been broken. Weariness flooded in. Crossman was worried about Peterson. Her pallor had turned very grey and there were dark shadows around her eyes and at the corners of her mouth. Crossman wondered whether to say something to Pirce-Smith about her condition, but could not shake off the feeling that the lieutenant would be less than sympathetic.
By three o’clock in the afternoon the line was strung out and the walk ragged. Peterson had to be continually prodded by the Turk at the back, to keep her putting one foot in front of another. Crossman knew her mind and realized it was important to her that she was not the first to halt, or the fact of her gender would be called into question.
Inevitably, it was Wynter who cried enough.
‘Sir! Sir! I’ve lost my boot.’
They all stopped, turned in great fatigue, to see that Wynter had indeed lost his footwear. It was lying on the trail three yards behind him. A trick, Crossman had no doubt. Wynter had somehow surreptitiously untied his laces, or allowed them to untie, and slipped his foot out of the boot. There it lay though, without a foot to fill it. They all stared, glad of that boot, knowing the march would not continue once it had been halted a second time. Not for an hour or two at least.
‘Can I get my boot, sir?’
‘Damn your boot.’
‘Yes, sir, it should go straight to hell, as you say, sir.’
‘Do not try my patience, Wynter, or you will be flogged here and now.’
Wynter could see the officer was not playing games.
‘No, sir, sorry. Shall I put it on again?’ He retrieved it and tried to force his foot into it. ‘Swollen. It won’t go on. Not yet. Can I bathe my feet, sir? In some cool water. Maybe then . . .’
‘We will rest,’ said Pirce-Smith, almost weeping with frustration, knowing they had the worst of the march behind them and had only a few hours to reach what would have been more than just a modest feat of stamina and endurance. But mid-afternoon was really nothing much to bleat about. Dusk without a proper halt had been his aim: now it was out of the question. ‘We shall remain here for two hours and then press on into the evening.’
The soldiers sank to their bottoms. Water was passed round, and chews of salt pork and beef. Most of the group stared fixedly in front of them as they ate and drank. Peterson fell asleep sitting up, halfway through pulling off her right sock. She still gripped the toe of the blood-soaked item while she snored softly to herself, bent over with her head touching her knees. Her other foot was still clad and was undoubtedly painful, but not enough to wake her. No one blamed her. Others felt as if they could sleep for a week.
After two hours though, Pirce-Smith had them on their feet and ready to go again. In truth Crossman felt refreshed enough to put one leg in front of the other and get the rhythm going again. He was aware that time was short and had it been him in charge of the peloton he would have forced the pace just as the lieutenant was doing. Whether he would have given them regular short rests was another matter, but it was all a question of whose theory one followed. Some experts said that breaks were bad on a long march, others thought them necessary. Crossman would have judged the mood and his own feelings at the time, and would have acted accordingly. He might have followed the same course as Pirce-Smith.
Gwilliams fell in beside him, as he trudged along.
‘Feels like the March of the Ten Thousand, don’t it?’ said Gwilliams.
Crossman was completely thrown. ‘Explain your meaning.’
‘You know, the lost army of the Greeks? Folks led by a general called Xenophon – leastways, he weren’t a general at the outset – had no rank at all, but put himself up, as a volunteer general. Ten thousand men, all lost in the wildernesses of Asia Minor country, led by a man who didn’t know where the hell he was going. You know the story.’
As usual, Crossman was impressed by the North American’s book-learned knowledge of the Ancient World. Gwilliams had lived with a ‘preacher man’ as a child and had access to the man’s library. He had gathered in knowledge ‘by the cart load’ simply by burying himself in densely written tomes, day after day. He came out with the most donnish references, some of which Crossman was aware of, but often so obscure as to be opaque to him. The trouble was, Gwilliams thought everyone knew these things, especially high-hats like Crossman, and he always expected an informed response.
‘I’m not sure I do,’ Crossman replied, stumbling and then recovering his feet on the path in the fading light. ‘I did study Greek of course, and there is a vague recollection in my mind about an author, a Xenophon. Did he not write a work entitled, A History of my Times.’
‘That’s the same fellah. Well, it happened like this – during one of the wars between the Greeks and the Persians – round 400 BC I recall – there was some fracas on the Asian shore. An army of Greeks got pushed inland, on the retreat, and got ’emselves lost. Ten thousand warriors with no idea where they was, where they was going and how they was going to get back. What’s more, all their commanders – five generals and their captains – had been lured away by Persian promises of a truce. Persian commander chopped down the captains and took the generals to the Persian court, where they was put to death, immediate.
‘So, here was this lost army with no ranking officer to take charge. Some queer puzzle, eh? Well, this fellah called Xenophon, just a common soldier, he volunteered to lead ’em out of it. Said he’d do his best for ’em, no matter what. This Xenophon led them on a march through wild places, over uncouth mountains, unobliging rivers, without guides or officers, through lands of barbarous tribes which they had to defeat, messed with at all times by the damn Persians, who tagged along behind and picked off stragglers. I tell you brother they had a time of it, them old Greeks in that walk through wild country. Months of it. Seasons of it. Attacked by any number of hostile savage hillmen, who could defend narrow passes in the fastnesses of the mountains like nobody’s business, who rolled down rocky masses on Greek heads to crush ’em when they came up, and rolled down boulders on top of ’em when they went down the other side. They was cold, starving, and lost a deal of men on the way.’
Crossman, entirely envious of a man who had gone from private to general just like that, said, ‘Now that you tell the tale, I do remember my Greek master giving us the same, but in a much drier manner, and we having to decline verbs and search for gerunds at the same time, it probably went in one ear and out of the other. Look, I feel our little march is but a Sunday jaunt, a stroll in the park in comparison – but I hope your story has a happy ending. Otherwise it will all be lost on me. I cannot bear it if it has a miserable end. I feel for those poor Greeks sorely.’
‘Most certain it ends well,’ continued the North American. ‘This General Xenophon in the end led ’em to the sea. Once they got to the ocean, they felt they was halfway home. There was Greek colonies on the coast and they got friendly help. I tell you,’ said Gwilliams, ‘I admire them Greeks. They did things like that. They wasn’t even professional soldiers, like you and the lieutenant, not mostly. No, they was shopkeepers and tradesmen and scholars and such. Militia. Called to arms by their city, they put on armour and marched out to war, just for the sheer hell and duty of protecting their homes and families. Now me, I got Greek blood in me somewheres, that’s for sure.’
‘You certainly have the dar
k colouring and olive complexion – but what about the auburn beard?’
‘That’s another part of me. Viking, maybe, mixed with a bit of Anglo-Saxon. It’s the Greek part that comes out at times like this, you understand. Goes straight to my feet. Now the Romans knew how to march, but they used good roads to do it on. There was no straight roads for the Greeks. They just up and tramped over rough ground, like we’re doing now.’
‘Is there any Roman in you, do you think?’
Gwilliams nodded, vigorously. ‘Why not? They was around too. Roman, Greek, Viking, you name it.’
There is nothing better to cheer a miserable man than a story about men who had a harder time of it and came out of it all with a hand of trumps. Also, for Crossman, there was the vague feeling of letting the Fates deal with the problem of his demotion. Somehow Gwilliams, in his story meant to make them feel better about their march, had incorporated a tale about a common soldier who rose to general rank at a stroke. Although Crossman could not envisage himself being quite so fortunate, there was always the possibility that a situation would arise where he was put in command again. While he would not wish his present commander any harm, officers were killed in a war, and vacancies appeared. Peterson was in no state of health to take command, which would fall naturally on the head of someone who had held that position previously.
Of course, Pirce-Smith could survive the war and Crossman could be killed. That would be all right too, he thought with morbid satisfaction. At least he would not have to face going home to England as a common soldier. He would not have to endure the thought of Jane in some other man’s arms, he himself being a totally unworthy suitor. Yes, being dead, being killed in some glorious action, had its merits.
By marching on, into the night, Pirce-Smith had risked injury to himself or one of his soldiers. But at around two o’clock in the morning they were at the gorge where they intended to attack the Russian supply column. Pirce-Smith peered about him, hoping to see some sign in the moonlight which would tell him that the Russians had not already gone through. Of course there was nothing, which annoyed him. He spoke roughly to his peloton, told them to get some rest, and then lay himself down on a blanket to ease the night away. He had actually no need to ask his soldiers to bed down. They had sunk to the floor where they stood and were, most of them, fast asleep. Only Ali remained awake, determined to keep guard until morning, just in case the Russians came early. There was also, of course, the possibility that the whole thing was a trap. They were relying on information out of Sebastopol, from spies with doubtful loyalties, and the Turk was leaving nothing to chance.
Attack on the Redan Page 26
